Chapter V: THE BIOLOGICAL TYPE. In some ways the most important scientific (10)

are literally true; for the song of the nightingale, and those of all other birds which delight us with their lays, begin with the first stirrings of love, and come to an end when the intoxication is past, and other emotions and cares have taken its place. Singing, the bird flies forth on his quest for a mate; in song he tells the female of his approach, and invites her to join him; in passionate song he gives expression to his delight when he has found her, and to his desires, and longings, and hopes; through his song he reveals his strength, and exalts his own bliss to the heavens; and through it, too, he challenges all other males of his species who would presume to disturb his happiness. Only so long as he is inspired by the intoxication of love is the bird’s song full of fire and strength, and if he sing at other times, his lay is certainly a reminiscence of the great joy which once was his. Whoever maintains, as has really been maintained, that a bird sings without any personal feeling whatever, that it sings at a given time simply because it must, and that at another time it could not if it would, has never understood, or sought to understand, the song of birds, but has simply given petulant expression to his own prejudice. A dispassionate observer must soon perceive that a bird’s song, though it remains essentially the same, varies with every emotion, that it flows quietly on, ascends, bursts out triumphantly, and dies away again, according to the prevailing mood, and that it awakens an echo in the breast of other males. If the view referred to were correct, each bird would sing exactly like every other of the same species; it would pour forth its appointed lay as mechanically as a musical box emits the tunes plugged up in its rotating cylinder; none could change or improve his song, or strive to surpass his fellows. Our own view is exactly the opposite, for we are convinced that a bird sings with perfect consciousness, that in his song he lays bare his soul. He is a poet, who, within his own limits, invents, creates, and struggles for utterance; and the motive throughout is love for the opposite sex. Dominated by this love, the jay sings, whistles, and murmurs, the magpie chatters, the croaking raven transforms its rough sounds into gentle, soft notes, the usually silent grebe lets its voice be heard, the diver sings its wild yet tuneful ocean-song, the bittern dips its bill under water that the only cry at its command may become a dull, far-sounding booming. A bird does indeed sing only at a certain season, but it is not because it cannot do so at other times, but because it has then no inducement, no inclination to sing. It is silent when it no longer loves; to speak more prosaically, when the pairing-time is past. This is clearly proved in the case of the familiar cuckoo. Three-fourths of the year go by and its call is not once heard; spring comes round in the revolution of the seasons and it sounds forth almost incessantly from early morning till late in the evening, as long as the pairing-time lasts. But it is silent sooner in the south than in the north, sooner in the plains than in the mountains, exactly corresponding to the brooding-time of the foster-parents, which begin their nest-building earlier, and finish the rearing of their young sooner in the south and in the plains than in the north and in the highlands.

During courtship many birds supplement their vocal efforts by pleasing movements, whether executed with the help of the wings or of the feet; others by peculiar attitudes in which they display themselves, or strut before the females; others, again, by special noises which they produce.

While a few falcons, and all owls, express their desires chiefly, if not exclusively, by means of loud cries, other birds of prey indulge, either alone or in company with their mates, in a magnificent play of wings, which is now a kind of round dance, and anon becomes a perfect frenzy. Eagles, buzzards, peregrine falcons, kestrels, and lesser kestrels circle round each other for hours at a time, ascend spirally to giddy heights, exercise, obviously to their mutual pleasure and satisfaction, all the arts of flight of which they are capable, utter shrill cries from time to time, spread out their plumage in the sunlight, and, finally, glide slowly down and assume a dignified sitting posture, there to resume their caressings. Kites, which behave in an essentially similar manner, let themselves suddenly down, with half-closed wings, from a very considerable height, until they are just over the ground, or a sheet of water, then begin, more quickly than usual, to describe a series of curves, remain hovering for some time over a particular spot, or execute other wonderful movements, then slowly soar again to their former height. Harriers fly for some time with apparent indifference behind the desired mate, then begin to circle round her, describe with her a series of intersecting curves, and, suddenly leaving her, soar, with head directed upwards, almost perpendicularly up to a considerable height, increasing, at the same time, the speed of their ordinarily leisurely flight to a surprising rapidity; then, tumbling precipitately over, fall with almost closed wings to near the ground, circle there once, twice, or oftener, ascend again and proceed as before, till at last the female makes up her mind to follow their example. But all these which we have mentioned are surpassed by the bateleur, or mountebank, a harrier about the size of an eagle, living in the interior of Africa, and one of the most remarkable of birds of prey in form and behaviour (p. 188). Its marvellous flight is at all times likely to attract the attention of observers, but during the pairing-time this becomes an incomparable mountebank performance in the air, a bewildering acrobatic display, which seems to unite in itself all the arts of flight practised by the other birds of prey.

