Nat the Naturalist: A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas

by George Manville Fenn

  CHAPTER THIRTY.

  A CURIOUS MARRIED COUPLE.

  As Ebo reached the tree he turned back to us laughing and pointing withhis spear, and then signed to us to come, though even when we were closeup to him I could see nothing but a tiny hole in the trunk of the greattree.

  "It can't be a nest, uncle," I said, "because it is not big enough.Perhaps it is a wild bees' hive."

  "I don't know yet," said my uncle. "I'm like you, Nat, a little bitpuzzled. If it were not so small I should say it was a nest from theway that great hornbill keeps flapping about and screeching."

  "Shall I shoot it, uncle?" I said eagerly.

  "Well, no, Nat, I hardly like to do that. If it is as I think, it wouldbe too cruel, for we should be starving the young, and it will be easyto get a specimen of a hornbill if we want one, though really it is sucha common bird that it is hardly worth carriage as a skin."

  Just then, to show us, Ebo began to poke at the hole with the point ofhis spear, and we saw the point of a bill suddenly pop out and dart inagain, while the great hornbill shrieked and shouted, for I can call itnothing else, so queerly sounded its voice.

  "Why, it can't be the hornbill's nest, uncle!" I said. "Look how smallit is."

  "Yes, it is small, but it is the hornbill's nest after all," said myuncle, as Ebo kept on poking at the hole and bringing down pieces ofwhat seemed to be clay. Then, seeing how interested we were, he tookoff his basket, lay down his spear, and taking a hatchet from hiswaistband cut a few nicks for his toes, and began to climb up, the bighornbill screeching horribly the while, till Ebo was level with thehole, from out of which the end of a bill kept on peeping.

  Then the hornbill flew off and Ebo began to chop away a large quantityof dry clay till quite a large hole was opened, showing the original wayinto the hollow tree; and now, after a great deal of hoarse shriekingthe black got hold of the great bird that was inside, having quite afight before he could drag it out by the legs, and then dropping withit, flapping its great wings, to the ground.

  "Undoubtedly the female hornbill," said my uncle. "How singular! Themale bird must have plastered her up there and fed her while she hasbeen sitting. That was what we saw, Nat."

  "Then there must be eggs, uncle," I cried, with my old bird-nestingpropensities coming to the front.

  But Ebo was already up the tree again as soon as he had rid himself ofthe great screaming bird, and in place of bringing down any eggs heleaped back to the earth with a young hornbill, as curious a creature asit is possible to imagine.

  It was like a clear leather bag or bladder full of something warm andsoft, and with the most comical head, legs, and wings, a good-sized softbeak, a few blue stumps of feathers to represent the tail, and nothingelse. It was, so to speak, a horribly naked skin of soft jelly withstaring eyes, and it kept on gaping helplessly for more food, when itwas evidently now as full as could be.

  "Are there more birds?" said Uncle Dick pointing to the hole; but Eboshook his head, running up, thrusting in his hand, and coming downagain.

  "Very curious, Nat," said my uncle. "The male bird evidently shuts hiswife up after she has laid an egg, to protect her from other birds andperhaps monkeys till she has hatched, and then he goes on feeding herand her young one."

  "And well too, uncle; he is as fat as butter."

  "Feeding both well till the young one is fit to fly."

  "Which won't be yet, uncle, for he hasn't a feather."

  "No, my boy. Well, what shall we do with them?" said my uncle, stillholding the screeching mother, while I nursed the soft warm bird baby,her daughter or son.

  "Let's put the little--no, I mean the big one back, uncle," I said,laughing.

  "Just what I was thinking. Climb up and do it."

  I easily climbed to the nest and was glad to get the young bird in againwithout cracking its skin, which seemed so tender; and no sooner had Irolled it softly in and climbed down than my uncle let the mother go,and so strong was her love of her young that she immediately flew to thehole and crept in, croaking and screaming in an uneasy, angry way, as ifshe was scolding us for interfering with her little one, while from adistance amongst the trees the cock bird kept on answering her with thenoisiest and most discordant cries.

  Every now and then it came into sight, flying heavily across theopenings between the trees, its great cream-coloured, clumsy-lookingbill shining and looking bright in the sun, while the cries it utteredtempted one to put one's fingers into one's ears.

  And all the time the hen bird inside the tree kept answering itpeevishly, as much as to say, Look here: what a shame it is! Why don'tyou come and drive these people away?

  "This is one of the most singular facts in natural history that I havemet with," said Uncle Dick, who was still gazing curiously up at thetree and watching the female hornbill's head as she kept shufflingherself about uneasily, and seemed to object to so much light.

  "I think I know what it is, uncle," I said, laughing.

  "Do you, Nat," he replied. "Well, you are cleverer than I am if you doknow. Well, why is it?"

  "The hen hornbill must be like Uncle Joe's little bantam, who neverwould sit till she was shut up in the dark, and that's why Mr Hornbillfastened up his wife."

  My uncle laughed, and then, to Ebo's great delight, for he had beenfidgeting about and wondering why it was that we stopped so long, wecontinued our journey in search of the birds of paradise, whose criescould be heard at a distance every now and then.

  But though we kept on following the sounds we seemed to get no nearer,and to make matters worse, so as not to scare them uncle said it wouldbe better not to fire, with the consequence that we missed shooting somevery beautiful birds that flitted from tree to tree.

  "We must give up the birds of paradise to-day, Nat," said my uncle atlast. "I see it is of no use to follow them; they are too shy."

  "Then how are we to get any?" I said in a disappointed tone; for we hadbeen walking for some hours now and I was tired.

  "Lie in wait for them, Nat," he replied smiling. "But come, we'll tryand shoot a few birds for food now and have a good dinner. You willfeel all the more ready then for a fresh walk."

