The Toucan—Its Quarrelsome Character—The Humming-birds—Their wide Range over the New World—Their Habits—Their Enemies—Their Courage—The Cotingas—The Campanero—The Tangaras—The Manakins—The Cock of the Rock—The Troopials—The Baltimore—The Pendulous Nests of the Cassiques—The Mocking-bird—Strange Voices of Tropical Birds—The Goat-Sucker’s Wail—The Organista—The Cilgero—The Flamingos—The Scarlet Ibis—The Jabiru—The Roseate Spoon-bill—The Jacana—The Calao—The Sun-birds—The Melithreptes—The Argus—The Peacock—Tropical Waders of the Old World—The African Ibis—The Numidian Crane—Australian Birds—The Lyre Bird—The Birds of Paradise—African Weaving-birds—Social Grosbeak—The Baya—The Tailor-bird—The Honey Eaters—The Rock Warbler—The DicÆum—The Bower-birds—The Talegalla—Birds of Passage.

Useful in many respects to man, no class of animals is more interesting or agreeable to him than that of the Birds, whether we consider the beauty of their plumage, the grace of their movements, the melody of their voice, or the instinct that regulates their migrations and prompts them to construct their nests; so that their study forms, without doubt, one of the most attractive departments in the whole range of natural history.

But it is at the same time one of the most difficult, particularly in countries where man has not yet mastered the powers of vegetation, where numberless creepers and bush-ropes render the forest impenetrable, and the pathless wilderness obstructs the observer at every step. Thus it is by no means surprising that so many secrets still veil the life of the tropical birds—that comparatively so little is known as yet of their economy and mode of existence.

Many families of birds have a wide range over the whole earth: falcons hover over the Siberian fir-woods, as over the forests of the Amazons; in every zone are found woodpeckers, owls, and long-beaked martin-fishers, while thrushes enliven with their song both the shades of the beech-woods and the twilight of the cocoa-nut groves. In the north and in the south, fly-catchers carry destruction among the numerous insect-tribes; in every latitude, crows cleanse the fields of vermin; and swallows, pigeons, ducks, gulls, petrels, divers, and plovers frequent the fields and lakes, the banks and shores in all parts of the world.

Thus the class of birds shows us a great similarity in the distribution of its various forms all over the earth; and we find the same resemblance extending also to their mode of life, their manners, and their voice. The woodpeckers make everywhere the forest resound with the same clear note, and the birds of prey possess in every clime the same rough screech so consonant to their habits, while a soft cooing everywhere characterises the pigeon-tribes. But, notwithstanding this general uniformity and this wide range of many families of birds, each zone has at the same time its peculiar ornithological features, that blend harmoniously with the surrounding world of plants and animals, and, taking a prominent part in the aspect of nature, at once attract the attention of the stranger.

In this respect, as in so many others, the warmer regions of the globe have a great advantage over those of the temperate and glacial zones, but nowhere do the feathered tribes find a richer or wider field for their development than in the forests and swamps of tropical America, where the vegetable world revels in luxuriant growth, and myriads of insects, peopling the woods, the waters and the fields, furnish each kind according to its wants with an inexhaustible supply of food. The circumstance that man but thinly inhabits these wilds is another reason which favours the multiplication of birds, for in Europe also they would no doubt be far more numerous, if the farmer, the sportsman, and so many other enemies were not continually thinning their ranks. To these elements of destruction they are far less exposed in tropical America, and being comparatively but little disturbed, they reign, as it were, over the forest and the field, over the mountain and the plain, over the river and the lake.

By their loud cry, resembling the yelping of a puppy-dog, and the enormous disproportion of their bill, which might seem rather adapted to a bird of ostrich-like dimensions than to one not much larger than a crow, the Toucans make themselves very conspicuous in the American woods. Were it of a strong and solid texture, their huge beak would infallibly weigh them to the ground; but being of a light and cellular structure, and in some places not thicker than writing paper, they carry it easily, and leap with such agility from bough to bough, that it does not then appear preposterously large.

When flying, it gives them, indeed, a very awkward appearance, as their body always seems overweighted by the enormous beak, which makes the head bow downwards as the bird passes through the air; but the beauty of its colouring soon reconciles the eye to its disproportionate size: for the brightest red, variegated with black and yellow stripes on the upper mandible, and a stripe of the liveliest sky-blue on the lower, contribute to adorn the bill of the Bouradi, as one of the three Toucan species of Guiana is called by the Indians. Unfortunately, these brilliant tints fade after death, and even the art of a Waterton is unable to fix and preserve their evanescent hues. The plumage of this strange bird rivals the beak in beauty of colouring, and the feathers are frequently used as ornaments by the Brazilian ladies.

A green-wood loving bird, the Toucan never wanders from the shady forests, where he may generally be seen perched on the topmost boughs of the loftiest trees, far beyond the reach of small shot, and requiring a single bullet or the Indian’s poisoned arrow to bring him from his elevated situation.

Few birds are more noisy or of a more quarrelsome and imperious temper. In the rainy season his clamour is incessant, and in fair weather the woods resound at morning and evening with his yelping cry.

Schomburgk relates an anecdote of a tamed Toucan who, by dint of arrogance, assisted by his enormous beak, had made himself despot not only over the domestic fowls, but even over the larger four-footed animals of an estate in Guiana. Large and small willingly submitted to him, so that when a dispute arose among the trumpeters and hoccos of the yard, the combatants all dispersed as soon as he made his appearance, and if by chance he had been overlooked in the heat of the fray, his powerful beak soon reminded them that their lord and master was by no means inclined to tolerate disputes among his subjects. On bread being thrown among them, none of his two or four-legged subjects would have ventured to seize the smallest morsel before the Toucan had liberally helped himself. This domineering spirit even went so far that he inhospitably reminded every strange dog that came near the premises, that none durst enter his domains without his permission. There is no knowing to what lengths he might not have carried his despotism, if a powerful mastiff, one day entering the yard and taking several bones without leave, had not put an end to his tyranny. For scarcely had the Toucan perceived the intruder, when angrily rushing upon him, he attacked him with his beak. The dog at first only growled, without suffering himself to be disturbed in his meal, but as the bird continued to bite, he finally lost his patience and, snapping at the Toucan, wounded him so severely in the head that he soon after expired.

