A Strange Bird.
Notlong since, a man in Connecticut shot an eagle of the largest kind. The creature fell to the ground, and being only wounded, the man carried him home, alive.
He now gave him to another man, who took good care of the wounded bird, and pretty soon he got quite well. The eagle became attached to the place where he was thus taken care of, and though he was permitted to go at large, and often flew away to a considerable distance, he would always come back again.
He used to take his station in the door-yard, in front of the house: if any well-dressed person came through this yard, to the house, the eagle would sit still and make no objections; but if a ragged person came into the yard, he would fly at him, seize his clothes with one claw, and hold on to the grass with the other, and thus make him a prisoner.
Often was the proprietor of the house called upon to release persons that had been thus seized by the eagle. It is a curious fact that the bird never attackedragged people going to the house the back way: it was only when they attempted to enter through the front door, that he assailed them. What renders this story very curious is, that the bird had never been trained to act in this manner.
This eagle had some other curious habits. He did not go out every day to get a breakfast, dinner and supper: his custom was, about once a week, to make a hearty meal, and that was sufficient for six days. His most common food was the king-bird, of which he would sometimes catch ten in the course of a few hours—and these would suffice for his weekly repast.
This bird at last made such havoc with the poultry of the neighbors, that the proprietor was obliged to kill him.
It seems that the aversion of this eagle to ragged people, was not altogether singular; for a person who writes to the editor of the New York American, says that he once knew a Baltimore Oriole, that would always manifest the greatest anger if a shabby person came into the room. This bird also disliked colored people, and if he could get at them, he would fly in their faces, and peck at them very spitefully—while he did no such thing to white people.
The following letter has been some time in hand. Will our little friend, the writer, forgive us for not inserting it sooner? Our correspondents must remember that we have many things to attend to, and if some of their favors seem to be overlooked, we hope they will not scold.
My dear Mr. Merry:I have been long wanting to write to you, so many of your subscribers have been writing to you. I could not write to you sooner, because I did not know my letter would go by the mail.Many of the stories in the Museum are quite interesting. I have often tried to read your history of your own life, through. I should have begun when your Museum first came out, but it happened that I did not. “Philip Brusque” I began too, but, as my brother was going up the river in a steamboat, he wanted to take the number, so that I had to leave off reading it.In your number before the last I liked the “Two Friends.” Many of the children like “The Siberian Sable-hunter,” but I do not fancy it much, as there are so many hard names in it.I am one of your little black-eyed subscribers: my brother Benjamin is one of your blue-eyed subscribers. He does not read as many of your Museums as I do, for he is away from home a great part of the time, and when he gets home he hardly ever thinks of reading them. I am always glad when I hear that your Museum is come, and yet, the last time, they kept it from me for a day and a night. Was not that very hard?My little sister, Lydia, is yet too young to read, and does not even know her A, B, C; but I know them well enough. I like your plain, simple stories best. I believe my brother likes the ones that are not simple. In your number, a great while ago, is a song by the name of “Jack Frost,” which I like very much, and many other pieces of your poetry. “Discontented Betty” I like too. I have been hurrying off with my lessons, so that I could write to you; but, pray, do not think that I write this myself, for I do not even know how to make a letter. My sister writes for me.I am in constant fear that we shall have to give up your Museum, but I hope we shall not. I thought that I would have to send my letter by the man that brought the Museum, but my father told me that I need not, but that I should send it by the mail. I hope your Museum will not end very soon, but will keep on a long while. I have found out three of your names, Parley, Merry and Goodrich. I want to see you very much. My sister Mary is collecting autographs, and has got one of yours, which I think to be quite a decent hand for such an old man. I hope this letter will reach you safely. I wonder if the one my brother William wrote to you, a long time ago, ever reached you.I have read some of your other books, as we have got some others. I consider myself a very poor reader, if others do not. I had a beautiful book given to me on New Year’s day, by the name of “Flower People.” But I cannot think of anything more to say, and so, Mr. Merry, good-bye.E. O. B.P.S. I have thought of one other thing to say, Mr. Merry, and it is that I wish you would answer this letter.
My dear Mr. Merry:
I have been long wanting to write to you, so many of your subscribers have been writing to you. I could not write to you sooner, because I did not know my letter would go by the mail.
Many of the stories in the Museum are quite interesting. I have often tried to read your history of your own life, through. I should have begun when your Museum first came out, but it happened that I did not. “Philip Brusque” I began too, but, as my brother was going up the river in a steamboat, he wanted to take the number, so that I had to leave off reading it.
In your number before the last I liked the “Two Friends.” Many of the children like “The Siberian Sable-hunter,” but I do not fancy it much, as there are so many hard names in it.
I am one of your little black-eyed subscribers: my brother Benjamin is one of your blue-eyed subscribers. He does not read as many of your Museums as I do, for he is away from home a great part of the time, and when he gets home he hardly ever thinks of reading them. I am always glad when I hear that your Museum is come, and yet, the last time, they kept it from me for a day and a night. Was not that very hard?
My little sister, Lydia, is yet too young to read, and does not even know her A, B, C; but I know them well enough. I like your plain, simple stories best. I believe my brother likes the ones that are not simple. In your number, a great while ago, is a song by the name of “Jack Frost,” which I like very much, and many other pieces of your poetry. “Discontented Betty” I like too. I have been hurrying off with my lessons, so that I could write to you; but, pray, do not think that I write this myself, for I do not even know how to make a letter. My sister writes for me.
I am in constant fear that we shall have to give up your Museum, but I hope we shall not. I thought that I would have to send my letter by the man that brought the Museum, but my father told me that I need not, but that I should send it by the mail. I hope your Museum will not end very soon, but will keep on a long while. I have found out three of your names, Parley, Merry and Goodrich. I want to see you very much. My sister Mary is collecting autographs, and has got one of yours, which I think to be quite a decent hand for such an old man. I hope this letter will reach you safely. I wonder if the one my brother William wrote to you, a long time ago, ever reached you.
I have read some of your other books, as we have got some others. I consider myself a very poor reader, if others do not. I had a beautiful book given to me on New Year’s day, by the name of “Flower People.” But I cannot think of anything more to say, and so, Mr. Merry, good-bye.
E. O. B.
P.S. I have thought of one other thing to say, Mr. Merry, and it is that I wish you would answer this letter.