Many other birds which are not specially skilful in flight act in much the same way as the wooing birds of prey. That they call in the aid of their wings when they strive to win the love of a mate, or wish to express their delight in a possession already won, is intelligible enough after what has been related. The swallow, sitting beside his desired or chosen mate, eagerly warbles his melodious lay; but the emotion within his breast is much too strong to allow him to sit still during the progress of his song, so he flies upwards, singing in his flight, and hovers and circles about the female who has followed him. The goatsucker sits for a time lengthwise on a bough, often at some distance from his mate, spins off his whirring strophes for some minutes, then rises, flies about his mate in graceful curves, flapping his wings, and calling to her such a tender “haït”, that one wonders how a sound so soft can possibly be produced by his rough throat. The bee-eater, whose voice is also unmelodious, sits for a long time on his perch, pressing closely to his mate, uttering scarcely a sound, sometimes none whatever, but apparently contenting himself with casting tender glances from his beautiful bright red eyes; but he, too, takes fire, moves his wings abruptly, rises high into the air, describes a circle, utters a jubilant cry, and returns to his mate, who has remained sitting where he left her. In the midst of its most ardent love-song--call it cooing, murmuring, moaning, or what you will--the dove breaks off suddenly as if inspired by its own music, then claps its wings loudly and sharply several times, soars aloft, spreads its wings and floats slowly down to a tree-top, there to begin its song anew. Tree-pipits and rock-pipits, white-throats, and garden warblers behave exactly like the doves; the wood-warblers precipitate themselves from their high perches without ceasing to sing, fly up again to another branch, where they finish their song, to begin it again a few minutes later, and bring it to a conclusion with a similar play of wings. Greenfinches, siskins, and common buntings, in the enthusiasm of love, tumble through the air as if they had no control over their wings; the larks soar to heaven singing their song of love; the serin behaves as if it had taken lessons from a bat.

A similar intoxication possesses those birds which declare their love by dancing. They, too, act contrary to all their usual habits during the dance, and fall finally into a transport which makes them almost forget the outside world. Few birds dance silently, most of them utter peculiar sounds, never heard at other times, at the same time displaying all their adornments, and often bringing the performance to a close with a sort of round dance.

Particularly zealous dancers are the scratchers or fowls in the widest acceptation of the term. Our domestic cock contents himself with strutting proudly about, crowing and flapping his wings; his companions in the yard, the peacock and the turkey, do more, for they dance. Much more vigorous dancers than either of these are all the grouse-like birds and some pheasants. Whoever has watched the dance of the capercaillie in the grey morning hours, has listened to the liquid cooing of the black-grouse, has seen the willow-grouse dancing on the snowy plains of the tundra in the dusk of a northern spring, will agree with me that such homage as these cocks offer to the hens must be as irresistible as that paid by our own peacock when he transforms his chief ornament into a canopy for his desired mate. More remarkable than all the rest is the behaviour of the male tragopans or horned pheasants of Southern Asia, magnificently decorative birds, distinguished by two brightly-coloured horn-like tubes of skin on the sides of the head, and by brilliantly-coloured extensible wattles. After the cock has walked round the hen several times without appearing to pay any attention to her, he stands still at a particular spot, and begins to bow. More and more quickly the courtesies follow each other, the horns meantime swelling and tossing, the wattles dilating and collapsing again, till all are literally flying about the head of the love-crazed bird. Now he unfolds and spreads his wings, rounds and droops his tail, sinks down with bent feet, and, spitting and hissing, lets his wings sweep along the ground. Suddenly every movement ceases. Bent low, his plumage ruffled, his wings and tail pressed against the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing audible, he remains for a while in motionless ecstasy. His fully-unfolded decorations gleam with dazzling brightness. Abruptly he rises again, spits and hisses, trembles, smooths his feathers, scratches, throws up his tail, flaps his wings, jerks himself up to his full height, rushes upon the female, and, suddenly checking his wild career, appears before her in olympic majesty, stands still for a moment, trembles, twitches, hisses, and all at once lets all his glory vanish, smooths his feathers, draws in his horns and wattles, and goes about his business as if nothing had happened.

With head slightly bent, with wings and tail spread out, the former moving tremulously, the wagtails trip with dainty steps about their chosen mates, bowing, advancing, and retreating again; the fire-finch looks like a brilliant flame of incense as he turns about, singing gaily and spreading his beautiful feathers in the sunlight, on the top of an ear of the Kaffir millet, among which he and his loved one have made their home; tenderly, with mouth pressed to mouth and breast to breast, like the children of men, the dove and his mate together execute a slow dance; the cranes dance passionately, with nimble leaps; not less ardently, even in sight of apparently admiring spectators, does the beautiful cock of the rock of Tropical America disport himself; even the condor, whose powers of flight are of the first order, who sails through the air thousands of feet above the highest peaks of the Andes, whom one would scarcely expect to conduct his wooing otherwise than with his wings, ventures on a little dance, and with head sunk upon his breast, and with wings fully spread, circles slowly and with mincing steps around his mate, to an accompaniment of strange drumming, murmuring sounds.