A bird with so strange a beak must naturally be expected to feed and drink in a strange manner. When the Toucan has seized a morsel, he throws it into the air and lets it fall into his throat; when drinking, he dips the point of his mandibles into the water, fills them by a powerful inspiration, and then throws back the head by starts. The tongue is also of a very singular form, being narrow and elongated, and laterally barbed like a feather. The Toucan builds its nest in hollow trees, preferring those cavities which can only be entered by a small aperture. According to some writers it makes the burrow for itself, using the huge beak as its tool. Most probably, however, it only adapts and slightly alters the interior of the hollow so as to make it more convenient for its purpose.

To paint the Humming-bird with colours worthy of its beauty, would be a task as difficult as to fix on canvas the glowing tints of the rainbow, or the glories of the setting sun. Unrivalled in the metallic brilliancy of its plumage, it may truly be called the bird of paradise; and had it existed in the old world it would no doubt have claimed the title instead of the splendid bird which has now the honour to bear it. See with what lightning speed it darts from flower to flower; now hovering for an instant before you, as if to give you an opportunity of admiring its surpassing beauty, and now again vanishing with the rapidity of thought. But do not fancy that these winged jewels of the air, buzzing like bees round the blossoms less gorgeous than themselves, live entirely on the honey-dew collected within their petals; for on opening the stomach of a humming-bird, dead insects are almost always found there, which its long and slender beak, and cloven extensile tongue, like that of the woodpecker, enable it to catch at the very bottom of the tubular corollas.

The torrid zone is the chief seat of the Humming-birds, but in summer they wander far beyond its bounds, and follow the sun in his annual declensions to the poles. Thus, in the north, they appear as flying visitors on the borders of the Canadian lakes, and on the southern coast of the peninsula of Aljaschka; while in the southern hemisphere they roam as far as Patagonia, and even as Tierra del Fuego; visiting in the northern hemisphere the confines of the walrus, and reaching in the south the regions of the penguin and the lion-seal; advancing towards the higher latitudes with the advance of summer, and again retreating at the approach of autumn.

The nests of the Humming-birds are as elegant and neat as their tiny constructors; true masterpieces of architectural instinct. Some are suspended from twigs or attached to a branch; others enjoy the shelter of some overhanging rock, and others again cling to a leaf. Spider webs are generally employed for fastening the nest to the support on which it hangs, or for interweaving the moss or the vegetable fibres used in its construction, so as to form a firm and wet-resisting mass. Soft cotton down or fine hairs line its interior, and to screen it from the piercing eye of an enemy it is frequently covered with patches of lichen, which render its external appearance as similar as possible to that of the branch on which it is placed. The nest of the Fiery Topaz, one of the most magnificent of the humming-birds, glittering in scarlet, crimson, and emerald green, is particularly curious. It is formed of a kind of tough, leathery, thick and soft fungus, like German tinder, and this apparently intractable substance the bird contrives to mould into the shape of a nest so closely resembling in colour the branch to which it clings, that it seems more like a natural excrescence than the artificial structure of a feathered architect.

The Ruby-Throated Humming-bird, thus called from the feathers of its breast, which glitter as if made of burnished metal, and glow with alternate tints of ruby and orange, constructs a nest which even the Indian’s eagle glance can hardly discover, so closely does it resemble a knob upon a branch. So fearful too is the female of detection that she does not fly straight to her home, but first shoots up perpendicularly into the air until her tiny body is lost to sight, and then darts down among the branches with such meteor swiftness that the eye cannot follow her movements, and she is quietly seated in her nest before the spectator knows exactly in which direction she has gone.

Nothing can exceed the tenderness which the male humming-bird evinces during breeding time for his lovely companion, nor the courage which he displays for her protection. On the approach of an intrusive bird, though ten times bigger than himself, he will not hesitate a moment to attack the disturber of his nest, his bravery adds a tenfold increase to his powers, the rapidity of his movements confounds his enemy, and finally drives him to flight. Proud of his success, the little champion returns to his partner, and flaps triumphantly his tiny wings. But with all his activity and courage, he is not always able to avert disaster from his nest, for an enormous bush spider, covered all over with black hair (Mygale), too often lurks in the vicinity, watching for the moment when the little birds shall creep out of the shell. With sudden attack it then invades the nest, and sucks their life-blood. Against this enemy neither courage nor despair are of any avail, and if the poor humming-bird endeavours to avenge the slaughter of his young, he only shares their fate. When the dark long-legged monster entwines his brilliant prey, one might almost fancy an angel of light bleeding under the talons of a demon.

From the chivalrous character of the Humming-birds it is not surprising that the most violent passions agitate their little breasts; so that in their desperate contests, they will tilt against each other with such fury, as if each meant to transfix his antagonist with his long bill. It may indeed be truly said that these little creatures are sadly prone to quarrel over their cups, not of wine, but nectareous flowers. Frequently four or five of them may be seen engaged in a flying fight when disputing the possession of a blossoming tree in the forests of Brazil, and then they dart so swiftly through the air that the eye can scarcely follow them in their meteorlike evolutions.

As the smallest shot would blow the tiny humming-birds to pieces, and inevitably destroy the beauty of their plumage, they are taken by aspersing them with water from a syphon, or by means of a butterfly net.

There are many species of Humming-birds, various in size and habit, with straight or curved bills, with a naked or a crested head, with a short or a long tail: some constantly concealing themselves in the solitudes of the forest; while others hover round the habitations of man, and frequently during their disputes pursue each other into the apartments whose windows are left open, taking a turn round the room, as flies do with us, and then suddenly regaining the open air.

Next to the humming-birds the Cotingas display the gayest plumage in the American woods. They are, however, not often seen, for they lead a solitary life in the moist and shadowy forests, where they feed on the various seeds and fruits of the woods. One species is attired in burning scarlet, others in purple and blue, but they are all so splendidly adorned that it would be difficult to say which of them deserves the prize for beauty. Most of the Cotingas have no song; the nearly related snow-white Campanero or bell-bird, however, amply makes up for the deficient voice of his cousins, by the singularity and sweetness of his note. He is about the size of a jay. On his forehead rises a singular spiral tube nearly three inches long. It is jet black, dotted all over with small white feathers. It has a communication with the palate, and when filled with air looks like a spire, when empty it becomes pendulous. His note is loud and clear, like the sound of a bell. ‘In the midst of the forests,’ says Waterton, ‘generally on the dried top of an aged mora, almost out of gun reach, you will see the Campanero. No sound or song from any of the winged inhabitants of the forest causes such astonishment as his toll. With many of the feathered race he pays the common tribute of a song to early morn, and even when the meridian sun has shut in silence the mouths of almost the whole of animated nature, the Campanero still cheers the forest; you hear his toll, and then a pause for a minute; then another toll, and then a pause again, and then a toll and again a pause. Then he is silent for six or eight minutes, and then another toll, and so on. ActÆon would stop in mid-chase, Maria would defer her evening song, and Orpheus himself would drop his lute to listen to him, so sweet, so novel and romantic, is the toll of the pretty snow-white Campanero.’

