Is there a human language without birdsong in it? Right or wrong, we think of speech as having evolved from song, and birds sang before we did. Their existence preceded ours, and their calls range more widely than that of any other animal: from the air, from the ground, over bodies of water, they seem to communicate not only with one another but with and from something originary—like the elements themselves. In fact, birds did evolve their calls and songs by echoing the sounds of their environment, turning the ambient into the meaningful and then mimicking one another doing it. As with humans, specific environments promote dialects. Migratory birds amalgamate “a world-music mix” into their repertoire in their flights across continents. Urban dwellers, to overcome the habitual clamor, have shorter, faster and higher-frequency songs than their country cousins. Species that live in trees have a richer vocabulary than species that live in the open. Aquatic birds make the least complex calls.
No wonder that, from the medieval Sufi poem “The Conference of the Birds” to the English nursery rhyme “Cock Robin” to the birds of the caucus-race in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, our mythologies have paired birds and discourse. We’ve put our arguments in the mouths of birds, and we’ve tried, like John Keats and Walt Whitman, to imagine the songs they would sing if they were human. On the simplest level, as naturalists, we’ve tried to hear them as they really are. In Iris Murdoch’s The Good Apprentice, one character tells another that the female owl calls gewick, gewick, while the male calls ooo-ooo. I have had an ear out for gewick, gewick ever since. Most recently I sought it in the glossary of John Bevis’s aaaaw to zzzzzd: The Words of Birds (MIT; $12.95). Still no luck. But then I found it—transcribed as kee-wick, attributed to the tawny owl, in the “Lexicon for Great Britain and Northern Europe.” Someone hears a g, and another hears a k; this is typical, according to this English writer and author, for in the hundreds of years that we have been transcribing bird words into English, we have not arrived at any consensus. Bevis sets out to change that—or at least, to ask if it’s possible (or desirable) to force consensus.
aaaaw to zzzzzd is a miraculous little book: a compressed encyclopedia of our fascination with avifauna. But at its crux is the notion that we can’t quite get a handle on sound—that perhaps birds’ vocalizations and our ears are incommensurable, just as their syrinx and our larynx are different organs. This incommensurability has driven us to heights of ingenuity, and perhaps depths of dementedness. We’ve invented bird whistles with bladders and bellows, twisting keys and slides; we’ve invented flageolets and serinettes for ladies to teach their pet birds human compositions; we’ve outfitted clocks and boxes with songbird automata. In 1910 the German birder Karl Reich first transmitted a birdsong by gramophone; he later perfected his technique by running cables from an electrical microphone in the field to a recording plant about a mile away.
But what does birdsong sound like when transcribed into human speech? Those besotted with the subject have left us a legacy of “a glorious vocabulary of thousands of unique words,” according to Bevis: “a muddled, contentious, and inconsistent vocabulary, the harvest of the jottings of different naturalists in different places, who hear differently and record differently, whose variation is boundless and consensus occasional.” He goes on to compare our transcriptions of birdsong to spelling in Elizabethan times, before the first English-language dictionaries.