Leblond’s Birds

Today we celebrate the 200th anniversary of the death of one of the real characters in French natural history, Jean-Baptiste Leblond, a physician, utopian politician, and the most restless of explorers.

Starting at the age of 19, in 1766, Leblond spent nearly 20 years walking the South American continent, from Grenada to Peru. On his return to France in 1785, he brought with him 250 pounds — pounds! — of platinum, along with a rich collection of natural history specimens.

No rest for the weary, though, and shortly thereafter he was ordered back to Cayenne, in search of new sources of quinine.

After all the effort, exhaustion, and suffering devoted to acquiring his collections, M. Leblond has made the exceedingly generous sacrifice of donating the specimens to the Paris Society of Natural History and certain of its members.

White-necked Jacobin
Among the donated objects were 111 South American birds, listed in the Actes of the Society for 1792. Most are identified with their Linnaean names and a citation to Buffon or Brisson, but not a few are brought down only to the genus level, with a brief description in hopes that someone someday might recognize them.

I don’t know where those specimens are now, or how many of them were eventually identified. It’s not easy, but if you want to try your hand at it, let us know how you do.

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The Recalcitrant Woodpecker

Green Woodpecker Bulgaria 2007 June

The number of “rainbirds” around the world is legion. Rarely, though, is the explanation of the behavior as detailed as in this legend from southwestern France:

When the good Lord was creating the oceans, the rivers, and the springs, he asked the birds of the skies to help with the digging. They all set to work except for the green woodpecker, which mutinied and refused to budge. Once the task had been completed by the other birds, the good Lord took care to announce that the green woodpecker, having refused to help dig in the soil with his bill, would have to dig in wood to all eternity, and that not having contributed to excavating all of the earth’s bodies of water, the woodpecker would never drink any water but rain, which it would have to catch as it fell. And this is why the miserable bird never ceases to summon the clouds with its call, pluie-pluie, and why it always perches vertically, so that it can open its bill like a funnel to collect the raindrops that fall from the clouds.

Now you know. And you can test the theory with me this coming spring on either of my Birds and Art Tours to France.

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Other People’s Bird Books: B.H. Swales

There’s a name familiar to Michigan ornithologists and birders: Bradshaw Hall Swales. On his premature death in 1928, Swales left some 2000 skins and his entire library to his alma mater michiganensis, which in gratitude renamed its ornithological holdings as the Swales Memorial Library.

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His widow, Mary Rhoda Medbury Swales, later endowed a graduate scholarship in ornithology in Ann Arbor, one still awarded today in her name — though the annual announcement barely mentions her otherwise, treating her as the wife of a famous dead man instead.

Some of Swales’s bird books were marked with just a simple stamp:

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Others, though, still carry his bookplate, as delightful a specimen of the genre as can be imagined.

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I assume the choice of a marsh bird was a pun on Swales’s name; note that both the heron and the book’s owner are wearing the same spectacles.

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One thing still puzzles me, though. Why does the bird of the swales perch on “Ornithologie”? The fact that the word on the spine is not in English suggests that it denotes not a discipline but a title, that the heron is standing on a specific book from Swales’s collection.

Any ideas?

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