The Tangaras resemble our finches, though they are far more splendidly attired. Their plumage is very rich and diversified, some of them boast six separate colours; others have the blue, purple, green, and black so finely blended into each other that it would be impossible to mark their boundaries; while others again exhibit them strong, distinct and abrupt. The flight of the Tangaras is rapid, their manners lively. They live upon insects, seeds, berries, and many of them have a fine song. Among their numerous species, spread over all the warmer regions of America, the scarlet Piranga is pre-eminent for beauty, and when in the blooming thickets, along the woody river’s banks, the meridian sun shows off his plumage in all its splendour, the huntsman pauses to admire the magnificent bird, and delays his murderous aim.

In the deep forests of Guiana and Brazil, which they never quit for the open plains, reside the Manakins (Pipra), pretty little birds, whose largest species scarcely attain the dimensions of the sparrow, while the smallest are hardly equal to the wren. The plumage of the full-grown male is always black, enlivened by brilliant colours, that of the female and of the young birds greenish. Their flight is rapid but short, and they generally roost on the middle branches of the trees. In the morning they unite in little troops, and seek their food, which consists of insects, and small fruit, uttering at the same time their weak but melodious notes. As the day advances they separate and seek the deepest forest-shades, where they live in solitude and silence.

The famous orange-coloured Cock of the Rock of Guiana (Rupicola aurantia), which owes its name to its comb-like crest, is nearly related to the Manakins. It is a great rarity, even in its own country, and as it dwells in the most secluded forests, is but seldom seen by travellers. Richard Schomburgk relates the following wonderful story of the bird, which, if not proceeding from so trustworthy a source, might almost be considered fabulous. ‘A troop of these beautiful birds was celebrating its dances on the smooth surface of a rock; about a score of them were seated on the branches as spectators, while one of the male birds, with proud self-confidence, and spreading tail and wings, was dancing on the rock. He scratched the ground or leaped vertically into the air, continuing these saltatory movements until he was tired, when another male took his place. The females, meanwhile, looked on attentively, and applauded the performance of the dancers with laudatory cries. As the feathers are highly prized, the Indians lay in wait with their blow-pipes near the places where the Rupicolas are known to dance. When once the ball has begun, the birds are so absorbed by their amusement, that the hunter has full time to shoot down several of the spectators with his poisoned arrows, before the rest take the alarm.’

On penetrating into the wilds of Guiana, the pretty songsters called Troopials, (Icterus, Xanthornus) pour forth a variety of sweet and plaintive notes. Resembling the starling by their habits, they unite in troops, and live on insects, berries, and seeds. The variegated Troopial (Oriolus varius) displays a wonderful instinct in the construction of his nest, which he generally builds on fruit-trees; but when circumstances force him to select a tree whose branches have far less solidity, as, for instance, the weeping willow, his instinct almost rises to a higher intelligence. First, he binds together, by means of bits of straw, the small and flexible branches of the willow, and thus forms a kind of conical basket in which he places his nest, and instead of the usual hemispherical form, he gives it a more elongated shape, and makes it of a looser tissue, so as to render it more elastic and better able to conform to the movements of the branches when agitated by the wind.

The neat little black and orange Baltimore (Icterus Baltimore) constructs a still more marvellous nest on the tulip trees, on whose leaves and flowers he seeks the caterpillars and beetles which constitute his principal food. When the time comes for preparing it, the male picks up a filament of the Tillandsia usneoides and attaches it by its two extremities to two neighbouring branches. Soon after, the female comes, inspects his work, and places another fibre across that of her companion. Thus by their alternate labours a net is formed, which soon assumes the shape of a nest, and as it advances towards its completion, the affection of the tender couple seems to increase. The tissue is so loose as to allow the air to pass through its meshes, and as the parents know that the excessive heat of summer would incommode their young, they suspend their nest so as to catch the cooler breeze of the north-east when breeding in Louisiana; while in more temperate regions, such as Pennsylvania and New York, they always give it a southern exposition, and take care to line it with wool or cotton. Their movements are uncommonly graceful; their song is sweet; they migrate in winter towards more southerly regions, Mexico or Brazil, and return after the equinox to the United States.

The Cassiques, which are nearly related to the troopials or orioli, are no less remarkable for their architectural skill. They suspend their large pendulous nests, which are often above four feet long, at the extremities of branches of palm trees, as far as possible from all enemies that might by climbing reach the brood, often choosing, for still further protection, trees on which the wasps or maribondas have already built their nests, as these are adversaries whose sharp stings no tiger-cat or reptile would desire to face. The nest of the Cassicus cristatus is artificially woven of lichens, bark-fibres and the filaments of the tillandsias, while that of the tupuba (Cassions ruber), which is always suspended over the water, consists of dry grasses, and has a slanting opening in the side, so that no rain can penetrate it. On passing under a tree, which often contains hundreds of cassique nests, one cannot help stopping to admire them, as they wave to and fro, the sport of every storm and breeze, and yet so well constructed as rarely to be injured by the wind. Often numbers of one species may be seen weaving their nests on one side of a tree, while numbers of another species are busy forming theirs on the opposite side of the same plant, and what is, perhaps, even still more wonderful than their architectural skill, though such near neighbours, the females are never observed to quarrel!

The Cassicus Persicus, a small black and yellow bird, somewhat larger than the starling, has been named the mocking-bird, from his wonderful imitative powers. He courts the society of man, and generally takes his station on a tree close to his house, where for hours together he pours forth a succession of ever-varying notes. If a toucan be yelping in the neighbourhood, he immediately drops his own sweet song, and answers him in equal strain. Then he will amuse his audience with the cries of the different species of the woodpecker, and when the sheep bleat he will distinctly answer them. Then comes his own song again, and if a puppy dog or a guinea fowl interrupt him, he takes them off admirably, and by his different gestures during the time, you would conclude that he enjoys the sport.