Other birds, again, instead of dancing, spring impetuously up and down, and hop hither and thither among the branches, at the same time displaying whatever beauty they possess: thus, the male birds-of-paradise assemble in crowds on certain trees during the early morning hours, and with the aforesaid movements and tremulous quivering of their wings, display their wonderful plumage in honour of the other sex. Others even build bower-like structures, which they decorate with all kinds of coloured, shimmering, and glittering objects, and within which they perform their dances. Finally, a few birds with no special accomplishments either of voice or of flight or of dance, make use of their bills to produce singular sounds. Thus all the storks woo by quickly clapping the two halves of the bill together, so producing a clatter which makes up for their lack of voice; thus, too, the woodpeckers hammer so fast on a dry tree-top or branch that the wood flies about in splinters, and a drumming sound is caused which resounds throughout the forest.

Although it cannot be said that the female coquettishly repels any advances and declarations of love, it is only in cases of necessity that she accepts a suitor without exercising selection. At first she listens to the tenderest love-songs apparently with the greatest indifference, and looks on unconcernedly at all the play of wings, the dances executed in her honour, and all the beauty displayed to do her homage. For the most part she behaves as if all the display of fascinations on the part of the males had no relation to her at all. Leisurely, and seemingly quite uninterested in their doings, she goes about her daily business of seeking food. In many, though by no means in all cases, she is ultimately enticed by the song in her glorification, the dances to her praise, but by no action does she give a sign of complaisant response. Many female birds, especially the hens of all polygamous species, do not even come to the “playing” grounds of the cocks, though they are anything but coy, and often by their inviting cries inflame the strutting cocks to the height of passion. If a male becomes more importunate than is agreeable to the female she takes refuge in flight. In very rare cases this may perhaps be meant in earnest, but it is usually continued with such energy and persistence that it is not always easy to determine whether it takes place without any secondary intention or whether it is merely a pretence. If it aims at nothing, it certainly achieves something: a heightening of the desire, a straining to the utmost of all the powers and resources of the wooing male. More excited than ever, regardless of all considerations, and bent only on attaining his object, he pursues the flying female as if he meant to force her to grant his suit; he sings with more fire, struts, dances, and plays with more agility than ever, and exercises his arts of flight whenever the female stops to rest, and more eagerly than ever he follows her if she takes to fresh flight.

Probably the females would be more compliant than they generally are if one male were the only suitor. But the fact that the males are in most species in the majority gives the female bird the boon of freedom of choice. Several males, sometimes even a considerable number of them, pay court to her at the same time, and thus justify her deliberation and selectiveness. Intentionally or unintentionally, she obeys the law of selection; among several she tries to pick out the best, the strongest, the healthiest, the most excellent in every respect.[63] She can afford to be fastidious. The reaction of her conduct on the males finds expression in boundless jealousy, which results, not unnaturally, in prolonged, often mortal, combat. Every bird, harmless as he may appear to us, is a hero in fighting for his loved one, and everyone understands so well how to use the weapons he is provided with, whether bill, claws, spurred feet, or even wings armed with horny spines, that the battle in many cases comes to an end only with the death of one of the combatants.

The combat takes place in the air, on the ground, among the branches, or in the water, according to the species of bird. Eagles and falcons fight their adversaries in the air with beak and talons. Magnificent curves, rival flights to attain to a height suitable for attack, swift thrust, brilliant parry, mutual persecution and courageous persistence are the chief features of such duels. If one of the kingly champions succeeds in seizing his foe, the latter strikes his talons into his opponent’s breast, and both, unable properly to use their wings, fall whirling through the air. When the ground is reached the fight is, of course, interrupted; but, as soon as one rises, the other follows him, and hostilities begin anew. If one becomes exhausted, perhaps in consequence of wounds received, he beats a retreat, and, hotly pursued by the victor, flies hastily and without attempting resistance, beyond the limits of the domain which the female bird has chosen for herself; but, in spite of defeat, he does not finally relinquish the strife until she has declared decidedly in favour of the conqueror. Such duels sometimes, though not very often, have a fatal issue, for the eagle, whose jealousy is provoked by love and ambition, shows no mercy towards a conquered foe, but remorselessly kills the adversary who has been incapacitated for further combat or for flight. Even those apparently most harmless creatures, the swifts, occasionally kill their rivals, for in their struggles, which are precisely like those of the eagles and falcons, they strike their sharp claws into the breasts of their foes, and tear the flesh so that the death of the wounded one often results.