  By means of a little pantomime we made Ebo understand what we wanted,and in a very little while he had taken us to where the great pigeonsthronged the trees, many being below feeding on a kind of nut which hadfallen in great profusion from a lofty kind of palm.

  If we had wanted a hundred times as many of the big pigeons we couldeasily have shot them, they were so little used to attack; but we onlybrought down a sufficiency for our present wants, and as soon as Ebounderstood that these birds were not to be skinned but plucked foreating, he quickly had a good fire blazing and worked away stripping thefeathers off so that they dropped on the fire and were consumed.

  The plumage was so beautiful that it seemed to be like so much wantondestruction to throw it away, and I could not help thinking what delightit would have given me before I had seen Uncle Dick's collection, tohave been the possessor of one of these noble birds. But as my unclevery reasonably said, we should have required a little army of portersto carry our chests, and then a whole vessel to take them home, if wewere to preserve every specimen we shot. We could only save the finestspecimens; the rest must go for food; and of course we would only, afterwe had obtained a sufficiency of a particular kind, shoot those that werequired for the table.

  Ebo was invaluable in preparing fires and food for cooking, and uponthis occasion, as he placed the birds on sticks close to the hot blaze,I watched him with no little interest, longing as I did to begin thefeast.

  But birds take time to cook, and instead of watching impatiently forthem to be ready, I saw that Uncle Dick had taken his gun down a narrowlittle glade between two rows of trees growing so regularly that theyseemed to have been planted by a gardener.

  But no gardener had ever worked here, and as I overtook my uncle hebegan to talk of how singular it was that so beautiful a place should bewithout
inhabitants.

  "The soil must be rich, Nat, to produce such glorious trees and shrubs.Look at the beauty of what flowers there are, and the herbage, Nat. Theplace is a perfect paradise."

  "And do you feel sure, uncle, that there are no savages here?"

  "None but ourselves, Nat," said my uncle, laughing.

  "Well, but we are not savages, uncle," I said.

  "That is a matter of opinion, my boy. I'm afraid the birds here, ifthey can think about such things, would be very much disposed to lookupon us as savages for intruding upon their beautiful domain to shootone here and one there for our own selfish purposes."

  "Oh! but birds can't think, uncle," I said.

  "How do you know?"

  Well, of course I did not know, and could produce no argument in supportof my case. So I looked up at him at last in a puzzled way and saw thathe was smiling.

  "You can't answer that question, Nat," he said. "It is one of thematters that science sees no way of compassing. Still, I feel certainthat birds have a good deal of sense."

  "But you don't think they can talk to one another, do you, uncle?"

  "No, it cannot be called talking; but they have certain ways ofcommunicating one with the other, as anyone who has taken notice ofdomestic fowls can see. What is more familiar than the old hen's cry toher chickens when she has found something eatable? and then there is thecurious call uttered by all fowls when any large bird that they think isa bird of prey flies over them."

  "Oh! yes, I've heard that, uncle," I said.

  "I remember an old hen uttering that peculiar warning note one day in afield, Nat, and immediately every chicken feeding near hurried off underthe hedges and trees, or thrust their heads into tufts of grass to hidethemselves from the hawk."

  "That seems to show, uncle, that they do understand."

  "Yes, they certainly comprehend a certain number of cries, and it is asort of natural language that they have learned for their preservation."

  "I know too about the chickens, uncle," I said. "Sometimes they goabout uttering a little soft twittering noise as if they were happy andcontented; but if they lose sight of their mother they pipe and cry andstand on their toes, staring about them as if they were in the greatestof trouble."

  "I think I can tell you another curious little thing about fowls too,and their way of communicating one with the other. Many years ago, Nat,I had a fancy for keeping some very large fine Dorking fowls, and veryinteresting I found it letting the hens sit and then taking care oftheir chickens."

  "But how is it, uncle," I said, interrupting him, "that a tiny, tenderchicken can so easily chip a hole in an egg-shell, as they do when theyare nearly ready to come out?"

  "Because, for one reason, the egg-shell has become very brittle, and allthe glutinous, adhesive matter has dried away from the lime; the otherreason is, that the pressure of the bird's beak alone is sufficient todo it, because the pressure comes from within. There is a wonderfulstrength in an egg, Nat, if the pressure is from without; it will bearenormous weight from without, for one particle supports another, and inreason the pressure adds to the strength. The slightest touch, however,is sufficient to break a way out from within. I'll be bound to say youhave often hammered an egg with a spoon and been surprised to find howhard it is."

  "Yes, uncle, often," I said.

  "Well, but to go on with my story, Nat. One day a favourite hen hadeleven beautiful little yellow downy chickens, and for the fun of thething I took one soft little thing out of the nest and carried it intothe yard, where the great cock was strutting about with hissickle-feathered green tail glistening in the sun, and, putting down thetiny yellow ball of down, I drew back, calling the old cock the while.

  "He ran up, thinking it was something to eat; but as soon as he reachedthe helpless little chick he stopped short, bent his head down, lookedat it first with one eye, then with the other, and seemed lost inmeditation.

  "`Come, papa,' I said, `what do you think of your little one?'

  "Still he kept on staring intently at the little thing till it began tocry `_Peek, peek, peek_' in a most dismal tone, for it was very cold,and then the old cock, who had been looking very important and big,suddenly began to cry `_Took, took, took_', just like a hen, and softlycrouched down, spreading his wings a little for the chick to creep underhim and get warm, and no doubt he would have taken care of that chickenand brought it up if I had not taken it back to the hen.

  "But look! we are talking about barn-door fowls and losing chances toget lovely specimens of foreign birds and--what's that?"

  For just then a shrill wild call rang down the lovely glade, and Ithought that Uncle Dick was wrong, and savages were near.