Wild and strange are the voices of many of the American forest-birds. In the Peruvian woods the black Toropishu (Cephalopterus ornatus) makes the thicket resound with his hoarse cry, resembling the distant lowing of a bull; and in the same regions the fiery-red and black-winged Tunqui (Rupicola Peruviana) sends forth a note, which might readily be mistaken for the grunting of a hog, and strangely contrasts with the brilliancy of his plumage. But of all the startling cries that issue from the depths of the forest, none is more remarkable than the Goatsucker’s lamentable wail. ‘Suppose yourself in hopeless sorrow,’ says Waterton, ‘begin with a high, loud note, and pronounce ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! each note lower and lower till the last is scarcely heard, pausing a moment or two between every note, and you will have some idea of the mourning of the largest Goatsucker in Demerara. Four other species of goatsucker articulate some words so distinctly, that they have received their names from the sentences they utter, and absolutely bewilder the stranger on his arrival in these parts. The most common one sits down close by your door, and flies and alights three or four yards before you, as you walk along the road, crying, ‘Who are you, who-who-who-who are you?’ Another bids you, ‘Work away, work-work-work away.’ A third cries mournfully, ‘Willy come go, Willy-Willy-Willy come go.’ And high up in the country, a fourth tells you to, ‘Whip-poor-Will, whip-whip-whip-poor-Will.’

You will never persuade the negro to destroy the birds, or get the Indian to let fly his arrow at them, for they are held to be the receptacles for departed souls, who came back again to earth, unable to rest for crimes done in their days of nature, or expressly sent to haunt cruel and hardhearted masters, and retaliate injuries received from them. If the largest goatsucker chance to cry near the white man’s door, sorrow and grief will soon be inside, and they expect to see the master waste away with a slow consuming sickness. If it be heard close to the negro’s or Indian’s hut, from that night misfortune sits brooding over it, and they await the event in terrible suspense.

During the daytime, the Goatsucker, whose eyes, like those of the owl, are too delicately formed to bear the light, retires to the deepest recesses of the forest, but when the sun has sunk behind the western woods, he may, on moonlight nights, be seen silently hovering in the forest glades, or hopping about among the herds. This poor bird has the character of a nocturnal thief, but never has a more unjust accusation been made, as, far from robbing the flocks of their milk, he does all he can to free them from insects. ‘See how the nocturnal flies are tormenting the herd,’ says Waterton, ‘and with what dexterity he springs up, and catches them, as fast as they alight on the belly, legs, and udder of the animals. Observe how quiet they stand, and how sensible they seem of his good offices, for they neither strike at him, nor hit him with their tail, nor tread on him; nor try to drive him away as an uncivil intruder. Were you to dissect him, and inspect his stomach, you would find no milk there: it is full of the flies which have been annoying the herd.’

The large tropical nocturnal butterflies, or moths, form the chief food of the wide-beaked Goatsucker, and the number of their wings that may be seen lying about, give proof of the ravages he commits among their ranks. For as the bat with his hooked thumb cuts off the wings of the moths and cockchafers which he catches on his twilight excursions, thus, also, the Goatsucker refrains from swallowing these parts, and his hooked and incurvated upper mandible seems purposely intended for clipping them.

While the Goatsucker makes the forest resound with his funereal tones, other birds of the forest pour forth the sweetest notes. Dressed in a sober cinnamon brown robe, with blackish olive-coloured head and neck, the Organist (Troglodytes leucophrys) enlivens the solitude of the Peruvian forests. The astonished wanderer stops to listen to the strain, and forgets the impending storm. The Cilgero, a no less delightful songster, frequents the mountain regions of Cuba, and the beauty of his notes may be inferred from the extravagant price of several hundred dollars, which the rich Havanese are ready to pay for a captive bird. Wagner (‘Travels in Costa Rica,’ 1854) tells us that our nightingale is far inferior to the Cilgero, who entertains his mate with the softest tones of the harmonica, and in Guiana the flute-bird (Cyphorinus cantans) delights the ear with his melodious song. All these lovely musicians of the grove belong to the extensive finch tribe, and, like their European cousins, appear in a simple unostentatious garb.

The same beauty of plumage which characterises so many of the American forest-birds, adorns, likewise, the feathered tribes of the swamp and the morass, of the river and the lake. Nothing can exceed in beauty a troop of scarlet Ibises or deep red Flamingoes (Phoenicopterus ruber) on the green margin of a stream. Raised on enormous stilts, and with an equally disproportionate length of neck, the flamingoes would be reckoned among the most uncouth birds, if their splendid robe did not entitle them to rank among the most beautiful.

They always live in troops, and range themselves, whether fishing or resting, like soldiers, in long lines. One of the number acts as sentinel, and on the approach of danger gives a warning scream, like the sound of a trumpet, when, instantly, the whole troop, expanding their flaming wings, rise loudly clamouring into the air.

These strange-formed birds build in the swamps high conical nests of mud, in the shape of a hillock with a cavity at top, in which the female generally lays two white eggs of the size of those of a goose, but more elongated. The rude construction is sufficiently high to admit of her sitting on it conveniently, or rather riding, as the legs are placed on each side at full length. Their mode of feeding is no less remarkable. Twisting their neck in such a manner that the upper part of their bill is applied to the ground, they at the same time disturb the mud with one of their webbed feet, thus raising up from the water insects and spawn, on which they chiefly subsist.

Six feet high, and stately as a grenadier of the guards, the American Jabiru stalks along the banks of the morasses. His plumage is white, but his neck and head are black, like his long legs; his conical, sharp, and powerful black bill, is a little recurved, while that of the stork, to whom he is closely related, is straight. He destroys an incredible number of reptiles and fishes; and, being very sly, is difficult to kill.

The roseate American Spoon-bill (Platalea Ajaja) is particularly remarkable for his curious large beak, dilating at the top into a broad spoon or spatula, which, though not possessed of great power, renders him excellent service in disturbing the mud and seizing the little reptiles and worms he delights to feed on.

