THE flamingo stands in a class apart. Allied to no other bird-form—hardly so much as related—it may be regarded almost as a separate act of creation. Its nesting habits, and the method by which a bird of such abnormal build could incubate its eggs, formed for generations a “vexed question” in bird-life. The story of the efforts made by British naturalists to solve the problem ranks among the classics of ornithology. The marismas of Guadalquivir were early known to be one of the few European incunabula of the flamingo; but their vast extent—“as big as our eastern counties,” Howard Saunders wrote—and the irregularity of the seasons (since flamingoes only remain to nest in the wettest years) combined to frustrate exploration. First in the field was Lord Lilford—as early as 1856; and both during that and the two succeeding decades he and Saunders (who appeared on the scene in 1864) undertook repeated journeys—all in vain. The record of these makes splendid reading, and will be found as follows:—

Lord Lilford, “On the Breeding of the Flamingo in Spain,” Proceedings Zoological Society of London, 1880, pp. 446-50; Howard Saunders, ibid., 1869, and the same authority in the Ibis, 1871, pp. 394 et seq.

The late Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria, who visited Spain in May 1879, likewise failed to reach the nesting spot—apparently through the usual cause, not going far enough—though a few eggs were found scattered on the wet mud of the marisma. (Recorded by Lord Lilford as above.)

Thus the question remained unsettled till 1883, when a favouring season enabled the present authors to succeed where greater ornithologists had striven in vain.

A venerable apologue attaches to the nesting habit of the flamingo. Owing to the length of its legs, it was assumed that the bird could not incubate in the ordinary manner of birds, and that, therefore, it stood astraddle on a nest built up to the requisite height—a combination of unproved assumption with inconsequential deduction. ‘Twere ungracious to be wise after the event, yet, in fact, this fable passed current as “Natural History” for precisely two centuries—from 1683, when Dampier so described the nesting of flamingoes on the Cape de Verde Islands,[48] till 1883, when the present authors had opportunity of observing a flamingo-colony in southern Spain.

Flamingoes do not nest every year in the Spanish marismas. Their doing so depends on the season, and only in very wet years is the attempt made. Rarely, even then, are young hatched off, so persistently are the wastes raided by egg-lifters, who sweep up by wholesale every edible thing, and to whom a “Flamingo City,” with its hundreds of big eggs all massed together—a boat-load for the gathering—represents an El Dorado. As early as 1872 eggs were brought to us—taken by our own marshmen on May 24—but it was not till 1883 that we enjoyed seeing an occupied nest-colony ourselves.

More than a quarter-century has sped since then, yet we cannot do better than substantially transcribe the narrative as recorded in Wild Spain.

During the month of April we searched the marismas systematically for the nesting-places of flamingoes, but, though exploring large areas—riding many leagues in all directions through mud and water varying from a few inches to full three feet in depth—yet no sign of nests was then encountered. Flamingoes there were in thousands, together with a wealth of aquatic bird-life that we will not stop here to describe. But the water was still too deep, the mud-flats and new-born islets not yet sufficiently dried for purposes of nidification. The only species that actually commenced to lay in April were the coots, purple herons, peewits, Kentish plovers, stilts, redshanks, and a few more.

April was clearly too early, and the writer lost nearly a week through an attack of ague, brought on by constant splashing about in comparatively cold water while a fierce sun always beat down on one’s head. In May the luck improved. Far away to the eastward flamingoes had always been most numerous, and once or twice we observed (early in May) signs that resembled the first rude beginnings of architecture, and encouraged us to persevere in what had begun to appear an almost hopeless quest.

May 9 (1883).—The effects of dawn over the vast desolations of the marisma were specially lovely this morning. Before sunrise the distant peaks of the SerranÍa de Ronda (seventy miles away) lay flooded in a blood-red light, and appearing quite twice their usual height. Half an hour later the mountains sank back in a golden glow, and long before noon had utterly vanished in quivering heat-haze and the atmospheric fantasies of infinite space. Amidst chaotic confusion of mirage effects we rode out across the wilderness: at first over dry mud-flats sparsely carpeted with dwarf scrub of marsh plants, or in places bare and naked, the sun-scorched surface cracked into rhomboids and parallelograms, and honeycombed with yawning cattle-tracks made long ago when the mud was moist and plastic; then through shallow marsh and stagnant waters gradually deepening. Here from a patch of rush hard by sprang three hinds with their fawns and splashed away through the shallows, their russet pelts gleaming in the early sunlight. Gradually the water deepened; “mucha agua, mucho fango!” groaned our companion, Felipe; but this morning we meant to reach the very heart of the marisma, and before ten o’clock were cooking our breakfast on a far-away islet whereon never British foot had trod before, and which was literally strewn with avocets’ eggs, while nests of stilts, redshanks, pratincoles, and many more lay scattered around.

