Eight Years' Wanderings in Ceylon by Sir Samuel White Baker (e textbook reader .TXT) 📖

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A very beautiful species of bald-pated coot, called by the natives keetoolle, is also an inhabitant of the lakes. This bird is of a bright blue color with a brilliant pink horny head. He is a slow flyer, being as bulky as a common fowl and short in his proportion of wing.

It is impossible to convey a correct idea of the number and variety of birds in these localities, and I will not trouble the reader by a description which would be very laborious to all parties; but to those who delight in ornithological studies there is a wild field which would doubtless supply many new specimens.

I know nothing more interesting than the acquaintance with all the wild denizens of mountain and plain, lake and river. There is always something fresh to learn, something new to admire, in the boundless works of creation. There is a charm in every sound in Nature where the voice of man is seldom heard to disturb her works. Every note gladdens the ear in the stillness of solitude, when night has overshadowed the earth, and all sleep but the wild animals of the forest. Then I have often risen from my bed, when the tortures of mosquitoes have banished all ideas of rest, and have silently wandered from the tent to listen in the solemn quiet of night.

I have seen the tired coolies stretched round the smouldering fires sound asleep after their day's march, wrapped in their white clothes, like so many corpses laid upon the ground. The flickering logs on the great pile of embers crackling and sinking as they consume; now falling suddenly and throwing up a shower of sparks, then resting again in a dull red heat, casting a silvery moonlike glare upon the foliage of the spreading trees above. A little farther on, and the horses standing sleepily at their tethers, their heads drooping in a doze. Beyond them, and all is darkness and wilderness. No human dwelling or being beyond the little encampment I have quitted; the dark lake reflecting the stars like a mirror, and the thin crescent moon giving a pale and indistinct glare which just makes night visible.

It is a lovely hour then to wander forth and wait for wild sounds. All is still except the tiny hum of the mosquitoes. Then the low chuckling note of the night hawk sounds soft and melancholy in the distance; and again all is still, save the heavy and impatient stamp of a horse as the mosquitoes irritate him by their bites. Quiet again for a few seconds, when presently the loud alarm of the plover rings over the plain--"Did he do it?"--the bird's harsh cry speaks these words as plainly as a human being. This alarm is a certain warning that some beast is stalking abroad which has disturbed it from its roost, but presciently it is again hushed.

The loud hoarse bark of an elk now unexpectedly startles the ear; presently it is replied to by another, and once more the plover shrieks "Did he do it?" and a peacock waking on his roost gives one loud scream and sleeps again.

The heavy and regular splashing of water now marks the measured tread of a single elephant as he roars out into the cooled lake, and you can hear the more gentle falling of water as he spouts a shower over his body. Hark at the deep guttural sigh of pleasure that travels over the lake like a moan of the wind!--what giant lungs to heave such a breath; but hark again! There was a fine trumpet! as clear as any bugle note blown by a hundred breaths it rung through the still air. How beautiful! There, the note is answered; not by so fine a tone, but by discordant screams and roars from the opposite side, and the louder splashing tells that the herd is closing up to the old bull. Like distant thunder a deep roar growls across the lake as the old monarch mutters to himself in angry impatience.

Then the long, tremulous hoot of the owl disturbs the night, mingled with the harsh cries of flights of waterfowl, which doubtless the elephants have disturbed while bathing.

Once more all sounds sink to rest for a few minutes, until the low, grating roar of a leopard nearer home warns the horses of their danger and wakes up the sleeping horsekeeper, who piles fresh wood upon the fires, and the bright blaze shoots up among the trees and throws a dull, ruddy glow across the surface of the water. And morning comes at length, ushered in, before night has yet departed, by the strong, shrill cry of the great fish-eagle, as he sits on the topmost bough of some forest tree and at measured periods repeats his quivering and unearthly yell like an evil spirit calling. But hark at that dull, low note of indescribable pain and suffering! long and heavy it swells and dies away. It is the devil-bird; and whoever sees that bird must surely die soon after, according to Cingalese superstition.

A more cheering sound charms the ear as the gray tint of morning makes the stars grow pale; clear, rich, notes, now prolonged and full, now plaintive and low, set the example to other singing birds, as the bulbul, first to awake, proclaims the morning. Wild, jungle-like songs the birds indulge in; not like our steady thrushes of Old England, but charming in their quaintness. The jungle partridge now wakes up, and with his loud cry subdues all other sounds, until the numerous peacocks, perched on the high trees around the lake, commence their discordant yells, which master everything.

