As I have told you, there are some forty or fifty different kinds of Birds of Paradise, and they are all of them as beautiful, or nearly as beautiful, as those that I have described, each one in its own special way. Of course you must know yourself, or your mother will tell you, that all this wonderful beauty has not been given to these birds for nothing, and I have told you that the male Birds of Paradise, who alone have it, show it off to the poor hen birds, whose plumage is quite sober in comparison—though you must not think that they are not pretty birds too—because they are pretty, though in a quieter style. So they are not really “poor” hen birds, that is only just a way of speaking. They are happy enough, you may be sure, for they have their husbands' fine clothes to look at. But what is so interesting, is that each of these different kinds of Birds of Paradise has some different way of arranging and showing off his fine clothes—for, of course, a bird's feathers are his clothes just as much as our coats and dresses are ours. And, besides that, each one of them puts himself into some peculiar attitude, which he thinks is the best one to let his plumage be seen as he would like it to be. We may be quite sure of this, because it is what all birds do that have beautiful plumage; and many of them have regular places that they come to, to run or jump about in, just as soldiers come into a park or common to march about in it, and show off their nice pretty uniforms. There will always be a great many hen birds round these places, to look at the beautiful males, and there are always a great many ladies round the park or common, to look at the beautiful soldiers.

Now, would it not be interesting if we knew what all these different Birds of Paradise did, and how they arranged their plumage, and what attitudes they went into, and whether they ran or jumped or flew or did all three, and all the rest of it? If only there was somebody who knew all that, I think he could write a very interesting book, and if only some one would go out into those countries, with a pair of glasses (or even a pair of eyes) instead of with a gun, and whenever he saw a Bird of Paradise would just look at it through the glasses (or with his own eyes, if it was near enough) instead of shooting it, I think he might write an interesting book. I am sure I should find it interesting, and I think you would too. Depend upon it, if any one could tell people what a Bird of Paradise did, he would interest them very much more than by telling them how he shot it. That is not at all interesting, how he shot it. Do you think it would be so very interesting for people to know how you broke a very handsome ornament in your mother's drawing-room? Why, I don't think it would interest even your mother—much; but she would be very sorry you broke it. And that is just how I feel (and I think some other people do too) when a person tells me how he shot a Bird of Paradise. Things of that kind interest the little demon. If they interest any one else, I am afraid it is only because of that little demon, because of his wicked powders and his having sent the Goddess of Pity to sleep.

But I am sorry to say that there is hardly anybody who knows anything about all these Birds of Paradise, anything about their habits and how they live and how they dance and the way they arrange their wonderful plumage, so as to make it look as beautiful as possible. Perhaps there are a few people who know just a little—a very little—about some of the more common kinds, but as for all the rest, if any one knows anything about them, it must be those black or yellow people that we call savages, who live in the same countries that they live in. That is because, when a traveller from Europe goes out to those countries he always takes a gun—not glasses (or if he does take a pair of glasses he does not use them, or his eyes either, in the right way), and when he sees one of these rare Birds of Paradise, he shoots it, or else frightens it away, as I told you. Then, when he comes back, he writes his book and tells you how he shot it, or tried to shoot it, and then he says: “Unfortunately, nothing whatever is known of the habits of this species.” It is not very wonderful that he knows nothing of them, is it? And yet this traveller, with his gun, almost always calls himself a naturalist. Now a real naturalist is a person who loves nature. But is not that a funny way to love her—to shoot her children? Depend upon it, that one of those little bottles that the demon keeps his powders in, is labelled “Natural History” or “Love of Nature.” You know that his bottles have generally a false label on them.

So, I am afraid I cannot tell you much about what the Birds of Paradise do, or how they show off their beautiful feathers. Indeed, it is very much the same with most other beautiful birds, and for the very same reason that I have been telling you, because people will shoot, instead of looking and watching. Just the little that we know about the Great Bird of Paradise, how he has a special tree that he comes to, to have those dances that the natives call “SÁcalelis,” and how he flies about with his plumes waving, or sits underneath them as if he were in the spray of a falling fountain, that I have told you; but, besides this, I can only tell you just a very little about a Bird of Paradise that I have not said anything about, because, you know, there are so many of them. The little I can tell you is this. Two gentlemen—one of them a Mr. Chalmers and the other a Mr. Wyatt—were once travelling in the part of New Guinea where this Bird of Paradise lives, and one morning, when they were up early, they saw four of the cock birds and two of the hens, in a tree close by them. This is what one of these gentlemen says about them (if there is any word too long for you, or that you don't understand, you must ask your mother to explain it):—

“The two hens were sitting quietly on a branch, and the four cocks, dressed in their very best, their ruffs of green and yellow standing out, giving them a handsome appearance about the head and neck” (yes, I feel sure of that), “their long flowing plumes so arranged that every feather seemed combed out, and the long wires” (he means the “funny feathers”) “stretched well out behind, were dancing in a circle round them.” (Just fancy!) “It was an interesting sight.” (I should think so!) “First one and then another would advance a little nearer to a hen, and she, coquette-like” (you will have to ask your mother what that means), “would retire a little, pretending not to care for any advances. A shot was fired, contrary to our expressed wish, there was a strange commotion, and two of the cocks flew away” (you see what shooting does), “but the others and the hens remained. Soon the two returned, and again the dance began, and continued long. As we had strictly forbidden any more shooting, all fear was gone; and so, after a rest, the males came a little nearer to the dark brown hens. Quarrelling ensued, and in the end all six birds flew away.”

