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<h3>Chapter Forty Eight.</h3> <h4>The Frigate-Bird.</h4> The frigate-bird (Pelicanus aquila), which had thus become the subject of conversation on board the Catamaran, is in many respects very different from other ocean-birds. Although generally classed with the pelicans, it bears but a very slight resemblance to any species of these misshapen, unwieldy, goose-like creatures. It differs from most other birds frequenting the sea in the fact of its feet being but slightly webbed, and its claws being talons, like those of hawks or eagles. Otherwise, also, does it resemble these last birds,—so much that the sailors, noting the resemblance, indifferently call it “sea-hawk,” “man-of-war hawk,” and “man-of-war eagle.” The last appellation, however, is sometimes given to the great wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans). The male frigate-bird is jet black all over the body; having a red bill, very long, vertically flattened, and with the mandibles abruptly hooked downwards at the point. The female differs in colour: being sooty black above, and having a large white disc on the abdomen. The legs are short in proportion to the bulk of the bird; the toes, as already stated, being furnished with talons,—the middle one scaly, and notched underneath; while the legs are feathered to the feet, showing another point of affinity with predatory birds of the land. Still another may be pointed out: in the innermost toe or pollex, being turned outwards, as if intended for perching,—which the frigate-bird actually does when it visits the shore, often making its nest upon trees, and roosting among the branches. In fact, this creature may be regarded as a sort of connecting link between the birds of prey who make their home on the dry land, and the web-footed birds that equally lead a predatory life upon the sea. Perhaps it continues the chain begun by the ospreys and sea-eagles, who take most of their food out of the water, but do not stray far from the shore in search of it. The frigate-bird, a true sea-hawk,—sea-eagle, it may be called, since its bold, noble qualities entitle it to the name,—makes its excursions so far from the shore that it is not unfrequently seen in the very middle of the Atlantic. Now, this is the most curious circumstance in its history, and one that has hitherto perplexed ornithologists. Since its feet are not provided with the “web,” it cannot swim a stroke; nor has it ever been seen to alight on the water for the purpose of taking rest. It is not likely that it can settle on the wave,—the conformation of its feet and body making this an impossibility. How, then, does it find rest for its tired wings? This is the question to which an answer is not easily given. There is a belief, as Ben alleged, that it returns every night to roost upon the land; but when it is considered that to reach its roost would often require a flight of a thousand miles,—to say nothing of the return journey to its fishing-ground,—the statement at once loses all vrai-semblance, Many sailors say that it goes to sleep suspended aloft in the air, and so high up as to be sometimes invisible. This was the belief of Snowball. Now, this belief, or conjecture, or whatever you may—term it, on the part of Jack tar, though sneered at as impossible, and even scoffed at as ridiculous, may, after all, not be so very far beyond the truth. Jack has told some rare tales in his time,—“yarns” that appear to be “spun” out of his fancy, quite as much as this one,—which, after having run the gauntlet of philosophic ridicule on the part of closet naturalists, have in the long run turned out to be true! Has not his story of the “King of the Cannibal Islands,”—Hokee-pokee-winkee-wum, with his fifty wives as black as “sut,” and all his belongings, just as Jack described them,—actually “turned up” in reality, in the person of Thakombau and a long line of similar monsters inhabiting the Fiji Islands? Why, then, may not his statements, about the frigate-bird going to sleep upon the wing be a correct conjecture, or observation, instead of a “sailor’s yarn,”—as sage and conceited, but often mistaken, professors of “physical science” would have us regard it? Such professors as are at this moment, in almost every newspaper in the country,—scientific journals among the number,—abusing and ridiculing the poor farmer for destroying the birds that destroy his grain; and telling him, if he were to let the birds alone, they would eat the insects that commit far greater devastation on his precious cerealia! Conceited theorists! it has never occurred to them, that the victims of the farmer’s fowling-piece—the birds that eat corn—would not touch an insect if they were starving! The farmer does not make war on the insect-eating birds. Rarely, or never, does he expend powder and shot on the swallow, the wagtail, the tomtit, the starling, the thrush, the