The Jacana (Parra jacana) possesses enormously long and slender toes, armed with equally long spine-like claws. While pacing the ground they seem as inconvenient as the snow shoes of a Laplander, and yet nothing can be more suitable for a bird destined to stalk over the floating leaves of the Nelumbos and NymphÆas, and to seek for water insects on this unstable foundation. The Jacana is found all over tropical America, and is also called the Surgeon, from the nail of his hinder toe being sharp and acuated like a lancet.

Although in the torrid zone we hardly ever meet with a single aboriginal species of plant or animal common to both hemispheres, yet the analogy of climate everywhere produces analogous organic forms, and when on surveying the feathered tribes of America, we are struck by any bird remarkable for its singularity of shape or mode of life, we may expect to find its representative in Asia, Africa, or Australia.

Thus the enormous beak of the toucan is emulated or surpassed by that of the Indian Calao, or Rhinoceros Hornbill (Buceros rhinoceros) whose twelve-inch long, curved, and sharp-pointed bill, is, moreover, surmounted with an immense appendage in the form of a reverted horn, the use of which belongs as yet to the secrets of nature. While the toucans are distinguished by a gaudy plumage, the Calaos are almost entirely decked with a robe black as that of the raven, and enhancing the beautiful red and orange colours of their colossal beak. Generally congregating in small troops, like the toucans, they inhabit the dense forests, where they chiefly live on fruits, seeds, and insects, which they also swallow whole, throwing them up into the air and catching them as they fall. The clapping together of their mandibles causes a loud and peculiar noise, which towards evening interrupts the silence of the forest. The flight of a bird burdened with such a load must naturally be short: they hop upon their thick clumsy feet, and generally roost upon the highest trees. Like the toucans, the Indian Hornbills make their nest in the hole of some decaying tree, sometimes plastering up the entrance with mud, so as to leave but a small aperture, a practice which the KorwÊ, a species of African Hornbill, seems invariably to follow.

The female having entered her breeding-place, in one of the natural cavities of the mopane tree, a species of Bauhinia, the male plasters up the entrance, leaving only a narrow slit by which to feed his mate, and which exactly suits the form of his beak. The female makes a nest of her own feathers, lays her eggs, hatches them, and remains with the young till they are fully fledged. During all this time which is stated to be two or three months, the male continues to feed her and the young family. The prisoner generally becomes quite fat, and is esteemed a very dainty morsel by the natives, while the poor slave of a husband gets so lean and weak, that on the sudden lowering of the temperature, which sometimes happens after a fall of rain, he is benumbed, falls down, and dies.

The first time Dr. Livingstone saw this bird was at Kolobeng, where he had gone to the forest for some timber. Standing by a tree, a native looked behind him and exclaimed, ‘There is the nest of a korwÊ.’ Seeing a slit only about half an inch wide and three or four inches long in a slight hollow of the tree, and thinking the word korwÊ denoted some small animal, he waited with interest to see what the Bechuana would extract. The latter, breaking the clay which surrounded the slit, put his arm into the hole, and brought out a tockus, or red-beaked hornbill, which he killed.

The brilliant Sun-birds or Suimangas (Cinnyris) of Asia and Africa, are the Colibris of the old world, equally ethereal, gay, and sparkling in their motions, flitting briskly from flower to flower, and assuming a thousand lively and agreeable attitudes. The sunbeams glittering on their bodies make them sparkle like so many gems. As they hover about the honey-laden blossoms, they vibrate rapidly their tiny pinions, producing in the air a slight whirring sound, but not so loud as the humming noise produced by the wings of the colibris. Thrusting their slender beaks into the deep-cupped flowers, they probe them with their brushlike tongues for insects and nectar. Some are emerald green, some vivid violet, others yellow with a crimson wing, and rivalling the colibris by the metallic lustre of their plumage, they surpass them by their musical powers, for the latter can only hum, but the sun-birds accompany their movements with an agreeable chirp.

While the superb ocellated turkey of Honduras (Meleagris ocellata) displays, with all the pride of a peacock, the eye-like marks of his tail and upper-coverts, the no less beautifully spotted Argus, a bird nearly related to the gold and silver pheasants which have been introduced from China into the European aviaries, conceals his splendour in the dense forests of Java and Sumatra. The wings of this magnificent creature, whose plumage is equally remarkable for variety and elegance, consist of very large feathers, nearly three feet long, the outer webs being adorned with a row of large eyes, arranged parallel to the shaft; the tail is composed of twelve feathers, the two middle ones being about four feet in length, the next scarcely two, and gradually shortening to the outer ones. Its voice is plaintive and not harsh, as in the Indian peacock, which Alexander the Great is said to have first introduced into Europe, though its feathers had many centuries before been imported by the Phoenicians. The Peacock is still found wild in many parts of Asia and Africa, but more particularly in the fertile plains of India. Another species, nearly similar in size and proportions, but distinguished by a much longer crest, inhabits the Javanese forests.

The tropical wading birds of the old world are no less remarkable for beauty or size than those of equatorial America. The rose-coloured Flamingo, with red wings and black quills, adorns the creeks and rivers of tropical Africa and Asia, and in warm summers extends his migrations as far northward as Strasburg or the Rhine. The sight of a troop of flamingoes approaching on the wing and describing a great fiery triangle in the air is singularly majestic. When about to alight, their flight becomes slower, they hover for a moment, then their evolutions trace a conical spire, and finally descending, they immediately arrange themselves in a long line, place their sentinels, and commence their fishing operations.

On the borders of Lake Menzaleh, in Egypt, thousands upon thousands of flamingoes may often be seen standing in scarlet array. The Arabs catch them in nets, or endeavour to surprise the sentinels by cautiously creeping up to them under the water, and suddenly breaking their necks before they have time to give the note of alarm. It is then easy to catch a number of the unsuspecting troop. The flamingoes are not only beautiful in appearance, but their flesh also surpasses that of most other birds in delicacy of flavour. At the renowned culinary feasts of Lucullus, their fleshy tongues, interwoven with fat, formed one of the rarest and most highly prized dishes. Many of the learned have doubted the truth of this tradition, as the Romans were unacquainted with the use of fire-arms, but Brehm,31 who thinks it would have been impossible to collect so many flamingoes by means of the noisy gun, is convinced that they were caught with nets in the swamps of Pontus, as they are now on Lake Menzaleh.

