This lone jackdaw rarely ventured forth but sat the live-long day on the weather-cock-and sang! She sang almost without intermission! All song birds, to which group the corvines also belong, tend to sing profusely when in solitude or robbed of the opportunity to pursue their normal activities, in other words when they are “bored”. For this reason, the bird kept in solitary confinement sings much more than the one which enjoys its freedom. All the energies which would otherwise be disseminated over a hundred and one different activities flow concurrently in the one channel of the song. In nature, also, where the song of most small singing birds serves to mark the boundaries of territorial rights and intimates an invitation to the female, those males who have found no mate sing louder and longer than their happily mated brothers. Because of the predominance of males, many must remain celibate, but this does not appear to depress them unduly, Contrary to the opinion of our societies for prevention of cruelty to animals, it is therefore no great act of cruelty to keep a nightingale or a goldfinch alone in captivity for the purpose of its song and Blake’s adage:
A Robin-redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage
need not be taken too seriously. The male lapdog on one end of the lead and the frustrated spinster on the other are objects far more deserving of our pity. Speaking for myself, however, I must admit that the continuous song of singly kept birds gets on my nerves, with time. My male common redstart, who rarely sings, as he lives in a large cage with his wife, but who, as I write these lines, is performing his remarkable courtship dance in front of the lady of his heart, affords me much more pleasure than the most voluble of solitary singers. All the same, the singly kept male songbird does not suffer, nor is his song the expression of sorrow and desire, as sentimental people like to believe. If he is at all distressed, his carolling ceases at once.
But the lonely jackdaw lady, Redgold, was genuinely sad, and I am not anthropomorphizing when I say that she suffered mentally. Mental suffering in animals is practically always dumb, but in this one case—I know of no other—her sorrow found vocal outlet, intelligible to man, or at least to one man who understood “Jackdawese”. The song of all jackdaws, for both sexes sing equally well, consists of an infinite variety of notes, both specific and mimicked, and this motley of sound is woven to a design which, though not beautiful, is a comfortable and homely singsong. In the jackdaw, the mimicking or so-called mocking of other sounds does not play a marked role and is not nearly so perfected as in the crow and the raven; nevertheless, singly kept jackdaws learn to imitate human words quite well. But a very curious speciality of their song is a phenomenon which one might interpret as self-mimicking. In the songs of the jackdaw, each and all of the different cries peculiar to the species are constantly reiterated. All the call notes, with which we have already become acquainted, are reproduced in the song and that includes the “Kia” and “Kiaw” cries, “Zicking” and “Yipping” and even the sharp rattle normally used in defence of a comrade. In all other birds that I know, sounds with a “meaning” are not used in the song at all, or, at the most, they occur only singly. But the song of free-living jackdaws consists almost entirely of such sounds! And the unique part of it is that the singer accompanies the individual cries with the corresponding gestures. When rattling, he bends forward and quivers with his wings, just as in a genuine rattling reaction; when “zicking” or “yipping” he assumes the appropriate threatening attitude. In other words he behaves exactly as a human being who becomes so engrossed in the recitation of a ballad that the individual passages awaken corresponding feelings and emotions and automatically evoke the appropriate gestures. To my human ear, these “songsounds” are in no way distinguishable from those which are meant in earnest. How often have I rushed, in alarm, to the window, hearing a loud rattling and thinking a marauder had one of my birds in its clutches, only to find that a loudly reciting jackdaw had made a fool of me. But never have I seen a real jackdaw taken in, in that way. This is a constant source of wonderment to me, considering the blind, reflex-like nature of the reaction which follows on the rattling of a fellow-member of the species in cases of emergency. It is this significance of the individual sounds and still more the touching expressiveness of the accompanying gestures that make the jackdaw’s song so enchanting to one who understands its emotional movements and sounds. How delightful are these little black fellows repeating, with elation, their ballads, in which are conjured up pictures of all the exciting experiences pertaining to the life of a jackdaw!
But the song of the lone jackdaw Redgold was really heartrending. It was not how she sang, but what she sang. Her whole song was suffused with the emotion which obsessed her, with the sole desire of bringing back her lost ones by means of the “Kiaw” call, “Kiaw” and again “Kiaw” in all tones and cadences, from the gentlest piano to the most desperate fortissimo. Other sounds were scarcely audible in this song of woe. “Come back, oh, come back!” Only rarely did she interrupt her song to fly down to the meadows and comb the whole district in search of Greengold and the others. “Kiaw”, she called, this time in earnest, not in song—a subtle difference. As time went on, these outbursts of longing became fewer and she spent most of her time perched on the weather-cock of our clock-tower, consoling herself with the subdued bars of her song. And here, mourning for her lost love, Greengold, with a veritable
Green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument
Smiling at grief.