Fancy seeing all that! I think it is wonderful that any of the birds stayed after the shot had been fired, and if another one had been, no doubt they would all have gone. Those travellers, you see, were a little better than most travellers are. They did not kill the birds (perhaps they were not naturalists), and the consequence is they have had something interesting to tell us about them. Still, I think if I had been there I should have had a little more to say, and instead of just saying that the cock birds were dancing, I should have described how they were dancing, and what sort of attitudes they put themselves into. And I think I would have waited at that place, and gone to those trees again very early next morning, all by myself, to see if those birds came back to dance there. Still, what these travellers do tell us is very interesting, very much more interesting than if they had only written, “Here we shot,” or “Here we obtained another specimen of Paradisea Something-elsea”—which, of course, would be the Latin name. Naturalists like to tell us the Latin name of the animals they shoot. If they only had an English name I don't think they would care nearly so much to shoot them. How sorry we ought to be that animals have Latin names!

But, now, how is it that it is only the cock bird—the male—of all these Birds of Paradise who is so beautiful, whilst the poor hen—the female bird—is quite plain, in comparison? Well, I must tell you, first, that this is not only the case with Birds of Paradise, but that it is just the same with other birds as well. In most, if not all, of the beautiful birds I am going to tell you about, it is the male bird that is so very beautiful, so that perhaps you will begin to think that this is the case with all beautiful birds, and that there is no hen bird that has very splendid or brilliant plumage. But this is not so at all. You would make a great mistake if you were to think that. In most of the parrots—those brightly-coloured birds that you know so well—the male and female are alike, and if you were to see a kingfisher—the star-bird that I told you about in the first chapter—gleaming and glancing up a river, you would not know whether it was the one or the other. The feathers of the female scarlet flamingo are almost—if not quite—as scarlet as those of the male; the cock robin's breast is not more red than the breast of the hen robin, at least you would find it difficult to tell the difference; male and female pigeons—and some of them are very splendid—are as bright as each other, and so it is with a very great number of other birds.

Now does not this seem funny, that some male birds should be so much handsomer than their wives, whilst some hen birds should be just as handsome as their husbands? Is there any way of explaining this, or, rather, do we know how to explain it? for there is a way of explaining everything—a right way, I mean, of course. The difficult thing is to find it out. Well, there are some clever people who have been thinking about this funny thing, and they try to explain it in this way.

Of course, when the male Birds of Paradise (and it is the same with other birds) show off their fine plumage to the hen birds, it is because they want to marry them, which is just the same as with people; for, you know, when a gentleman wishes to marry a lady he dresses as nicely as he can, and sometimes he goes into attitudes as well. Now, the hen Birds of Paradise—so these clever people say—always choose for their husbands the birds that have the finest feathers, and the other ones, whose feathers are not so fine, have to look about for another wife. Of course, after the Birds of Paradise have married, they make a nest, and very soon there are eggs in it, and then the eggs are chipped and little Birds of Paradise come out of them. Some of these little Birds of Paradise will be males and some females, and the male ones will grow up with feathers like the cock birds, and the females with feathers like the hen—just as with us, the boys sometimes grow up like the father, and the girls sometimes grow up like the mother—only with Birds of Paradise it is always so. But now, amongst these young Birds of Paradise, though all will be beautiful, some will be more beautiful than the others, more beautiful even than their father, perhaps, and you may be sure that those will be the ones who will find it most easy to marry, and who will have the greater number of children. Some of those children will be more beautiful than their fathers, and then they will marry and have children that are still more beautiful than themselves, and so it will always be going on. The young male Birds of Paradise will always have feathers like their fathers, and gradually they will get more and more beautiful, because their wives will always choose them for their beauty. But the young female Birds of Paradise will always be like their mothers, and will not become more beautiful than they are, because hen Birds of Paradise are not chosen for their beauty, but only for their good qualities.

Now, if this is true, it shows how sensible the Birds of Paradise must be, for all sensible persons would choose their wives for their good qualities, and not just for their beauty. The worst of it is that there are so many persons who are not quite sensible. Still, even with us, there are a good many wives who must, I think, have been chosen, like the hen Birds of Paradise, for their good qualities—which, of course, is what they ought to be chosen for.

That is how some people explain why the male Birds of Paradise, and other beautiful male birds, are so much more beautiful than the females. They say that they have gradually got more and more beautiful, whilst the hens have remained plain, and that once upon a time there was not so very much difference between them. And if you ask them why the males and females of other birds are both as beautiful as each other, they will tell you that the children of those birds were always like the father, so that, as the father birds became beautiful—for they were chosen in the same way—all the little daughter birds became beautiful too, as well as the little sons.