The white Ibis, who formerly made his appearance from the south, along with the swelling waters of the Nile, was revered as a sacred bird by the Egyptians, as the herald of the abundance which the growing river was about to scatter over the inundated land. They paid him divine honours, they embalmed his remains with the same spices which served to preserve the corpses of princes from decay, and the pyramid of Sakarrah served as the mausoleum of countless thousands of Ibises. At present, however, the sacred bird, as if resenting the deprivation of his ancient honours, no longer makes his appearance in Egypt, for he is never met with beyond the northern boundary of the tropical rains. When the Blue and White Nile begin to rise, he builds his rude nest among the branches of the thorny bushes, in an inundated part of the primitive forest, and lays in September three or four snow-white or yellow-speckled eggs, which are hatched in a few weeks, and find abundant food in the countless worms and insects generated in the swampy grounds.

Few wading birds are more remarkable for grace of form and elegance of deportment than the Demoiselle, or Numidian Crane, so that LinnÆus justly gave it the name of virgin (Grus virgo). Like the ibis it is easily domesticated, and daily gains upon the affections of its master by the numerous proofs of attachment and intelligence which it gives him. With maidenish care it preserves its silken plumage from every spot or defilement, and enhances its beauty by the arts of an amiable coquetry. With our Common Cranes (Grus cinerea) it hibernates on the sand-banks of the tropical Nile, where it meets the crowned Demoiselle (Grus Pavonia), which, in spite of its more gorgeous plumage, is a far less attractive bird. When sailing about the middle of October on one of the two chief rivers of East Sudan, the traveller sees day and night flocks of Cranes fly past and settle for the winter on some appropriate spot. They consist of common and Numidian Cranes. The latter have been found breeding in summer on the banks of the Wolga, and very rarely in Germany, but no one knows where the thousands which assemble in the Sudan spend their summer months. The Demoiselle, a rare bird in most collections, is there met with in such multitudes as literally to cover a large sand island. All the cabinets of Europe might be largely provided with specimens, if the bird was not so extremely intelligent, shy, and cautious. It evades every snare, and constantly keeps at a respectful distance from the sportsman’s gun. Brehm chose the night for its chase, and found that when the moon shone, it used to fly once as high again as when protected by darkness.

The ornithological wonders of Australia and its neighbouring islands are inferior to those of no other part of the world. Though of less dazzling splendour than the peacock’s tail, that of the Menura, or Lyre-bird, is unrivalled for its elegance. Fancy two large, broad, black and brown striped feathers, curved in the form of a Grecian lyre, and between both, other feathers, whose widely distanced silken barbs envelope and surmount them with a light and airy gauze. No painter could possibly have imagined anything to equal this masterpiece of nature, which its shy possessor conceals in the wild bushes of Australia.

‘Of all the birds I have ever met with,’ says Mr. Gould, ‘the Menura is by far the most difficult to procure. While among the bushes, on the coast or on the sides of the mountains in the interior, I have been surrounded by those birds pouring forth their loud and liquid calls for days together, without being able to get a sight of them, and it was only by the most determined perseverance and extreme caution that I was enabled to effect the desired object.’

The Lyre-bird is constantly engaged in traversing the bush from mountain-top to the bottom of the gullies, whose steep and rugged sides present no obstacle to its long legs and powerful muscular thighs. When running quickly through the bush, it carries the tail horizontally, that being the only position in which it could be borne at such times. Besides its loud, full cry, which may be heard at a great distance, it has an inward and varied song, the lower notes of which can only be heard when you have stealthily approached to within a few yards of the bird when it is singing. Its habits appear to be solitary, seldom more than a pair being seen together. It constructs a large nest, formed on the outside of sticks and twigs, like that of a magpie, and lined with the inner bark of trees and fibrous roots.

In the neighbouring regions of Papua or New Guinea, and the small isles in their immediate vicinity, extending only a few degrees on each side of the Equator, we find the seat of the wondrous Birds of Paradise, thus named from that peculiar union of splendour and elegance which seems to render them more worthy of the gardens of Eden than of a terrestrial home.

The great Bird of Paradise (P. apoda) may justly be said to surpass in beauty the whole of the feathered creation. The throat is of the brightest emerald, and the canary-coloured neck blends gradually into the fine chocolate of the other parts of the body. From under the short chestnut-coloured wings project the long delicate and gold-coloured feathers whose beautiful and graceful tufts are equally valued by the princes of the East and the ladies of England. The chocolate-coloured tail is short, but two very long shafts of the same hue considerably exceed in length even the long, loose plumes of the sides.

Unable to fly with the wind, which would destroy their loose plumage, the Birds of Paradise take their flight constantly against it, being careful not to venture out in hard blowing weather. The Papuas climb, during the night, upon the high forest trees, where they have observed the birds to roost, and patiently await the dawn to catch them in nooses, or to shoot them with blunted arrows. The Portuguese first found these birds on the island of Gilolo, and as the Papuas tear off their legs before bringing them to market, it was for a long time supposed that they were destitute of these organs. The most absurd fables were founded on this imaginary deficiency: it was said that they passed their whole life sailing in the air, dew being their only food; that they never took rest, except by suspending themselves from the branches of trees by the shafts of their two elongated tail feathers; that they never touched the earth till the moment of their death; and the Malays still believe that they retire for breeding to the groves of Paradise. It is almost superfluous to add that the researches of modern travellers have fully proved the utter fallacy of these ridiculous tales.

The wondrous pendulous nests of the American Cassiques and Baltimores are equalled, if not surpassed, by those of the African Weaving Birds. These tiny architects generally suspend their structures to the ends of slender twigs, small branches, leaves or reeds, where they dangle freely in the air, and dance about merrily at every breeze. For greater security, many species always hang their nests over water, at no great distance above the surface, so that, however small the animal, monkey, or snake may be that would attempt to rob the bird of its young brood, its weight is more than sufficient to cause its immersion in the water, and thus put a stop to its burglarious intentions. As a further annoyance, the baffled invader may expect soon to have a troop of birds swarming about him like so many scolding beldames, for the weavers never can see one of their enemies without flying up to it with hoarse screams, shooting close to its body, and, when an opportunity offers, indulging in a passing peck.

