Aldous Huxley and the Birds
It was the goldfinches that did it—brought Brave New World to mind, that is.
Goodness knows it had been long enough since I read it, somewhere in my teen
years, but as I watched the goldfinches’ antics that afternoon, Aldous Huxley’s
masterpiece came flooding back. You see, it rapidly became apparent to me that
there is a wide variation among goldfinch IQs, as revealed by their efforts to
get seed from their new feeder.
The ingenuity of this feeder lies in its construction: a
clear plastic cylinder full of thistle seeds, with dowels inserted at intervals
for perches. The trick is that the feeding holes are cunningly positioned beneath the perches, thus requiring the
birds to hang upside down if they want to get at the good stuff. (This also
keeps the less acrobatic common house finches at bay.) It had never occurred to
me that goldfinches are not created equal (to be perfectly honest, I’d never
given the matter much thought), but as I watched their efforts, I found my thoughts
returning again and again to Huxley’s dystopia and its rigid caste system.
Alpha birds cottoned on straight away, inverted themselves
and started feeding with enormous gusto—so much so that, in a vivid
demonstration of trickle-down economics, showers of seeds cascaded to the
ground beneath. (Note to self: purchase donkey to eat volunteer thistle plants
next spring.)
Betas lacked the executive initiative of the Alphas, but
learned by watching and soon were imitating them successfully.
Gammas were by far the most entertaining: they swung round
in a complete circle, grabbing a seed as they zoomed past the hole. Sometimes
the speed of a revolution would fling them completely out of their orbit, and
they would flutter back to their perch with an indignant flurry of wings.
Deltas were a mixed bunch: some sat upright on the perch,
tapping disconsolately at the seeds they could see but never reach, while
others perched atop the hummingbird feeder and simply looked puzzled. They
could tell there was food in there, but it was strange food, not a bit like
thistles, not at all, at all …
Meanwhile, the Epsilons hopped around beneath the feeder;
every now and then, as if by magic, a small flurry of seeds fell from above—in
many ways, they did better than their brainier counterparts perched on high. I
would have ranked them higher had it not been for Pyga, the cat. Any avian plan
for life that does not take the cat
into consideration is, unfortunately, doomed to failure.
The tremendous range of goldfinch IQ shocked me; as my
mother might have said, slipping into her native Scots brogue, “fa wid hae thocht it?” (whoever would
have thought it?). And yet, none of them is any more a goldfinch than another, and all are equally beautiful, give
or take a few ruffled feathers. Given equal opportunity, some outperform
others—just like humans.
But whatever their performance, whether Alpha, Gamma or
Epsilon semi-moron, every one of those finches is beautiful; every one is
necessary; every one is valuable.
Just like humans.
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