Among all birds with voices the combat is preceded by a definite challenge. Even the song of a singing bird is a weapon with which he may gain a bloodless victory; the pairing-cry, which so well expresses wooing, always excites jealousy. Whoever can imitate the call of the cuckoo may entice the usually cautious bird to the very tree under which he is standing. Whoever can adequately mimic the complex whistle of the golden oriole, the cooing of the wild pigeon and turtle-dove, the drumming of the woodpeckers--in a word, the wooing song or call-note of any bird--may achieve a similar result. When a second suitor appears on the scene he announces his arrival by calling or singing. But he soon proceeds to action; and thenceforward there rages between him and his rival a strife as violent as those already described. In mad fury, calling, screaming, and screeching, one chases the other hither and thither, high in mid-air or in lower strata of the atmosphere, between tree-tops or among the bushes, and just as in the pursuit of the female, so in this chase one male provokes the other to passionate rage by challenging calls, and even by song, by displaying his decorations, and by other mocking behaviour. If the pursuer succeeds in catching his flying foe, he pecks him so hard with his bill that the feathers fly about; if he lets him go, the pursued one turns in a trice and renews the attack; if neither gives way they maul one another thoroughly, whether they are in the air, among the branches, or on the ground. Among them, too, the struggle is finally abandoned only when the female declares for one or other of the combatants.

Ground-birds always fight on the ground, swimming-birds only in the water. How obstinately the gallinaceous birds may do battle is known to everyone who has watched two cocks fighting. Their duels, too, are a matter of life and death, though a fatal result does not often take place except when the natural weapons have been sharpened and the means of protection weakened by man’s cruel interference. Rival ostriches fight with their strong legs, and, striking forwards, tear deep wounds with their sharp toe-nails in the breast, body, and legs of their opponent. Jealous bustards, after spending a long time challenging each other with throat inflated, wings and tail outspread, and much grumbling and hissing, make use of their bills with very considerable effect. Sandpipers and other shore-birds, particularly the fighting ruffs, which fight about everything, about a mate or about a fly, about sun and light, or about their standing-ground, run against each other with bills like poised lances, and receive the thrusts among their breast-feathers, which in the case of the ruffs are developed into what serves as a shield. Coots rush at each other on an unsteady surface of water-plants, and strike each other with their legs. Swans, geese, and ducks chase each other till one of the combatants succeeds in seizing the other by the head and holding him under water, till he is in danger of suffocating, or at least until he is so much exhausted that he is unable to continue the struggle. Swans, like spur-winged birds, seem also to use the hard, sharp, thorn-like horny quills at the angle of the wing to give effective strokes.

As long as the female has not decided for either of the combatants, she takes no part in such struggles, does not appear even to be interested, though she must observe them closely, as she usually declares for the winner, or at least accepts his suit. How her decision or declaration is actually brought about I cannot say, I cannot even guess. While the battles described are in progress she makes her choice, and from thenceforward she gives herself unreservedly to the favoured male, follows him wherever he goes, accepts his demonstrations of affection with obvious pleasure, and returns his caresses with the most self-forgetting tenderness. She calls longingly after him, greets him joyously, and submits unresistingly to his desires and fondlings. Parrot pairs sit with their bodies closely pressed together, though hundreds may have settled on the same tree; the most complete unison is observable in all their doings; they are as if guided by one will. Does the husband take food, the wife takes it too; does he seek a new perch, she follows him; does he utter a cry, she joins her voice to his. Caressingly they nestle in each other’s plumage, and the passive female willingly offers head and neck to the eager male, thus to receive proofs of his tenderness. Every other female bird receives the caresses of her mate with similar, if somewhat less obvious devotion. She knows neither moods nor vexatious humours, neither sulking nor anger, neither scolding nor upbraiding, neither displeasure nor discontent--nothing but love, tenderness, and devotion, while the male thinks of nothing but his happiness in his newly-acquired treasure, and has no desire but to retain it. While he sometimes arranges or decides for her, he yields to the wishes of his mate; when she rises, he, too, leaves his perch; when she wanders abroad, he follows her; when she returns, he also comes back to the home of his youth. Little wonder that the wedlock of birds is happy and blameless. If the birds united for life grow old themselves, their love does not grow old with them, but remains ever young; and every spring-time fresh oil is poured upon the flame; their mutual tenderness does not diminish during the longest wedded life. Both mates faithfully take their share of the domestic cares at the time of nest-building, hatching the eggs, and bringing up the young. The male devotedly assists the female in all the labours required by their brood; he defends her courageously, and will unhesitatingly rush into obvious danger, even to death, to rescue her. In a word, from the beginning of their union they share each other’s joys and sorrows, and, except in unusual circumstances, this intimate bond lasts throughout life. There is no lack of direct evidence in proof of this. Keen-eyed naturalists, who have observed certain birds for many successive years, and have at length come to know them so well that they could not confuse them with others of the same species, have given us their guarantee for the birds’ devotion, and all of us who have given special attention to the birds which have come under our notice must be led to the same conclusion. A pair of storks on the roof of a house give the owner so many opportunities for observing them and distinguishing them from other storks that error is almost out of the question; and whoever watches his storks will find that the same pair occupy the nest every year as long as both live. And every naturalist or sportsman, who carefully notes wandering bird-pairs, or shoots them if the differences of sex are not readily distinguishable, will find that they are really male and female. In the course of my travels in Africa I often saw pairs of migrating birds which there, too, lived in the close fellowship so characteristic of bird-wedlock, and were as inseparable as in the thicket at home, doing all and enduring all in common. Pairs of booted eagles were easily recognizable as mates even when they travelled or took shelter in company with others of their species; the whistling swans which I saw on the Menzaleh Lake in Egypt appeared in pairs and flew away again in pairs; all the other united pairs which I observed on my way illustrated the same habit. That they share misfortunes as well as pleasures together, I learned from a pair of storks I observed on a pool in South Nubia, to whom my attention was attracted because they were there at a time long after all others of their species had sought a refuge in the interior of Africa. To discover the cause of this prolonged stay I had them shot, and I found that the female had a broken wing which prevented her travelling farther, and that the male, himself thoroughly sound, had remained, for love of her, in a region where all the conditions of comfortable wintering were awanting. The close and faithful bond between pairing birds is severed only by death.