The nests of the various species of weavers are very dissimilar in shape and design; some very long, others very short; some having their entrance from below, others at the side, and others again from near the top. Some are made of delicate fibres, and others of coarse grass; some are of so loose a texture that the eggs can plainly be seen through them, while others are so strong and thick that they will bear the roughest handling without going to pieces. That of the Mahali Weaver, a pretty bird about as large as our common starling, resembles in shape a Florence oil-flask, but instead of being smooth on the exterior, the ends of the thick grass stalks of which it is made, protrude like ‘quills upon the fretful porcupine,’ and pointing towards the mouth of the nest, which hangs downwards, serve as eaves whereby the rain is thrown off the nest.

If the dwellings made by the generality of Weavers may be likened to detached villas, each built apart from its neighbour, those of the social Grosbeak of South Africa, an allied species, deserve the name of populous cities, for here we find hundreds of feathered architects uniting their labours in the construction of one vast nest often large enough to shelter five or six men.

The material used is the tough and wiry Bushman’s grass; the tree usually chosen for the suspension of the nest, is a species of acacia, the giraffe thorn, which derives its name from its constituting the chief food of the beautiful camelopard, and on account of its size and the umbrella-shaped disposition of its foliage is a great ornament to the arid wastes of Caffraria.

The instinct of the birds seems to have pointed out to them that it is peculiarly adapted for the purpose, as its smooth and polished bark keeps off many an enemy who, if he could ascend the stem, would be but too happy to give them a friendly call; and besides, the wood is extremely hard and tough, so that the branches are able to bear the great weight of the nests.

When about to make a new construction, the birds hang the Bushman’s grass over a suitable branch, and by means of weaving and plaiting it, form a roof of some little size. Under this cover are sheltered a quantity of nests, increasing in number with each new brood, for although the same nest-mass is occupied for several successive seasons, the birds never breed in the same nests a second time.

In consequence of this custom, when they have to provide for a new brood, they enlarge the roof, and build a second row of nests just like the combs of a hornet’s habitation. Layer after layer is thus added, until the mass, spreading out like an extended umbrella, attains so enormous a size as to be easily mistaken by the traveller for a thatched dwelling erected by the natives in arboreal elevation, as a defence against wild beasts. Ultimately the branch, however strong, breaks under the accumulated weight, and comes crashing to the ground; an accident which fortunately leaves the breeding months undisturbed, as it generally occurs during the rainy season after the dried grass has absorbed a vast quantity of moisture. One of the wonders of these prodigious nests is that the birds should be able so easily to find their way to their own particular home. Of all the hundreds of holes with which these nest-cities are frequently pierced, one is as like as possible to the other, yet notwithstanding this similarity the inmates glide in and out without any hesitation.

On turning to Asia we likewise find many admirable nest-builders. Among these the Baya, or Toddy Bird, is one of the most curious. In shape it resembles the sparrow, as also in the brown feathers of the back and wings; the head and breast are of a bright yellow, and in the rays of a tropical sun have a splendid appearance when the birds are flying by thousands in the same grove. They make a chirping noise, but have no song; they associate in large communities, and cover clumps of palmyras, acacias, and date-trees with their nests. These are formed in a very ingenious manner by long grass woven together in the shape of a bottle, and suspended by so slender a thread to the end of a flexible branch that even the squirrel dare not venture his body on so fragile a support, however his mouth may water at the eggs and prey within. These nests contain several apartments, appropriated to different purposes: in one the hen performs the office of incubation; another, consisting of a little thatched roof and covering a perch without a bottom, is occupied by the male, who cheers the female with his chirping note. The Hindoos are very fond of these birds for their docility and sagacity; when young, they teach them to fetch and carry, and at the time the young women resort to the public fountains their lovers instruct the baya to pluck the tica or golden ornament from the forehead of their favourite and bring it to their master.

The Tailor-bird of Hindostan (Sylvia sutoria) is equally curious in the structure of its nest, and far superior in the elegance and variety of its plumage, which in the male glows with the varied tints of the colibri. Selecting a suitable leaf, generally one which hangs from the end of a slender twig, the little artist pierces a row of holes along each edge, using his beak as a shoemaker uses his awl. When the holes are completed the feathered tailor next selects his thread, which is a long fibre of some plant, and passing it through the holes, draws the sides of the leaf towards each other, so as to form a kind of hollow cone, the point downwards. Generally a single leaf answers the purpose, but whenever the bird cannot find one sufficiently long, it sews two together, or even fetches another leaf and fastens it with the fibre. The interior of the hollow is then lined with a quantity of soft white down, and thus a warm, light, and elegant nest is constructed, scarcely visible among the foliage, and safe from the attacks of almost every foe but man. Who, on witnessing these miracles of instinct, would not exclaim with the poet:

The Honey Eaters of Australia and the neighbouring archipelagoes, where they seem to occupy the position which is taken in America by the humming-birds, and by the sun birds of Asia and South Africa, have thus been named from their feeding largely on the sweet juices of many flowers, although the staple of their diet consists of insects. Some are splendidly decorated, others captivate the ear by their melodious song. They are most lively and interesting birds, affording an endless fund of amusement to the careful observer. Never still, they traverse the branches of the trees with astonishing celerity, skipping from one to another, and probing every crevice with their needle-like tongue. Like the humming-birds they display great ingenuity in the building of their nests which the Singing and Painted Honey Eaters (Ptilotus sonorus; Entomophila picta) suspend from the long and slender branches of the pendulous Acacia, while the Lanceolate Honey Eater, thus named on account of the shape of its feathers, slings its hammock just as a seaman slings his oscillating couch.

The Lanceolated Honey Eater chooses for the site of its pendulous dwelling the thinnest twigs which grow at the summit of the enormous gum trees; where, owing to the great height at which it is placed and the surrounding leaves, even the eagle eye of the native Australian can with difficulty detect it; while the White Throated Honey Eater (Entomophila albogularis), detesting the wind, loves to frequent the dense mangrove thickets which edge the bays and creeks. In these places, often scarcely two feet from the water, and invariably so placed as to be under the protection of a spray of leaves, may be found its curious nest, which is about as large as a breakfast cup, and very much the same shape.