That is how Redgold saved the colony. For, though I am not given to over-sentimental pity of animals, I was compelled by her grief and her unceasing lament from the roof-top to raise another batch of young jackdaws that spring and to start the jackdaw colony again on our house in Altenberg. For her sake, I reared four young birds and, as soon as they could fly, I put them in the aviary with Redgold. But alas, in my hurry and in my preoccupation with other affairs, I overlooked the fact that there was another large hole in the wire of the cage and, before they had got accustomed to Redgold, all the four young jackdaws escaped. Holding closely together and vainly seeking leadership amongst themselves, as I have already described, they circled higher and higher and finally landed away upon the hillside, far from the house and in the midst of a thick beech covert. There I could not approach them, and as the birds were not trained to respond to my call, I had little hope of ever seeing them again. Of course, Redgold could have recovered them with “Kiaw” calls. Old “consuls” of a colony take care of all younger members that are about to stray, but Redgold did not consider the four youngsters as colony-members, since they had been in her company for little more than half a day. Things certainly looked at their blackest, when, all at once, my despair gave place to a brilliant idea: I climbed into the loft and, the next moment, came crawling out again. Under my arm I bore the huge black and gold flag which had flown, to celebrate many birthdays of the late emperor Francis Joseph I, from the top of my father’s house. And high up on the battlements of the roof, hard by the lightning conductor, I now frantically waved this political anachronism. What was my purpose? I was trying, with this “scarecrow”, to drive Redgold so high into the air that the youngsters in the copse would sight her and begin to call. Then, I hoped, the old bird would answer with a “Kiaw” reaction and so bring about the prodigals’ return. Redgold circled high, but still not high enough. I let out one Red-Indian whoop after the other and waved Francis Joseph’s banner like a madman! In the village street, a crowd began to collect. I postponed the explanation of my doings till later, and waved and whooped further. Redgold soared a couple of yards higher, and then—a young jackdaw called from the hillside. I ceased my flag-flying, and, panting, looked above me where the old jackdaw was circling. And, by all the bird-headed gods of Egypt, the beat of her wings had taken on a new vigour, she was scaling higher and higher and now she set her course in the direction of the forest. “Kiaw”, she called “Kiaw”, “Kiaw”—“Come back, come back!” I wound up the flag with ala
crity, and was gone through the trap-door in an instant.
Ten minutes later all four truants were home, in company with Redgold. She was just as tired as I was. But from that day on, she tended those young birds most solicitously and never let them fly away again. These five birds were the nucleus from which a well-populated colony soon developed. At its head stood a female, Redgold. The great disparity in age between her and the other birds gave her even more “authority” than is customary with the despot of a colony. In her ability to hold the flock together, Redgold surpassed all other rulers that my settlement had previously known. Faithfully she herded the young birds, mothering them tenderly because she herself had no children left.
It would be romantic to close here the life story of the jackdaw Redgold: the altruistic widow safeguarding the prosperity of the flock … that indeed would sound no harsh final chord. What really took place makes such an improbable happy ending that I scarcely dare to relate it. It was three years after the great jackdaw catastrophe, and a windy, sunkissed morning in early spring. Such days are specially favourable for bird migration, and one flock of jackdaws and crows after the other was blowing across the skies. Suddenly a wingless torpedo-shaped projectile separated itself from a group and swooped with gathering speed into the depths below. Hard above our roof top it stopped its fall with a light swinging movement and landed weightlessly on the weather cock. There sat a big and beautiful jackdaw with blue-black shining wings and a silky nape that gleamed almost white. And Redgold the queen, Redgold the despot surrendered without a thrust. The imperious virago became suddenly a shy, subdued maiden that shook her tail and quivered her wings with all the coyness of a jackdaw bride. A few hours after the arrival of the newcomer the two were as one mind with but a single thought, and behaved exactly like a long-wedded pair. It was interesting that this big male experienced little or no opposition from the other jackdaws. His recognition as despot by the erstwhile ruler seemed to stamp him as “Number One” in the eyes of all members of the colony.
I have no irrefutable scientific proof that this gorgeous jackdaw male was Greengold, the lost spouse of Redgold the despot. The coloured celluloid rings were broken and gone; Redgold, too, had lost hers long ago. But the new arrival was undoubtedly a member of the former colony; this was proved by his tameness and the readiness with which he entered the interior of the loft. Wild jackdaws which had joined our colony always behaved quite differently. This bird was definitely one of the four or five eldest—the “consuls”—of the first colony. Still, I believe, and hope, that the old rake was no other than Greengold himself. The reunited pair have since hatched and reared many a further brood of hopeful young jackdaws. To-day, there are more jackdaws than nesting holes in Altenberg. In every wall niche, in every chimney is a nest.
Long before the last war, my father, in his autobiography, wrote of the Altenberg jackdaws: “Flocks of these birds fly, particularly towards evening, round the high gables, and communicate by means of penetrating cries. Sometimes I am convinced that I understand them: as perennial retainers, true to our home, we will fly round this, our eyrie, as long as one stone stands upon the other to afford us protection”.