STILTS DISTURBED AT THEIR NESTING-PLACE
STILTS DISTURBED AT THEIR NESTING-PLACE

During this day we discovered two nests of the slender-billed gull (Larus gelastes), not previously known to breed in Spain; also, we then believed, those of the Mediterranean black-headed gull (L. melanocephalus), though the latter were afterwards ascribed by oological experts (perhaps correctly) to the gull-billed tern (Sterna anglica), a species whose eggs we also found by the dozen.

The immense aggregations of flamingoes which, in wet seasons, throng the middle marismas can scarce be described. Our bird-islets lay so remote from the low-lying shores that no land whatever was in sight; but the desolate horizon that surrounded them was adorned by an almost unbroken line of pink and white that separated sea and sky over the greater part of the circle. On examining the different herds narrowly through binoculars, an obvious dissimilarity was discovered in the appearance of certain groups. One or two in particular seemed so much denser than the others; the narrow white line looked three times as thick, and in the centre gave the idea that the birds were literally piled upon each other. Felipe suggested that these flamingoes must be at their pajerÉra, or breeding-place, and after a long wet ride we found that this was the case. The water was very deep, the bottom clinging mud; at intervals the laboured plunging of the mule was exchanged for an easier, gliding motion—he was swimming. The change was a welcome relief to man and beast; but the labours undergone during these aquatic rides eventuated in the loss of one fine mule, a powerful beast worth £60.

FLAMINGOES AND THEIR NESTS
FLAMINGOES AND THEIR NESTS

On approach, the cause of the peculiar appearance of the flamingo city from a distance became clearly discernible. Hundreds of birds were sitting down on a low mud-island, hundreds more were standing erect thereon, while others stood in the water alongside. Thus the different elevations of their bodies formed what had appeared a triple or quadruple line.

On reaching the spot, we found a perfect mass of nests. The low, flat mud-plateau was crowded with them as thickly as its space permitted. The nests had little or no height above the dead-level mud—some were raised an inch or two, a few might reach four or five inches in height, but the majority were merely circular bulwarks of mud barely raised above the general level, and bearing the impression of the bird’s legs distinctly marked upon the periphery. The general aspect of the plateau might be likened to a large table covered with plates. In the centre was a deep hole full of muddy water, which, from the gouged appearance of its sides, had probably supplied the birds with building material.

Scattered round the main colony were many single nests, rising out of the water and evidently built up from the bottom. Here and there two or three of these were joined together—“semi-detached,” so to speak. These isolated nests stood some eight inches above water-level, and as the depth exceeded a foot, their total height would be two feet or thereabouts, and their width across the hollowed top, some fifteen inches. None of the nests as yet contained eggs, and though we returned to the pajerÉra on the latest day we were in its neighbourhood (May 11), they still remained empty. On both occasions many hundreds of flamingoes were sitting on the nests, and on the 11th we enjoyed excellent views at close quarters. Linked arm-in-arm with Felipe, and crouching low on the water to look as little human as possible, we had approached within seventy yards before the sentries first showed signs of alarm; and at that distance, with binoculars, observed the sitting flamingoes as distinctly as one need wish. The long red legs doubled under their bodies, the knees projecting slightly beyond the tail, and the graceful necks neatly curled away among their back feathers like a sitting swan, some heads resting on the breasts—all these points were unmistakable. Indeed, as regards the disposition of the legs in an incubating flamingo, no other attitude was possible since, in the great majority of cases, the nests were barely raised above the level of the mud-plateau. To sit astride on a flat surface is out of the question.

Inexplicable it seems that the flamingo, a bird that spends its life half knee-deep in water, should so long delay the period of incubation. For long ere eggs could be hatched, and young reared, the full summer heats of June and July would already have set in, water would have utterly disappeared, and the flamingoes be left stranded in a scorching desert of sun-baked mud.

Being unable ourselves to return to the marisma, we sent Felipe back on May 26, when he obtained eggs—long, white, and chalky, some specimens extremely rugged. Two is the number laid in each nest. In 1872 we had obtained six eggs taken on May 24, which may therefore, probably, be taken as the average date of laying. There remains, nevertheless, the bare possibility that eggs had been laid before our visit on May 9, but swept up meanwhile by egg-raiders.