This is the rule, but it is subject to exceptions. Even among monogamous birds unfaithfulness occurs sometimes, though rarely. Firmly as the females are wont to keep faith with their mates, and little as they are inclined to cast furtive glances at other males, or even to accept them as friends when they obtrude themselves, the specially brilliant gifts of some stranger may exercise a seductive influence. A master-singer who far surpasses the husband in song, an eagle who excels in all or at least in many respects the one selected by a female, may seriously disturb the happiness of a nightingale or eagle marriage, may perhaps even entice the female away from her rightful spouse. This is evidenced by the bachelors who fly about before and during the brooding-time, intruding audaciously into the domain of a wedded pair and boldly sueing for the favour of the female, and by the jealous fights which begin at once between the lawful husband and the intruder, and which are usually fought out without the aid of the female. The conduct of a suddenly widowed female, who not only immediately consoles herself by pairing again, but sometimes even accepts the assassin of her first mate, points, at least to a certain extent, in the same direction. On the roof of the manor of Ebensee, near Erfürt, there brooded for years a pair of storks who, though they lived in complete harmony, were never without contests, suffering perpetually from the intrusion of strangers, who attempted to get possession of nest and female. One spring there came upon the scene a male who far surpassed all previous suitors in assertiveness and persistence, and forced the paterfamilias to be always fighting, or at least to be constantly on the watch. One day, wearied with his struggles, he sat upon the nest apparently asleep, with his head under his wing, when suddenly the intruder swooped down upon him, transfixed him with his bill, and hurled him lifeless from the roof. And the widow? She did not drive the infamous assassin from her, but unhesitatingly allowed him to fill his victim’s place, and went on with her brooding as if nothing had happened.

This and the facts already mentioned are not to the credit of the females, but I should like to emphasize that they are so much outweighed by the evidence on the other side, that they must be considered as exceptions which prove the rule. And if the females should be judged apparently or actually guilty, it must not be forgotten that the males, with far more reason to be faithful than the less numerous females, sometimes forget their conjugal ties. Whoever thoroughly knows pigeons, which are erroneously regarded as the type of all conceivable virtues, is aware that they are far from deserving the reputation which has been handed down in the legends of the ancients. Their tenderness is captivating, but it is not constant; their faithfulness to wife and children is extolled, but it does not stand a test. Quite apart from their unfatherliness, the male pigeons are only too often guilty of transgressions against the inviolable laws of marriage, and not seldom employ the time in which their mates are brooding in dallying with other females. Drakes are even more blamable, and the male red-legged partridges are no better. As soon as the ducks have settled down to brood, the drakes assemble and pass the time together as best they can, leaving their mates to toil, and worry, and undertake all the cares for the coming generation, and only returning to the ducks, perhaps not to their own mates, when the young have grown big and self-reliant and no longer need their help. But the red-legged partridges, and probably our partridges also, during the pairing-time, put in an appearance wherever another cock announces himself in order to fight a round with him, and they are often allured and killed by the Spaniards, with the help of tame cocks of their own species. Later, however, when brooding has begun and they have no longer any inclination to fight, they respond to the call of the hens, if possible, more readily than before.

But, as has been said, such cases form exceptions to the rule, and cannot be compared in any way with what occurs among polygamous birds. Many have tried in vain to explain the polygamy of cowbirds, cuckoos, pheasants, woodcocks, turkeys, quails, peacocks, and ruffs, but as yet no satisfactory explanation has been offered. To say that the cuckoo and its nearest relations do not brood nor live in wedlock and rear their own offspring because they must always be ready to direct their flight towards a caterpillar horde, wherever that may appear, is to talk at large, not to explain--for the cowbirds, too, intrust their brood to the care of foster-parents; and with regard to the supposition that polygamy, occurring among a few exceptionally persecuted species of fowl, is a provision of Nature for securing to these a numerous progeny, it is difficult to see why that end might not have been attained in the same way as among other fowls, which, though monogamous, are not less prolific.[64]