blackbird, the wren, the robin, or any of the grub and fly-feeders. His “game” are the buntings and Fringillidae,—the larks, linnets, finches, barley-birds, yellowhammers, and house sparrows, that form the great flocks afflicting him both in seed-time and harvest; and none of which (excepting, perhaps, the last-mentioned gentry, who are at times slightly inclined towards a wormy diet) would touch an insect, even with the tips of their bills. Ha! ye scribblers of closet conceits! you have been sneering at “Chaw-bacon” long enough. He may turn and scoff at you; for, in very truth, the boot (of ignorance) is upon the other leg! Let us make sure then, lest Jack’s theory regarding the lumbers of the sea-hawk be not mythical in the mirror of our own incredulity. That the bird can take rest in the air is perfectly certain. It may be seen—as the crew of the Catamaran saw it—suspended on outspread wing, without any perceptible motion except in its tail; the long, forked feathers of which could be observed opening and closing at intervals; according to the sailor’s simile, like the blades of a pair of scissors. But this motion might be merely muscular, and compatible with a state of slumber or unconscious repose. At all events, the bird has been seen to keep its place in the air for many minutes at a time, with no other motion observable than that of the long and gracefully-forking feathers of its tail. A fish sleeps suspended in the water without any apparent effort. Why not certain birds in the air, whose body is many times lighter than that of a fish, and whose skeleton is constructed with air vessels to buoy them up into the azure fields of the sky? The sea-hawk may seldom require what is ordinarily termed rest. Its smooth, graceful flight upon wings, which, though slender, are of immense length,—often often feet spread,—shows that it is, perhaps, as much at ease in the air as if perched upon the bough of a tree; and it is certain that its claws never clasp branch, nor do its feet find rest on any other object, for weeks and months together. It is true that while fishing near the shore it usually retires to roost at night; but afar over the ocean it keeps all night upon the wing. It does not, like many other ocean-birds,—as the booby, one of its own genus,—seek rest upon the spars of ships, though it often hovers above the mastheads of sailing vessels, as if taking delight in this situation, and not unfrequently seizes in its beak, and tearing away the pieces of coloured cloth fixed upon the vane. A curious anecdote is told of a frigate-bird taken while thus occupied,—its captor being a man who had swarmed up to the masthead and seized it in his hand. As this individual chanced to be a landsman, serving temporarily on board the ship, and being remarkably tall and slender, the crew of the vessel would never have it otherwise, than that the bird, accustomed only to the figure of a sailor, had mistaken its captor for a spare spar, and thus fallen a victim to its want of discernment! Strictly speaking, the frigate-bird does not fish, like other predatory birds of the ocean. As it cannot either dive or swim, of course it cannot take fish out of the water. How, then, does it exist? Where finds it the food necessary to sustain existence? In a word, it captures its prey in the air; and this commonly consists in the various species of flying-fish, and also the loligo, or “flying squids.” When these are forced out of their own proper element to seek safety in the air, the frigate-bird, ready to pounce down from aloft, clutches them before they can get back into the equally unsafe element out of which they have sprung. Besides the flying-fish, it preys upon those that have the habit of leaping above the surface, and also others that have been already captured by boobies, terns, gulls, and tropic birds, all of which can both swim and dive. These the frigate-bird remorselessly robs of their legitimate prize,—first compelling them to relinquish it in the air, and then adroitly seizing it before it gets back to the water. The storm is the season of plenty to this singular bird of prey; as then it can capture many kinds of fish upon the surface of the waves. It is during those times when the sea is tranquil or perfectly calm, that it resorts to the other method,—of forcing the fishing-birds to yield up their prey, often even to disgorge, after having swallowed it! Its wondrous powers of flight not only enable it to seize with certainty the morsel thus rejected, but so confident is it of its ability in the performance of this feat, that, if a fish chance to be awkwardly caught in its beak, it will fearlessly fling it into the air, and, darting after, grasp it again and again, until it gets the mouthful in a convenient position for being gulped down its own greedy throat. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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