The flamingo city “in being” above described was the first seen by ornithologists, and the observations we were enabled to make settled at last the position and mode of incubation of the flamingo.[49]

Science is impersonal, the impulsion of a naturalist springs from devotion to his subject, and from no extrinsic motive—such as personal kudos. Nevertheless, we make this categoric claim for ourselves simply because the credit, quantum valeat, has since been (not claimed straight away, but rather) insinuated on behalf of others who didn’t earn it—analogous with the case of Dr. Cook and the North Pole.

Where do these thousands of Spanish flamingoes breed, and how do they maintain their numbers, when Spain, three years out of five, is too dry for nesting purposes? The only obvious answer is, Africa. And, though incapable yet of direct proof, that answer is clearly correct. For flamingoes are essentially denizens of the tropic zone. The few that ever overlap into southern Europe are but a fraction of their swarming millions farther south. During our own expeditions into British East Africa, we found flamingoes in vast abundance on all the equatorial lakes we visited—Baringo, Nakuru, Elmenteita, Naivasha, and, especially, Lake Hannington, where, during past ages, they have so polluted the foreshores as to preclude human occupation. These were the same flamingoes, a few of which “slop over” into Europe; we shot two specimens with the rifle in Nakuru to prove that.[50]

Flamingoes are not migratory in an ordinary sense—birds born on the equator seldom are. Their movements have no seasonal character, but depend on the rainfall and the varying condition of the lagoons at different points within their range. Here, in Spain, we see them coming and going, to and fro, at all seasons according to the state of the marisma—and a striking colour-study they present when pink battalions contrast with dark-green pine beneath and set off by deepest azure above.

In 1907 flamingoes attempted to establish a nesting-colony at a spot called Las Albacias in the marisma of Hinojos. A mass of nests was already half built, then suddenly abandoned. “If the shadow of a cloud passes over them, they forsake,” say the herdsmen of the wilderness.

Flamingoes on their Nests.
Flamingoes on their Nests.

Quantities of drift grass and weed are always found floating where a herd has been feeding, which at first led us to suppose that their food consisted of water-plants (as with geese), but that is not the case. The floating grasses are only incidentally uprooted by the birds while delving in the mud. The Spanish marshmen say flamingoes “live on mud,” and truly an examination of their crops appears to confirm this. But the mud is only taken in because of the masses of minute creatures (animalculae) which it contains, and which form the food of the flamingo. What precisely these living atoms are would require both a microscopical examination and a knowledge of zoophites to determine. The tongue of a flamingo is a thick, fleshy organ filling the whole cavity of the mandibles, and furnished with a series of flexible bony spikes, or hooks, nearly half an inch long and curving inwards. Flamingoes’ tongues are said to have formed, an epicurean dish in Roman days. However that may be, we found them, on trial, quite uneatable—tough as india-rubber; even our dogs refused the “delicacy.” This bird’s flesh is dark-red and rank, quite uneatable.

In the New World the mystery of the nesting habits of the flamingo (Phoenicopterus ruber) was solved just three years later, and in a precisely similar sense.

We will close this chapter with a reference to a recent and most complete demonstration of our subject—that of our namesake, Mr. Frank M. Chapman, of the American Museum, New York, in his Camps and Cruises of an Ornithologist. Therein is set forth, in Chapter IV., the last word on this topic. In America, as in Spain, the final solution of the problem was only attained after years of patient effort and many disappointments. With the thoroughness of thought and honesty of purpose that marks our transatlantic progeny while treating of natural phenomena, this book sets forth the life-history and domestic economy of the flamingo, from egg to maturity, illustrated by a series of photographs that are absolutely unique.[51] We conclude by quoting our bird-friend’s opening sentence: “There are larger birds than the flamingo, and birds with more brilliant plumage, but no other large bird is so brightly coloured, and no other brightly coloured bird is so large. In brief, size and beauty of plume united reach their maximum development in this remarkable bird, while the open nature of its haunts and its gregarious habit seem specially designed to display its marked characteristics of form and colour to the most striking advantage. When to these superficial attractions is added the fact that little or nothing has hitherto been known of its nesting habits, one may realise the intense longing of a naturalist, not only to behold a flamingo city—itself the most remarkable sight in the bird-world—but to lift the veil through which the flamingo’s home-life has been but dimly seen.”