Birds of the Plains — Story, Setting & Ideas

A Self-Aware Naturalist’s Voice

Dewar’s narrative voice is distinctive for its blend of scientific curiosity and wry self-awareness. In the preface, he admits that writing a book is easy—selling it is the challenge. He then defends his previous title Bombay Ducks against critics, playfully suggesting that reviewers might reverse their adjectives for this new work. This meta-commentary recurs throughout: when describing the oriole’s harsh call, he speculates that a placid bird “may have been indulging in unpleasant day dreams; who knows?” Such asides humanize the observer without undermining the factual content.

Dewar frequently addresses the reader directly, as when he notes that “naturalists, equally with poets, have neglected this beautiful species.” He positions himself as both a corrective to oversight and a fellow enthusiast, creating an intimate, almost conversational rapport. This voice is consistent across chapters, lending the book a unified personality despite its varied subjects.

Precision in Description and Structure

Dewar’s prose is marked by careful attention to physical detail. Describing the oriole’s nest, he notes that it is “secured to its supporting branches” by fibres “wound first round one branch, then passed under the nest, and finally wound round another bough.” He cites Jerdon’s account of a nest suspended by “a long roll of cloth about three-quarters of an inch wide,” which the bird had pilfered from a verandah. Such specifics ground the text in observable fact.

The structure of each chapter follows a loose pattern: an introduction to the species, a discussion of its habits, and often a personal anecdote. In “The Golden Oriole,” Dewar moves from the bird’s migration patterns to its arboreal habits, then to its diet and vocalizations, before focusing on nest construction. This logical flow, punctuated by his own failed attempts to observe the birds at work, gives the writing a narrative momentum that sustains interest across the book’s many chapters.

Pacing and the Rhythm of Observation

Dewar controls pacing by alternating between broad generalizations and minute observations. He opens the oriole chapter with a sweeping statement: “The oriole is essentially a bird of the greenwood tree.” Then he narrows to a specific image: “Very beautiful does such a bird look, sitting outlined against the sky, as the first rays of the morning sun fall upon and add fresh lustre to its golden plumage.” This rhythm—from general to particular—creates a sense of discovery.

He also varies sentence length to mimic the tempo of fieldwork. Short, declarative sentences (“Orioles feed upon both fruit and insects”) give way to longer, more reflective passages. When describing his own waiting for the oriole to return to its nest, he writes: “I waited for some time, hoping the birds would return and allow me to see them finish the adjustment of these fibres; but unfortunately there was no cover available.” The frustration is palpable, and the pacing slows to match his patient vigil. Such moments make the reader feel the passage of time in the field.

Dewar’s Birds of the Plains rewards readers who appreciate a naturalist’s eye for detail and a writer’s ear for rhythm. The chapters are best read as standalone essays, each offering a self-contained glimpse into the life of an Indian bird. Pay attention to Dewar’s asides—they often reveal as much about the observer as the observed. The book’s conversational tone makes it an ideal companion for a quiet afternoon, inviting you to share in the pleasures of patient watching.

Dewar’s little asides about impatient nestlings make me think of how the same patient watching shaped Arthur Cleveland Bent’s woodpecker notes. There’s a comfort in knowing another naturalist, thousands of miles away, also found his birds’ stubbornness oddly endearing. I sometimes revisit that old copy of Life histories of North American woodpeckers — Story, Setting & Ideas for the same unhurried warmth, and it feels like a shared afternoon.