Known in our
neighbourhood as the water-courses were not large enough for it, but
that it could be seen in flocks at a lake less than a day's journey
from our home.
It was not for several years that I had an opportunity of seeing the
bird again; later I have seen it scores and hundreds of times, at rest
or flying, at all times of the day and in all states of the
atmosphere, in all its most beautiful aspects, as when at sunset or in
the early morning it stands motionless in the still water with its
clear image reflected below; or when seen flying in flocks - seen from
some high bank beneath one - moving low over the blue water in a long
crimson line or half moon, the birds at equal distances apart, their
wing-tips all but touching; but the delight in these spectacles has
never equalled in degree that which I experienced on this occasion
when I was six years old.
The next little bird adventure to be told exhibits me more in the
character of an innocent and exceedingly credulous baby of three than
of a field naturalist of six with a considerable experience of wild
birds.
One spring day an immense number of doves appeared and settled in the
plantation. It was a species common in the country and bred in our
trees, and in fact in every grove or orchard in the land - a pretty
dove-coloured bird with a pretty sorrowful song, about a third less in
size than the domestic pigeon, and belongs to the American genus
_Zenaida._ This dove was a resident with us all the year round, but
occasionally in spring and autumn they were to be seen travelling
in immense flocks, and these were evidently strangers in the land and
came from some sub-tropical country in the north where they had no
fear of the human form. At all events, on going out into the
plantation I found them all about on the ground, diligently searching
for seeds, and so tame and heedless of my presence that I actually
attempted to capture them with my hands. But they wouldn't be caught:
the bird when I stooped and put out my hands slipped away, and flying
a yard or two would settle down in front of me and go on looking for
and picking up invisible seeds.
My attempts failing I rushed back to the house, wildly excited, to
look for an old gentleman who lived with us and took an interest in me
and my passion for birds, and finding him I told him the whole place
was swarming with doves and they were perfectly tame but wouldn't let
me catch them - could he tell me how to catch them? He laughed and said
I must be a little fool not to know how to catch a bird. The only way
was to put salt on their tails. There would be no difficulty in doing
that, I thought, and how delighted I was to know that birds could be
caught so easily! Off I ran to the salt-barrel and filled my pockets
and hands with coarse salt used to make brine in which to dip the
hides; for I wanted to catch a great many doves - armfuls of doves.
In a few minutes I was out again in the plantation, with doves in
hundreds moving over the ground all about me and taking no notice of
me. It was a joyful and exciting moment when I started operations, but
I soon found that when I tossed a handful of salt at the bird's tail
it never fell on its tail - it fell on the ground two or three or four
inches short of the tail. If, I thought, the bird would only keep
still a moment longer! But then it wouldn't, and I think I spent quite
two hours in these vain attempts to make the salt fall on the right
place. At last I went back to my mentor to confess that I had failed
and to ask for fresh instructions, but all he would say was that I was
on the right track, that the plan I had adopted was the proper one,
and all that was wanted was a little more practice to enable me to
drop the salt on the right spot. Thus encouraged I filled my pockets
again and started afresh, and then finding that by following the
proper plan I made no progress I adopted a new one, which was to take
a handful of salt and hurl it at the bird's tail. Still I couldn't
touch the tail; my violent action only frightened the bird and caused
it to fly away, a dozen yards or so, before dropping down again to
resume its seed-searching business.
By-and-by I was told by somebody that birds could not be caught by
putting salt on their tails; that I was being made a fool of, and this
was a great shock to me, since I had been taught to believe that it
was wicked to tell a lie. Now for the first time I discovered that
there were lies and lies, or untruths that were not lies, which one
could tell innocently although they were invented and deliberately
told to deceive. This angered me at first, and I wanted to know how I
was to distinguish between real lies and lies that were not lies, and
the only answer I got was that I could distinguish. them by not being
a fool!
In the next adventure to be told we pass from the love (or tameness)
of the turtle to the rage of the vulture. It may be remarked in
passing that the vernacular name of the dove I have described is
_Torcasa,_ which I take it is a corruption of Tortola, the name first
given to it by the early colonists on account of its slight
resemblance to the turtle-dove of Europe.