Besides the Honey Eaters, Australia has many other expert nest-builders, such as the Rock Warbler (Origma rubricata), which suspends its nest from the rocks in sheltered places, wherever an overhanging ledge affords protection from the elements; the Sericornis citreogularis, which constructs its dwelling in the centre of the large masses of moss which in the Australian forests often accumulate at the extremities of drooping branches, and the brilliantly coloured Swallow DicÆum (DicÆum hirundinaceum), which hangs its pretty nest from the tops of the tallest Casuarinas, where its minute body can scarcely be seen without the assistance of glasses; but nothing can be more extraordinary than the constructions of the Bower Birds, which are built not for the useful purpose of containing the young, but purely as a playing place or an assembly room. ‘The structures of the spotted bower bird,’ says Mr. Gould, ‘are in many instances three feet in length. They are outwardly built of twigs, and beautifully lined with tall grasses, so disposed that their heads nearly meet; the decorations are very profuse, and consist of bivalve shells, crania of small mammalia, and other birds. Evident and beautiful indications of design are manifest throughout the whole of the bower and decorations formed by this species, particularly in the manner in which the stones are placed within the bower, apparently to keep the grasses with which it is lined fixed firmly in their places. These stones diverge from the mouth of the run on each side, so as to form a little path, while the immense collection of decorative materials, bones, shells, &c., are placed in a heap before the entrance of the avenue, this arrangement being the same at both ends. I frequently found these structures at a considerable distance from the rivers, from the borders of which they alone could have procured the shells and small round pebbly stones; their collection and transportation must, therefore, be a task of great labour and difficulty. As these birds feed almost entirely upon seeds and fruits, the shells and bones cannot have been collected for any other purpose than ornament; besides, it is only those that have been bleached perfectly white in the sun, or such as have been roasted by the natives, and by this means whitened, that attract their attention.’ For what purpose these curious bowers are made is not yet, perhaps, fully understood; they are certainly not used as a nest, but as a place of resort, where the assembled birds run through and about the bower in a playful manner, and that so frequently that it is seldom entirely deserted.

The Talegalla or Brush-turkey is a no less interesting Australian bird. In appearance it is very like the common black turkey, but is not quite so large: the extraordinary manner in which its eggs are hatched constitutes its singularity. It collects together a great heap of decaying vegetables as the place of deposit of its eggs, thus making a hot-bed, arising from the decomposition of the collected matter, by the heat of which the young are hatched. This mound varies in quantity from two to four cartloads, and is of a perfectly pyramidical form: it is not, however, the work of a single pair of birds, but the result of the united labour of many, and the same site appears to be resorted to for several years in succession. ‘The mode,’ says Mr. Gould, ‘in which the materials composing these mounds are accumulated is equally singular, the bird never using its bill, but always grasping a quantity in its foot, throwing it backwards to one common centre, and thus clearing the surface of the ground to a considerable distance so completely that scarcely a leaf or blade of grass is left.’ The heap being accumulated and time allowed for a sufficient heat to be engendered, the eggs, each measuring not less than four inches in length—an enormous size, considering the bulk of the bird—are deposited, not side by side, as is ordinarily the case, but planted at the distance of nine or twelve inches from each other, and buried at nearly an arm’s depth perfectly upright, with the large end upwards; they are covered up as they are laid, and allowed to remain until hatched. After six weeks of burial, the eggs, in succession and without any warning, give up their chicks—not feeble, but full-fledged and strong, so that at night they scrape holes for themselves, and lying down therein are covered over by the old birds and thus remain until morning. The extraordinary strength of the newly-hatched birds is accounted for by the size of the shell, since in so large a space it is reasonable to suppose that the young ones would be much more developed than is usually found in eggs of smaller dimensions. Other Australian birds, such as the Jungle-fowl (Megapodius tumulus), Duperrey’s Megapodius (M. Duperreyii), which inhabits the forests of New Guinea, and the Leipoas or native pheasants, construct similar mound-like nests. Those of the jungle-fowl, observed at Port Essington, are described as fifteen feet high, and sixty in circumference at the base, and so enveloped in thickly foliaged trees as to preclude the possibility of the sun’s rays reaching any part of it.

The tropical forests of the eastern hemisphere resound with bird-cries no less appalling, wild, or strange than those of the western world. In the close jungles of Ceylon one occasionally hears the call of the Copper-smith (Megalasara Indica), whose din resembles the blows of a smith hammering a cauldron, or the strokes of the great orange-coloured Woodpecker (Brachypterus aurantius), as it beats the decaying trees in search of insects; but of all the yells that fancy can imagine there is none to equal that of the Singhalese Devil-bird or Gualama. ‘Its ordinary cry,’ says Mr. Mitford, ‘is a magnificent clear shout like that of a human being, which can be heard at a great distance, and has a fine effect in the silence of the closing night. It has another cry like that of a hen just caught, but the sounds which have earned for it its bad name, and which I have heard but once to perfection, are indescribable; the most appalling that can be imagined, and scarcely to be heard without shuddering. I can only compare it to a boy in torture, whose screams are being stopped by being strangled. On hearing this dreadful note the terrified Singhalese hurries from the spot, for should he chance to see the bird of ill omen he knows that his death is nigh. A servant of Mr. Baker’s,32 who had the misfortune of seeing the dreaded gualama, from that moment took no food, and thus fell a victim to his superstitious despair. This horror of the natives explains the circumstance that it is not yet perfectly ascertained whether the devil-bird is an owl (Syrnium) or a night hawk.

As if to make amends for this screech, the robin of Nueraellia, the long-tailed thrush, the oriole, the dayal-bird, and some others equally charming, make the forests and savannas of the Kandyan country resound with the rich tones of their musical calls.

Besides the vast number of birds which, constantly attached to a sultry climate, breed and live within the tropics, there are others who at the approach of winter leave the uncongenial regions of the temperate or frigid zones, and in search of food and warmth migrate towards the equatorial world. Thus our house swallow annually wanders as far as the unknown heart of Africa, resting neither in Egypt nor in Nubia, nor even in the insect-teeming steppes and woods of Eastern Sudan, and the stork, who every spring appears as a welcome guest in the lowlands of Northern Germany, has frequently spent the previous winter months in South Nubia and Darfur. In Kordofan (16° 35 N. Lat.) the naturalist hears with astonishment the dactylic note of the quail, which may have sounded in summer in Great Britain or Sweden, or meets with our charming songster the nightingale, who, likewise, wings his flight towards unknown regions, far beyond the tropics, where however his voice is mute.