The perennial retainers! It is perhaps this quality of the jackdaws which gives them a place in our affection. When in autumn, or even on mild winter days, they tune in their spring songs, when they play their daring game with the raging storm, they touch within me that same chord which sounds when I hear a wren singing on a clear frosty day or when I see an evergreen in snow. They suffuse me with that feeling of hope and fortitude for which the Christmas tree has become a symbol.
Jock has been gone a long time, the victim of an uncertain fate. Redgold was shot in her old age by a kind neighbour with an airgun. I found her dead in the garden. But the jackdaw colony in Altenberg still thrives. Jackdaws fly round our house, steering those courses which Jock was the first to discover, and using the same up-currents that Jock first exploited to gain height. They follow loyally all the traditions which reigned in the first colony, and which were transmitted to the present one through the medium of Redgold.
How thankful I should be to fate, if I could find but one path which, generations after me, might be trodden by fellow-members of my species. And how infinitely grateful I should be, if, in my life’s work, I could find one small “up-current” which might lift some other scientist to a point from which he could see a little further than I do.
12
MORALS AND WEAPONS
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show.…
Shakespeare, Sonnets
It is early one Sunday morning at the beginning of March, when Easter is already in the air, and we are taking a walk in the Vienna forest whose wooded slopes of tall beeches can be equalled in beauty by few and surpassed by none. We approach a forest glade. The tall smooth trunks of the beeches soon give place to the Hornbeam which are clothed from top to bottom with pale green foliage. We now tread slowly and more carefully. Before we break through the last bushes and out of cover on to the free expanse of the meadow, we do what all wild animals and all good naturalists, wild boars, leopards, hunters and zoologists would do under similar circumstances: we reconnoitre, seeking, before we leave our cover, to gain from it the advantage which it can offer alike to hunter and hunted, namely, to see without being seen.
Here, too, this age-old strategy proves beneficial. We do actually see someone who is not yet aware of our presence, as the wind is blowing away from him in our direction: in the middle of the clearing sits a large fat hare. He is sitting with his back to us, making a big V with his ears, and is watching intently something on the opposite edge of the meadow. From this point, a second and equally large hare emerges and with slow, dignified hops, makes his way towards the first one. There follows a measured encounter, not unlike the meeting of two strange dogs. This cautious mutual taking stock soon develops into sparring. The two hares chase each other round, head to tail, in minute circles. This giddy rotating continues for quite a long time. Then suddenly, their pent-up energies burst forth into a battle royal. It is just like the outbreak of war, and happens at the very moment when the long mutual threatening of the hostile parties has forced one to the conclusion that neither dares to make a definite move. Facing each other, the hares rear up on their hind legs and, straining to their full height, drum furiously at each other with their fore pads. Now they clash in flying leaps and, at last, to the accompaniment of squeals and grunts, they discharge a volley of lightning kicks, so rapidly that only a slow motion camera could help us to discern the mechanism of these hostilities. Now, for the time being, they have had enough, and they recommence their circling, this time much faster than before; then follows a fresh, more embittered bout. So engrossed are the two champions, that there is nothing to prevent myself and my little daughter from tiptoeing nearer, although that venture cannot be accomplished in silence. Any normal and sensible hare would have heard us long ago, but this is March and March Hares are mad! The whole boxing match looks so comical that my little daughter, in spite of her iron upbringing in the matter of silence when watching animals, cannot restrain a chuckle. That is too much even for March Hares—two flashes in two different directions and the meadow is empty, while over the battlefield floats a fistful of fluff, light as a thistledown.
It is not only funny, it is almost touching, this duel of the unarmed, this raging fury of the meek in heart. But are these creatures really so meek? Have they really got softer hearts than those of the fierce beasts of prey? If, in a zoo, you ever watched two lions, wolves or eagles in conflict, then, in all probability, you did not feel like laughing. And yet, these sovereigns come off no worse than the harmless hares. Most people have the habit of judging carnivorous and herbivorous animals by quite inapplicable moral criteria. Even in fairy-tales, animals are portrayed as being a community comparable to that of mankind, as though all species of animals were beings of one and th
e same family, as human beings are. For this reason, the average person tends to regard the animal that kills animals in the same light as he would the man that kills his own kind. He does not judge the fox that kills a hare by the same standard as the hunter who shoots one for precisely the same reason, but with that severe censure that he would apply to the gamekeeper who made a practice of shooting farmers and frying them for supper! The “wicked” beast of prey is branded as a murderer, although the fox’s hunting is quite as legitimate and a great deal more necessary to his existence than is that of the gamekeeper, yet nobody regards the latter’s “bag” as his prey, and only one author, whose own standards were indicted by the severest moral criticism, has dared to dub the fox-hunter “the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable”! In their dealing with members of their own species, the beasts and birds of prey are far more restrained than many of the “harmless” vegetarians.
King Solomon's Ring Page 17