While employing the expression polygamy, I am quite aware that it is usual to speak of plurality of wives among birds. Such a state is unknown to me, and its existence, to my knowledge, is not corroborated by any observations of indisputable accuracy. For the passion is mutual, and the longing of the females is as boundless as that of the males. The female cuckoo mates with one male to-day and another to-morrow, may indeed bestow her affections on several in the course of an hour, and the hen yields herself to one cock as readily as to another. It is simply out of the question to talk of mating among them at all. The males only concern themselves temporarily about the females, and the females about the males; each sex goes its own way, even separating entirely from the other, and taking no interest in its lot beyond the limits of the pairing-time. Boundless desire, and consequently excessive jealousy, imperious demands submissively acceded to, mad wooing readily accepted, and thereafter complete indifference towards each other, are the main characteristics of the intercourse between the sexes of these birds. These explain, too, the fact that among them much oftener than among other birds crossing takes place, and mongrels or hybrids are produced, which lead a miserable existence, and either pine away without progeny, or, by mating with the true offspring of the race, lead back to the type again. Cross-pairing does indeed occur among other, that is monogamous, birds, but only when the absence of a mate of their own species impels them to seek one of another; whereas among polygamous birds chance and tempting opportunity seem as determinative as such a dilemma.

It may be necessity, the absolute necessity of providing for the brood just hatched or still slumbering within the egg, which compels the female of monogamous birds to change her widowhood for a new alliance more quickly than the male can console himself for the loss of his wife. Whether her grief is really less than the widower’s may be doubted, emphatically against her though appearances are. Other female birds act exactly like the stork on the Ebensee. A pair of magpies brooding in our garden were to be killed because we feared for the safety of the numerous singing-birds which we protected and encouraged in the same garden. At seven o’clock in the morning the male bird was shot, and barely two hours later the female had taken another mate; in an hour he too fell a victim; at eleven o’clock the female had contracted a third alliance. The same thing would have occurred again, but that the alarmed female, with her last-annexed mate, flew away from the garden. One spring my father shot a cock partridge; the hen flew up, but soon alighted and was immediately wooed by another cock, whom she accepted without more ado. Tchusi-Schmidthofen took away no fewer than twenty males from the nest of a black redstart within eight days, and only then left the twenty-times widowed and just as often consoled bird to the undisturbed enjoyment of her connubial bliss.

Exactly the opposite of such apparent inconstancy is seen in the case of a male bird that has lost his mate. Screaming loudly, complaining piteously, demonstrating his grief by voice and actions, he flies about the corpse of his loved one, touches it perhaps with his bill as though he would move it to rise and fly away with him, raises anew his heart-rending cries, which are intelligible even to man; wanders within his range from place to place, pausing awhile, calling, coaxing, and complaining, now in one favourite spot, now in another; neglects to take food, throws himself angrily on other males of his species as if he envied them their happiness and would make them share his own misfortune; finds no rest anywhere, begins without finishing, and acts without knowing what he does. So he goes on for days, perhaps weeks, in succession, and often he remains as long as possible on the scene of his misfortune, without making any expeditions in search of a fresh mate.[65] Certain species, by no means only those parrots so appropriately named “inseparables”, but finches and others, even horned owls, after such a severe blow lose all joy in life, mourn quietly, and literally pine away until released by death.

One of the chief causes, if not the sole cause, of such deep grief may be the great difficulty, sometimes the impossibility, of finding and winning another mate. The female has often no time for grief, for, sooner or later, sometimes immediately, new suitors appear and so overwhelm her with attention and tenderness that she must let herself be consoled whether she will or not. And if, in addition, anxiety about her brood fills her motherly heart, all other thoughts give place to that, and no room is left for enduring grief. But if she, too, has a difficulty in replacing her loss, she expresses her sorrow no less distinctly than the male. But sometimes she does even more, for she may voluntarily forego a new alliance. A sparrow widow, carefully observed by my father, though she had eggs to hatch, and, later, young ones to rear, accepted none of her suitors but remained unmated, and fed her clamouring brood alone with indescribable toil. Another touching incident proving the grief of widowed birds is vouched for by Eugen von Homeyer. The wedded bliss of a pair of storks, nesting on the roof of that experienced naturalist’s house, was brought to a sudden end by one of those detestable bird-shooters or would-be sportsmen who killed the male. The sorrowing widow fulfilled her maternal duties without choosing another mate, and migrated in autumn to Africa with her brood and others of her species. The following spring she reappeared on the old nest, unmated as she had left. She was much wooed, but drove all suitors away with vicious digs of her bill; she mended her nest busily, but only to preserve her right to occupy it. In autumn she migrated with the rest, returning in spring, and proceeding as before. This occurred eleven years in succession. In the twelfth, another pair attempted to take forcible possession of her nest; she fought bravely for her property, but did not attempt to secure it by taking another mate. The nest was seized, and she remained single. The interlopers retained and made use of the nest, and the rightful owner was seen no more, but, as afterwards transpired, she passed the whole summer alone in a district about ten miles distant. Scarcely had the other storks departed, when she returned to her nest, spent a few days in it, and then set out on her journey. She was known throughout the whole district as “the solitary”, and her misfortune and behaviour won for her the friendly sympathy of all kind-hearted men.

