VII A JHIL OUT OF SEASON

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Even as every English seaside resort has its “season,” so is there for every Indian jhil a period of the year when it is thronged with avian visitors. At other times of the year the jhil, like the seaside town, is, comparatively speaking, deserted. The season of the jhil extends from October to April—a term long enough to turn the average lodging-house keeper green with envy! During the winter months the jhils of Northern India are full to overflowing with ducks, geese, coots, pelicans, cormorants, and waders of every length of leg. As the weather grows hot, the majority of these take to their wings and hie themselves to cooler climes, where they enter upon the joyous toil of rearing up their families. Thus, from May to September, the permanent residents hold undisputed possession of the jhil. The number of these permanent residents is considerable, so that a jhil, even in the rains, when it contains most water, has not the forlorn appearance of, let us say, Margate in winter.

It is very pleasant during a short break in the rains to visit a jhil late in the afternoon, especially if a breeze be blowing. The sky presents a panorama of clouds of the most varied and fantastic shapes, to which the setting sun imparts hues wonderful and beautiful. The slanting rays are reflected and refracted from cloud to cloud, so that not infrequently there appear to be two suns behind the clouds, a major one setting in the west and a minor one sinking to the eastern horizon. The earth below is very beautiful. It is clothed in a mantle of green of every hue, from the vivid emerald of the young rice crop to the dark bluish green of the pipal tree. As likely as not the jhil is so thickly studded with grasses and other aquatic plants as to present the appearance, from a little distance, of a number of flooded fields, in most of which are well-grown crops—the water being visible only in patches here and there.

The most conspicuous of the occupants of the jhil are the snow-white egrets (Herodias alba). These birds, which attain a length of a yard, strut about solemnly in the shallower parts of the lake, seeking their quarry. Their long necks project high above the vegetation; so slender are these that they might almost belong to swans. Here and there stands motionless a “long-necked heron, dread of nimble eels” (Ardea cinerea), waiting patiently until a luckless frog shall approach. The grey plumage of this species, dull and sober though it be, stands out in bold contrast to the surrounding greenery. In another part of the jhil a couple of sarus cranes (Grus antigone) are visible. This is the only species of crane resident in India; the others are to be numbered among those which visit the jhil in the “season.” One of the saruses, like the heroine of the “penny dreadful,” has drawn himself up to his full height, and his grey form, relieved by patches of red and white on the head and neck, shows well against the background of dark foliage. His mate is apparently sitting down. This probably indicates the presence of a nest. To discover this we must wade and chance an occasional immersion to the waist. Risking this, we advance, to the disgust of the saruses, who set up a loud trumpeting. Sometimes the parent birds attack the intruders. Such conduct is, however, rare. Usually the sarus indulges in Lloyd-Georgian methods of meeting an enemy.

The nest in question is a pile of rushes and water-weeds, rising a couple of feet from the water and large enough for a man to stand upon. It contains two whitish eggs faintly blotched with yellowish brown.

Viewed from the margin, the jhil appears to be utterly devoid of waterfowl; but in this case things are not what they seem. Before we have waded far in the direction of the nest of the sarus, numbers of duck and teal which were hidden by the sedges and grasses get up and fly to another part of the jhil. The first birds to be disturbed are some cotton-teal (Nettopus coromandelianus). As these consist of a flock of eight or ten they are obviously not nesting. The cotton-teal drake is a bird easy to identify. Its small size, white head, and black necklace are unmistakable, and the white margins to the wings are very conspicuous during flight.

On another part of the jhil a pair of spot-billed ducks (Anas poecilorhyncha) settle down. These are recognisable even at a considerable distance when in the water by the white patch on each flank. As there are two of these birds together it is probable that they have a nest hidden in one of the sedge-covered islets studded about the tank. The other ducks disturbed by our approach are whistling teal (Dendrocycna javanica), which occur in considerable flocks, and a few comb-duck (Sarcidiornis melanotus). All these species of duck and teal are permanent residents in India.

Not a single coot is to be seen upon the jhil. The explanation of this is that this particular tank dries up in the hot weather, and coots usually keep to those lakes that contain water all the year round.

Half a dozen terns form a conspicuous and beautiful feature of the jhil. As they sail overhead, with every now and then a descent to the water to secure a frog or small fish, their silvery wings stand out boldly from a dark cloud on the southern horizon. The terns at the jhil are all of the black-bellied species (Sterna melanogaster). The other species haunt rivers in preference to shallow lakes.

Last, but not least, mention must be made of Pallas’s fishing eagle (Haliaetus leucoryphus). One or more pairs of this bird are to be seen in the vicinity of every jhil. In the earlier part of the day they are active, screaming creatures, but when once they have made a good meal off a teal or some fish they become very sluggish. Two of them are sitting about fifty yards apart on a band alongside the jhil, looking like kites with whitish heads. They sit as motionless as statues. They are obviously feeling very lazy. Presently a king-crow (Dicrurus ater) comes up and, uttering that soft note which seems to be peculiar to the rainy season, makes repeated feints at the head of one of the fishing eagles. Save for a slight inclination of the head, the eagle pays no attention to the attack of its puny adversary. Eventually, the king-crow gives up in despair and flies off, probably to find something which will take more notice of his threatening demonstrations.

Even when I approach the fishing eagle the phlegmatic bird only flies a few yards. There is no creature more sluggish than a bird or beast of prey that has recently made a good meal.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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