Chapter XII: The Interpretation of the Actions of Animals

The proper interpretation of the actions of animals is one of the greatest of the difficulties which confront the naturalist. We all know how liable a man’s actions are to be misinterpreted by his fellow-men, whose thoughts and feelings are similar to his. How much more must we be liable to put false constructions on the acts of those creatures whose thoughts are not our thoughts and whose feelings are not our feelings? The natural tendency is, of course, to assign human attributes to animals, to put anthropomorphic interpretations on their actions, to endow dumb creatures with mental concepts like those of man—in short, to credit them with reasoning powers similar to those enjoyed by human beings. That this is incorrect is the opinion of all who have made a study of the question, and yet even such seem unable completely to divest themselves of the tendency to regard animals as rather simple human folk. I do not wish to speak dogmatically upon this most difficult subject. Let it suffice that it is my belief that animals do not possess the mental powers popularly ascribed to them. My object is not to argue, but to record some instances showing how liable we are to misinterpret animal actions.

Some time ago, while walking near the golf-links at Lahore, I noticed a rat-bird, or common babbler (_Argya caudata_, to give it its proper name), with a green caterpillar hanging from its beak. The succulent insect was, of course, intended for a young bird in a nest near by. Being in no hurry, I determined to find that nest. Under such circumstances, the easiest way is to sit down and wait for the parent bird to indicate the position of the nursery. The bird with the caterpillar had seen me, so, instead of flying with it to the nest, moved about from bush to bush uttering his or her note of anger (I do not pretend to be able to distinguish a cock from a hen rat-bird). In a few minutes the other parent appeared on the scene, also with something in its beak. Observing that all was not well, it too began to “beat about the bush,” or rather from one bush to another. Meanwhile, both swore at the ungentlemanly intruder. However, I had no intention of moving on before I found that nest. After a little time the patience of the second bird became exhausted; it flew to a small bush, into which it disappeared, to reappear almost immediately with an empty beak. I immediately advanced on that bush, of which the top was not three feet above the ground. In the bush I found a neatly constructed, cup-shaped nest, which contained five young rat-birds. I handled these, taking one ugly, naked fellow in my hand in full view of the parents, who were swearing like bargees. I was careful to make certain that the mother and father could see what I was doing, for I was anxious to find out how far their laudable attempts at the concealment of the nest from me were due to the exercise of intelligence. Having replaced the baby bird in the nest, I returned to the place where I had waited for the parents to direct me to their nursery, and watched their future actions. If they had been acting intelligently, they would reason thus, “The great ogre has found our nest and seen our little ones. If he wants them we are powerless to prevent him taking them. The game of keeping their whereabouts hidden from him is up. There is nothing left for us to do but to continue to feed our chicks in the ordinary way without further attempt at concealment.” If, however, they were acting blindly, merely obeying the promptings of the instinct which teaches them not to feed their young ones in the presence of danger, they would be as unwilling now to visit the nest as they were after they first caught sight of me. They pursued the latter course, thus demonstrating that this seemingly most intelligent behaviour is prompted by instinct.

It is a well-known fact that some birds, such as the partridge, whose young are able to run about when first hatched, behave in a very clever manner in presence of danger. The mother bird acts as though her wing was broken, and flutters away from the intruder with what appears to be a great and painful effort. By this means she draws the attention of the enemy to herself; meanwhile her chicks are able to hide themselves in whatever cover happens to be convenient. If anything looks like an intelligent act this surely does. But in this case appearances are deceptive. It sometimes happens that a hen partridge acts in this manner before her eggs are hatched. Under such circumstances the pretence of a broken wing is not only useless, but positively harmful, since it probably directs the attention of the intruder to her white eggs. This feigning of injury would thus appear to be a purely instinctive act, a course of behaviour dictated by natural selection. Mr. Edmund Selous discusses the origin of this peculiar habit in that admirable book entitled _Bird Watching_, to which I would refer those who are interested in the matter. Instances such as these, of acts which are only apparently purposeful, could easily be multiplied. They should prevent our rushing to the conclusion that because a cat, or dog, or horse behaves in a sensible manner under certain conditions, it is exercising intelligence. Natural selection has brought instinct to such perfection that many instinctive actions are very difficult to distinguish from those which are intelligent.