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Updated: June 22, 2025
The recent English writer Richard Kearton says there is "no such dead level of unreasoning instinct" in the animal world as is popularly supposed, and he seems to base the remark upon the fact that he found certain of the cavities or holes in a hay-rick where sparrows roosted lined with feathers, while others were not lined.
Kearton somewhere relates how he once induced a blackbird to sit on the eggs of a thrush, and a lapwing on those of a redshank. So, too, farmyard hens will hatch the eggs of ducks or game birds and wild birds can even be persuaded to sit on eggs made of painted wood.
Then we crossed a small, level park that formed the crest of the first hill, and as we moved down the western slope the view behind us disappeared and the new country spread before us. Kearton was riding with his head sunk on his chest like a sick man. Gobbet asked if anything was wrong with him. "Nothing bad; too much heat this morning, likely." "Want to hunt a bit of shade and lie up awhile?
Kearton relates how he has frequently fooled sitting birds with wooden eggs. He put his counterfeits, painted and marked like the originals, into the nests of the song thrush, the blackbird, and the grasshopper warbler, and in no case was the imposition detected.
Then from behind her Means darted forward on the run, swinging his rope free round and round his head. Kearton began shouting. "Wait the camera's jammed! Wait a bit she's jammed here!" But there was no stopping then, and before the lioness knew what he was up to, Means dashed by within a few feet of her and roped her round the neck.
Gobbet was sent back to hurry forward the four special porters with the cameras, and when these finally arrived upon the scene, their faces covered with dust and sweat, the horsemen had dwindled to dots only a little larger than the hogs themselves. Kearton placed the cameras a few yards apart, and there we waited, watching the distant specks.
The cameras were stationed about a mile to the southeast, partly concealed by the bole of a tree, and the bunch of eland were skillfully rounded up and a good specimen was singled out. Everything was working to perfection. The three horsemen drove the eland toward the cameras not directly at them, but a little to one side, at an angle, as Kearton wanted it done.
Nearer and nearer they came, with the dust cloud swirling behind them. Gobbet began turning the handle of his camera, and the whir of the machine sounded loud in the stillness. One or two of the porters jumped to their feet and pointed. Kearton waited. "I hope they won't come straight into the lens," he said. "If they do, it won't make a good picture. They ought to come at an angle.
Kearton had just told Gobbet to quit his lying, when all three of us realized that for the last half minute we had been unconsciously listening to the beat of a galloping horse on the road behind. The next instant Ulyate pulled up in a cloud of dust. "Colonel wants you," he said. "They've rounded up a giraffe." We wheeled the horses and started back on the run. "About three miles!
The rhino charged once just before the knot was tied, and Loveless had to jump into the branches through the thorns to escape. He charged again, rather feebly this time, trying to get free, but the rope held well and tripped him up. After that he stood quietly at the end of his tether, watching the camera in a sullen way while Kearton took his picture with the last few feet of film.
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