And such behaviour is only the movement of a machine obedient to some external guiding force? All these expressions of a warm and living emotion which we have depicted occur without consciousness? Believe that who can, maintain it who will. We believe and maintain the opposite; the conscious happiness of the love and wedded life of birds appears to us worthy of our envy.

APES AND MONKEYS.

Sheikh Kemal el Din Demiri, a learned Arab, who died at Damascus about the year 1405, according to our reckoning, relates in his book, _Heiat el Heivan_; or, _The Life of Animals_, the following wonderful story, which is based on one of the Prophet’s utterances:--

“Long before Mohammed, the Prophet and Messenger of God the All-merciful, had kindled the light of Faith, before Issa or Jesus of Nazareth had lived and taught, the town Aila, on the Red Sea, was inhabited by a numerous population who professed the Jewish faith. But they were sinners and unrighteous in the eyes of the Lord, for they desecrated continually the sacred day of the All-merciful, the Sabbath. In vain did pious and wise men warn the sinful inhabitants of the godless city; they disregarded the command of the Almighty as before. Then those who had warned them forsook the unholy place, shook the dust off their feet, and resolved to serve Elohim elsewhere. But, after three days had passed, the longing for home and friends drove them back to Aila. There a wonderful sight met their gaze. The gates of the town were shut, but the battlements of the walls were unguarded, so that they were not hindered from climbing over them. But the streets and market-place of the unhappy town were deserted. Where formerly the restless sea of human life had surged and swelled, where buyers and sellers, priests and officials, artisans and fishermen, had mingled in a motley throng, gigantic baboons now sat and crouched, ran and climbed; and from the windows and recesses, the terraces and roofs, where dark-eyed women had tarried, she-baboons now looked down upon the streets. And all the giant monkeys and their comely mates were sad and downcast, and they gazed with troubled eyes on the returned pilgrims, pressing closely to them with complaining moans and prayerful cries. With surprise and sadness the pious pilgrims gazed upon the strange sight, until to one of them came the comfortless thought that these might be their former relatives degraded to monkeys. To make certain, the wise man went straight to his own house. In the door of it, likewise, there sat a baboon; but this one, when he saw the righteous man, cast his eyes with pain and shame to the ground. ‘Tell me, by Allah the All-merciful, O Baboon,’ said the wise man, ‘art thou my son-in-law Ibrahim?’ And sadly the baboon answered, ‘Eva, Eva’ (I am). Then all doubt vanished from the mind of the pious man, and he recognized that, by God’s heavy judgment, the impious Sabbath-breakers had been transformed into ‘monkeys’.”

Sheikh Kemal el Din does not indeed venture to call this miracle in question, but as a thinking man he cannot refrain from expressing the opinion that perhaps the baboons may have existed before there were any Jews.

We, for our part, prettily imagined and related as the story is, accept this interpretation the more readily, that the apes with which the pious zealots of Aila may have had to do are old acquaintances of ours. For in Arabia there occur only the Hamadryas or sacred baboons; and we find the same excellently depicted on very ancient Egyptian monuments. It was the arrangement of their hair which appeared to the ancient Egyptians so remarkable that they chose it as a model for their sphinxes; while to this day it serves as a pattern for the coiffure of the dusky beauties of the Eastern Soudan. The sacred baboon holds a very important place in ancient Egyptian theology, as we learn, among other things, from Horapollon, interpreter of hieroglyphs. According to him the monkey was kept in the temples and embalmed after death. He was considered the inventor of writing, and was therefore not only sacred to Thoth or Mercury, the founder of all science, but a near relative of the Egyptian priests, and, on his ceremonious entrance into the sanctuary, he was subjected to an examination, in which the priest thrust a writing tablet, ink, and pen into his hand, and called upon him to write, that they might see whether he were worthy to be received or not. It was also maintained that he stood in secret relations with the moon, and that the latter exercised an extraordinary influence over him; and, finally, he was credited with the faculty of dividing time in so obvious a manner, that Trismegistus took his actions as the model after which he constructed his water-clock, which, like the monkey, divided day and night into twelve equal parts.

It is worthy of note that, while the ancient Egyptians regarded a relationship with the monkeys as probable, they did not deem it possible that they should be descended from a monkey stock. Such a view of the degree of relationship between man and monkey is first met with among the Indians. From very ancient times until the present day there has prevailed among them a belief that at least a few royal families are descended from one of the sacred monkeys, the Hanumân or Entellus, which, in India, is held as sacred, in a certain sense even as divine, and that the souls of departed kings return to the bodies of these monkeys. One of the reigning families, in particular, shows its pride in this descent through its adopted title of honour--“tailed Rana”.[66]