But I am afraid the people who explain it all in this way must have forgotten how the Birds of Paradise, at any rate, used once to live in Paradise, where, of course, they were all as beautiful as each other, and though their plumage got spoilt when they came out of it (beautiful though it seems to us) in the way I told you, yet it does seem funny that the hens should have had it spoilt so much more than the cock birds. But you know it was spoilt by the glory which streamed out of the gates of Paradise, and which was so bright and burning that it burnt off all the most beautiful parts of it, and scorched and singed the rest. Now, of course, the nearer any bird was to the gate of Paradise when it opened, the worse he would have got scorched, and so if the cocks flew faster than the hens—and I am sure they did—they would have got soonest away, and the hens would have suffered most. That explanation seems much more simple; but, you see, these clever people do not believe about the Birds of Paradise having once lived in Paradise. They have their own explanation of it all (which I have just told you), and they like to believe in that. Then which of the two are you to believe in? Well, I think the simpler one—which is prettier as well—would be the best for you to believe in now, but later on—when you are a clever person—you can try the other. Now, you know, you are only a little child, and something that is simple and pretty is the right thing for a little child. But a clever person wants a different kind of explanation to that. He wants a clever one, and as soon as you feel that you have become a clever person, there will be a clever explanation all ready for you.

But now, whilst you are still a little child, I can give you another explanation of why the males and females of some birds are as beautiful as each other, whilst the males of some other ones are ever so much the most beautiful. This other explanation will do in case the one about the cock Birds of Paradise flying faster than the hens is not the right one, for, of course, we cannot be quite sure that they flew faster. I did say I was sure, but that was just a little mistake of mine. One is not really sure of a thing until one knows it, and I don't quite know that it happened like that, however much I may think it did. Besides, this new explanation that I am going to give you will do for all other birds as well as for the Birds of Paradise, and, of course, the more anything explains the better explanation it is. So now I will give it you, and, if you like it better than the other, you can take it instead, and if you only like it as well, then you will have two nice explanations instead of only one. Here it is.

In the old days, a long, long time ago, the males and females of all the birds were as beautiful as each other, and they were all in love with each other. Only the question was which of them were the most in love, and, as to that, they often had disputes. “We love you better than you love us,” said the male birds to the females; “you love us only for our beauty, you do not love us for ourselves, as we love you.” “If you think so,” said the female birds (the beautiful hens), “give us your beauty, and you shall find that we love you just as well, without it.” But the male birds, who were quite content, really, to be loved for their beauty, and who did not wish to part with it, made haste to change the conversation. “But you love us for our beauty,” said the hen birds (for they soon got round again to the same subject); “it is not for ourselves that you love us, but only because we are beautiful.” “If that is your idea,” said the male birds, “bestow your beauty upon us, and you shall soon be undeceived.” Then the female birds, who only wished to be loved for themselves and not for what they looked like, gave all their beauty to their beautiful husbands, and remained without any. So now, of course, the male birds were twice as beautiful as they had been before, whilst the poor hens were not beautiful at all, and would even have been quite ugly if they had not been birds, for a bird cannot be ugly. And now it was found that, whilst some of the male birds had loved their wives so much that they went on loving them still, in spite of the change in their appearance, others (and I am afraid they were the greater number) left off loving them, as soon as they had left off being beautiful, and were not able to love them again, although they tried ever so hard. You see, they had only loved them for their beauty, not for themselves, so as soon as there was no more beauty, there was no more love. So those male birds who had loved for love only, and not because their wives were beautiful, kept this beauty and added it to their own. Their wives did not want it back again, for love was enough for them. But the ones who had loved their wives, only because of their beauty, had to give it them back, for otherwise they would not have been able to go on loving them, and that would have been very awkward indeed. That is why, in some birds, the males and females are as beautiful as each other, whilst in others, the males are twice as beautiful as the females. As I told you, this is an explanation which does as well for any other bird as it does for the Birds of Paradise, and, if you like it, you can believe in it till you have grown up from a simple little child into a complicated clever person.

So now there are six Birds of Paradise that your mother has promised not to wear in her hats, not in any hat that she buys or has given to her, whether it has the whole skin of one in it, or only just a few feathers, or even one. She will not buy such a hat, and she will not go into a shop to ask the price of it. She will have nothing to do with it whatever, because she has promised.

But now, do you not see that, as your dear mother has only promised about six kinds of Birds of Paradise, and as there are some forty or fifty kinds in the world, she might easily buy a hat that had some kind of Bird of Paradise in it, without its being any of these six? How much better it would be, then, if your dear, dear mother were to promise never to wear a hat that had any kind of Bird of Paradise in it. And I am sure she will, now that you have explained to her about the wicked little demon, and how much more beautiful these Birds of Paradise are when they are alive, and how happy they are, too, and how their wives want them, to look at, and how there will be no more of them left, soon, if people keep on killing them, just to put into hats. Just talk to her about it a little, and then throw your arms round her neck and say: “Oh mother, do promise never to wear a hat that has the feathers of any Bird of Paradise in it.” There! And now she has promised. Well, you see how easy it is.