The name for the devil-bird is "gualama," and so impressed are the natives with the belief that a sight of it is equivalent to a call to the nether world that they frequently die from sheer fright and nervousness. A case of this happened to a servant of a friend of mine. He chanced to see the creature sitting on a bough, and he was from that moment so satisfied of his inevitable fate that he refused all food, and fretted and died, as, of course, any one else must do, if starved, whether he saw the devil-bird or not.

Although I have heard the curious, mournful cry of this creature nearly every night, I have never seen one; this is easily accounted for, as, being a night-bird, it remains concealed in the jungle during the day. In so densely wooded a country as Ceylon it is not to be wondered at that owls, and all other birds of similar habit are so rarely met with. Even woodcocks are rarely noticed; so seldom, indeed, that I have never seen more than two during my residence in the island.

From the same cause many interesting animals pass unobserved, although they are very numerous. The porcupine, although as common as the hedge-hog in England, is very seldom seen. Likewise the manis, or great scaled ant-eater, who retires to his hole before break of day, is never met with by daylight. Indeed, I have had some trouble in persuading many persons in Ceylon that such an animal exists in the country.

In the same manner the larger kinds of serpents conceal themselves by day and wander forth at night, like all other reptiles except the smaller species of lizard, of which we have in Ceylon an immense variety, from the crocodile himself down to the little house-lizard.

Of this tribe the "cabra goya" and the "iguana" grow to a large size; the former I have killed as long as eight or nine feet, but the latter seldom exceeds four. I have often intended to eat one, as the natives consider them a great delicacy, but I have never been quite hungry enough to make the trial whenever one was at hand. The "cabra goya" is a horrid brute, and is not considered eatable even by the Cingalese.

One curious species of lizard exists in Ceylon; it is little brown species with a peculiarly rough skin and a serrated spine. A long horn projects from the snout, and it is a fac-simile in miniature of the antediluvian monster, the "iguanodon," who was about a hundred feet long and twelve feet thick--an awkward creature to meet in a narrow road. However, the crocodiles of modern times are awkward enough for the present day, and sometimes grow to the immense length of twenty two feet.

It has frequently surprised me that they do not upset the small canoes in which the natives paddle about the lakes and rivers. These are formed in the simplest manner, of very rude materials, by hollowing out a small log of wood and attaching an outrigger. Some of these are so small that the gunwale is close to the water's edge when containing only one person.

Even the large sea-canoes are constructed on a similar principle; but they are really very wonderful boats for both speed and safety.

A simple log of about thirty feet in length is hollowed out. This is tapered off at either end, so as to form a kind of prow. The cylindrical shape of the log is preserved as much as possible in the process of hollowing, so that no more than a section of one fourth of the circle is pared away upon the upper side.

Upon the edges of this aperture the top sides of the canoe are formed by simple planks, which are merely sewn upon the main body of the log parallel to each other, and slightly inclining outward, so as to admit the legs of persons sitting on the canoe.

A vessel of this kind would of course capsize immediately, as the top weight of the upper works would overturn the flute-like body upon which they rested. This is prevented by an outrigger, which is formed of elastic rods of tough wood, which, being firmly bound together, project at right angles from the upper works. At the extremity of these two rods, there is a tapering log of light wood, which very much resembles the bottom log of the canoe in miniature. This, floating on the water, balances the canoe in an upright position; it cannot be upset until some force is exerted upon the mast of the canoe which is either sufficient to lift the outrigger out of the water, or on the other hand to sink it altogether; either accident being prevented by the great leverage required. Thus, when a heavy breeze sends the little vessel flying like a swallow over the waves, and the outrigger to windward shows symptoms of lifting, a man rims out upon the connecting rod, and, squatting upon the outrigger, adds his weight to the leverage. Two long bamboos, spreading like a letter V from the bottom of the canoe, form the masts, and support a single square sail, which is immensely large in proportion to the size and weight of the vessel.

The motion of these canoes under a stiff breeze is most delightful; there is a total absence of rolling, which is prevented by the outrigger, and the steadiness of their course under a press of sail is very remarkable. I have been in these boats in a considerable surf, which they fly through like a fish; and if the beach is sandy and the inclination favorable, their own impetus will carry them high and dry.

Sewing the portions of a boat together appears ill adapted to purposes of strength; but all the Cingalese vessels are constructed upon this principle: the two edges of the planks being