Similar views to those prevailing among the Indians have come into vogue among ourselves in recent times, and the monkey question, which I should like to discuss shortly, yet so as to be generally understood, has raised much dust. A scientific question, of little general interest to the laity, has not only fanned pious anger to blazing flames, but has divided serious naturalists into two different parties who defend their respective positions with excited warmth. Circles, altogether alien to scientific investigation, have taken up the strife, without knowing or suspecting its real import and bearing, have even carried it into realms where it could only be productive of mischief, and have thereby caused a confusion which will not readily be cleared up. To discuss monkeys at all has therefore become a bold undertaking, for, in speaking of them, one runs a risk either of degrading the reputed ancestor, or, through him, of offending the supposed descendants--to say nothing of the inevitable abuse of the most pitiable kind which ill-mannered fanatics, blindly struggling against the spirit of the age, hurl at him who ventures to utter the word monkey. Nevertheless, the monkey question will not readily disappear from the order of the day; for these animals, so evidently our nearest relatives in the animal kingdom, are much too deserving of our sympathy, to allow of our being deterred by sentimental considerations from investigating their life and habits and comparing them with our own, that we may so enlarge our knowledge at once of monkeys and of men.

The following is a contribution to such knowledge:-

A general life-picture such as I wish to sketch is not easily condensed into few words, since the different species of monkeys vary so widely. There are about four hundred, or, at any rate, considerably more than three hundred species, and they inhabit every part of the world with the single exception of Australia; but they are found chiefly in the countries within the tropics. In America their range extends from twenty-eight degrees of southern latitude to the Caribbean Sea; in Africa it stretches from thirty-five degrees southern latitude to the Straits of Gibraltar; in Europe their occurrence is limited to the Rock of Gibraltar, where, from time immemorial, a troop of about twenty magots or Barbary macaques have existed, and are now protected and preserved by the garrison of the Fort.[67] Forests and rocky mountains, which they ascend to a height of more than 8000 feet, are their favourite habitats. In such places they remain, with the exception of a few species, year in year out, giving heed to the rotation of the seasons only to the extent of undertaking more or less extensive expeditions through the forest in search of ripening fruits, or ascending the mountains at the beginning of the warm season, and descending again before cold weather sets in; for, though they may be met with even in snow-covered regions, they are as fond of warmth as they are of abundant and varied diet. Something to bite and crack there must be if they are to remain permanently or for any length of time in a place; failing that, they shift their quarters. Woods in the neighbourhood of human settlements are to them a paradise; the forbidden tree therein troubles them not at all. Maize and sugar-cane fields, orchards, banana, plantain, and melon plantations they regard as their rightful and peculiar feeding-grounds, and districts where they are protected by the piety of the inhabitants they also consider very agreeable places of abode.

All monkeys, with perhaps the exception of the so-called anthropoid apes, live in bands of considerable strength under the leadership of an old male. The occupant of this post of dignity rises to it by recognized all-round ability; the strongest arms and longest teeth decide the matter. While among those mammals which are led by a female member of the herd the rest obey willingly, the monkey-leader is an absolute despot of the worst type, who compels his subjects to unconditional obedience. If anyone refuses submission, he is brought to a sense of his duty by bites, pinchings, and blows. The monkey-leader requires the most slavish submission from all the monkeys of his herd, females as well as males. He shows no chivalry towards the weaker sex--“In Sturm erringt er der Minne Sold”.

His discipline is strict, his will unbending. No young monkey dare presume to make love to one of the females of his herd; no female may venture to show favour to any male except himself. He rules despotically over his harem, and his seed, like that of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is like the sand of the sea-shore for multitude. If the herd becomes too large, a troop separates itself, under the leadership of a full-grown male, to form a new community. Till then the leader is obeyed by all, and is as much honoured as feared. Old experienced mothers, as well as young scarcely grown-up females, strive to flatter him; exerting themselves especially to show him continually that highest favour one monkey can render to another--cleansing his hairy coat from all things not appertaining thereto. He, on his part, accepts such homage with the demeanour of a pasha whose favourite slave tickles his feet. The esteem which he has been able to evoke gives him confidence and dignity of bearing; the battles in which he has constantly to take part give him watchfulness, courage, and self-control; the necessity of maintaining his authority develops circumspection, astuteness, and cunning. These qualities are certainly used in the first place for his own advantage, but the rest of the community also benefit by them, and his unchallenged supremacy thus receives some justification and stability. Ruled and guided by him, the herd, though violent storms may rage within it, leads on the whole a very secure, and therefore a comfortable life.

All monkeys, except the few nocturnal species, are active by day and rest at night. Some time after sunrise they awake from sleep. Their first business is to sun and clean themselves. If the night is cold and inhospitable, they attempt to improve their comfortless couch by thronging together in a heap, or rather a cluster; but are still so cold in the morning that a long sun-bath seems absolutely necessary. As soon as the dew is dry, they leave their sleeping-places, climb to the tree-top or to the highest point of the rock, select a sunny seat, and leisurely turn themselves about on it till every part of their bodies has been exposed to the sun. When the fur is dried and thoroughly warm it is ready for cleaning, and each monkey sets to work eagerly and carefully, or requests and receives from one of his fellows the service which he, in his turn, is always ready to do to others.