DEWEY READY FOR HIS BATH
DEWEY READY FOR HIS BATH
It is surprising how few children have seen a bird take a bath, so I often had little visitors come in to see Dewey at his ablutions. One afternoon he wanted a second bath so badly that he went into the dining-room, got into a finger-bowl without any water, and positively would not get out until water had been put in and he had his bath. Just to try him once, I put the bowl on the floor in front of Taffy, but it did not bother Dewey in the least; in he went just the same. There was a bowl of Wandering Jew on the dining-table, and several times he took a bath in the centre of it. It was indeed a beautiful picture, but when I found he was tearing the vine to pieces, I decided it was not so pretty, and I gave Dewey many lectures for it; but he heeded them not, and, if taken away, would walk (for he could walk as well as hop) all over the table on the ends of his toes, and look everywhere but toward the bowl. Then, when no one was looking, he would grab a piece ofthe Wandering Jew and fly with it to the top of a picture. One day he trimmed all the pictures, and there was none left in the bowl, so after that he had to look for new mischief.
The next day he could not be found for a long while, and where do you suppose I at last found him? Sitting in the midst of some huge white chrysanthemums. If he had been sitting there quietly, no harm would have been done, but the imp had been busy every minute, looking for delicious black bugs, and to get them he was obliged to tear out all the petals.
Once he tasted some wine, and liked it so well that whenever any one came in and had some cake and wine, he would fly down on their plate, take a bite of cake, hop up on the wine-glass and take a sip of wine. In the autumn we had some very fine cider, and whenever any one came in, we would offer them some. One day Dewey saw some on the luncheon-table,and, hopping on the edge of the glass, took a taste. One taste did not seem enough for him, however, and he liked it so well that after that I gave him some each day in a whiskey glass. He was a regular little gourmand, and liked all kinds of fresh fruit and preserves, but wine jelly and whipped cream was the best of all.
Sometimes I used to take him down to dinner with me, when I would give him his own little table-cloth, and have a plate for him by my side. He would usually take a little of everything, and chicken and cranberry jelly seemed especially to tickle his palate. Sometimes he did not behave very well, and he would go tiptoeing across the table to my mother’s plate, hop on the edge, and see if she had anything he liked. When dinner was ready to be served, he would often fly over to the sideboard, make holes in all the butter balls, then he would take some mashed potato and boiled onions and putthem to cool in a big hole he had made in an apple.
Few people know that birds are ever sick to their stomachs. Dewey had been in the habit of eating a little shaved hickory-nut, that was put in a half-shell and kept in a dish on the back parlour table. When he came down-stairs, he would usually take a taste, and it seemed to agree with him. For a change one day, I gave him some chestnut, and when I came in the room a little later, I found him huddled up in a corner, trying to go to sleep. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was not well, for he never acted that way in the daytime. I put him back in his cage, and sat down beside him. He would close his eyes and open his bill, and I thought he was dying until all of a sudden he opened his bill very wide, and out came the chestnut in a lump half an inch long and one-quarter wide.
My writing-desk was a favourite placeof his. He would get into the drawers, pigeonholes, and ink, and pictures and all sorts of small things he would throw on the floor. Once he stole several dimes and pennies, and he could lift a silver dollar, and often would carry a coffee-spoon all about the room, so you see he had a very strong bill.
If anything was lost, I always blamed it on Dewey. One day I looked high and low for my thimble. I asked Dewey where it was; he pretended not to hear me, but, as I was going into my dressing-room, he dropped it down on my head from the top of the portière. He would often perch on a basket on top of the bookcase in the writing-room. One day I left a new white veil there, and when I went to look for it, I found Dewey had improved it greatly in his own estimation. There were about ten little holes right in the front of it, some round and some star shaped.
As he grew older, he would not sleepin his cage. For a few nights he insisted on sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the top of the curtain, where I put a piece of soft flannel over some cotton on the ledge and on the wall, so he would not take cold. If it was very cold, he would go behind the frill of the curtain out of every one’s sight, but, if it was warm, he would turn around so his tail would hang over the outside. When I would come in in the evening, he would open his eyes and nod to me, and, if not too sleepy, would come down and sit on my hand. He would never chirp or peep, and when he hid and heard me call, “Dewey, Dewey,” he would not answer, but would fly down on my head, shoulder, or hand.
Taffy often would get very angry with him, and sometimes I know he felt like killing him. Dewey would wake up early in the morning, and take his exercise by flying back and forth from apicture on one side of the room to the head of the bed. When Taffy was on the foot of it, he would fly very low, almost touching him with his wings, as much as to say: “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty? Why don’t you wake up?” Taffy would reply in words of his own that are not used in polite society, and the next thing I would see his tail disappearing around the corner of the door.
Before Dewey went to sleep at night, he would exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to take a nap in a chair in the back parlour. Dewey kept flying over him, making a whizzing sound with his wings. When Taffy could endure it no longer, he went into the writing-room and sat down by me. Dewey came in and perched on the table to have a little luncheon. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a velvet paw, and gave Dewey such a slaphe fell on to the floor. The bird was not hurt in the least, but flew up on the picture, and seemed to laugh at the punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy got. Taffy did not take his punishment with the best of grace, and there were many naughty words he said, while he scratched and bit, but at last he was conquered, and after that always behaved like a little gentleman toward Dewey.
The first time he saw the snow, Dewey seemed wild with delight, and flew to the window, trying to catch the pretty white flakes, but when he heard sleigh-bells, they seemed to strike terror to his heart, as I suppose he thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all he knew about bells were those on Taffy’s collar.
At one time I was ill, and had to send for a physician whom Dewey had never seen. When the doctor came up-stairs, Dewey hid behind the curtain, watching him intently as he fixed the white powder in a paper. When the doctor laid it onthe table, down swooped Dewey, grabbed it, and flew with it to his cage. My mother at this time was ill for many weeks, and it kept Dewey busy, as he would carry off all her sleeping powders. One day he put them behind her bed, evidently thinking that there they would not taste so badly and do her just as much good. He would always watch the doctor intently, as he mixed the medicine, and Dewey seemed to think it great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in the medicine-case. He would stand on the ends of his toes and crane his neck to watch him drop the medicine into the tumblers.
Dewey’s end came at last, however, in a tragic manner. Some Christmas roses were brought in to me one day, and they looked so tempting to Dewey that he took several bites from them, and the next day took some more. He acted queer after that, and kept opening his bill. I thought he had something in histhroat, and gave him some water, which seemed to help him for the time being. The next afternoon I found him panting on the floor. I took him to an open window, gave him some wine, and the attack seemed to pass, and apparently he was as well as ever when I went down to dinner that night. When I returned to my room late in the evening, there was no bird to greet me from the curtain. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling Dewey stiff and cold.
One Sunday in June a small bird a good deal like a sparrow flew into Trinity Church. He flew down the centre aisle, and, evidently drawn to it by the light, perched on the brass cross underneath the exquisite chancel window. When the choir began to sing, he joined in at the top of his voice, then flew over to the bishop’s chair, peeping and chattering away, making himself as conspicuous as possible. Of course, like anything new in church, he took all the attention of the congregation from the minister. From the bishop’s chair, he quickly flew on a girl’s shoulder, who caught him inher hand, and put him on the stone steps outside the door. Here the little traveller was picked up by another little girl, taken to Sunday school with her, and finally was brought to me.
The poor bird was almost famished, and I hurried him up to my hospital, which at that time had but one patient, Theodore Roosevelt, a wild pigeon who had been badly burned by an electric wire. I gave him crackers and milk (it is better for little birds than bread and milk, and easier to swallow), and, when he had had his fill, he tried to tuck his head under his wing and go to sleep. This he had to give up, as he had a large head, but few feathers, and small wings, but he nestled up in my hand and was soon fast asleep.
He was not a handsome little fellow, in fact, he was very homely. Some thought him an English sparrow, but I doubt whether he was, as they are all so timid, and he was far from that, alwayswilful, and did just about as he pleased.
All day he stayed on my finger or dress, and when it began to grow dark, he discovered the negligée I had on was open at the throat, and a fine place to crawl into. I rocked him to sleep that night, and always after that he would not stay in his basket at night one minute unless I first rocked him to sleep on my bare neck.
Don’t you think Trinata a pretty name? I gave that to him as he went to service at Trinity Church. Every one said he did not know his name, but I thought he did. After he had been in the hospital for a couple of weeks, he ran, or rather, flew, away. I had been trying to sew, and could not keep him off me. He would crawl into the palm of my right hand, and did not seem to care how hard I squeezed him, then into the left, and did not mind a prick or two from the needle. I saw the sewing didnot make much headway, so finally I gave up and started to take my work down-stairs. I closed the door, or else he would have flown right after me, but I forgot the blinds were wide open in my dressing-room. He evidently went in there, and the temptation to fly out was too much for him.
On my return to my room, I looked everywhere, and had given up all hopes of ever seeing him again, when I spied three birds down the street, two large ones and a small one, which looked suspiciously like Trinata. When I got near enough, I began to peep, and the large ones flew away, but the little one went hopping along, and when within a few feet I called out “Trinata, Trinata.” He turned in an instant and stopped. I put out my finger and he hopped on. It was noontime, and the street was full of people, who looked with wondering eyes to see a wee bird in the middle of the street hop on my fingers. It provedhe knew his name, at any rate, and I was so glad to get him back that, instead of scolding, I was only too glad to give him something to eat and rock him to sleep. He was a forlorn-looking mite, all mud and grass stain, and so tired and faint that he could hardly perch. I think he, too, was glad to get back, for he never ran away again.
One evening a little boy and girl came rushing to me with two filthy baby sparrows. Their legs and claws were so encrusted with “smelly” mud they could not hop. So the first thing was to get as much off as possible before they could be put to bed, and in the morning I gave them a bath in violet water, after which Jack and Jill, for so I named them, looked far better, and Jack turned out to be a perfect beauty.
Trinata became rather jealous of them, and one day, when Jack and Jill were close together on my chest, he hopped down upon my shoulder, wedged himselfin between them, and pecked at them until they flew way. Teddy Roosevelt, the pigeon, as was right, lived in the executive mansion, but Trinata did not stand at all in awe of him. He went in to see him quite often, and made his presence known by nipping his toes or pulling his tail feathers. Teddy, however, did not like it, and often he would drive Trinata out.
Jill was very much in love with Jack, and usually would do anything he told her, but one day she thought she would coquette a little and not mind. Jack tried his best to get her to come inside the cage, but she paid not the slightest attention to him. At last he went to the open door, took her by the wing, and pulled her inside just as a mother would take a child. We all thought it very cunning; but the next day, when Trinata seized Jill by the leg, and dragged her way across the floor, I thought it abit too much, and gave Trinata the good scolding he deserved.
Jack and Jill, however, were really most annoying to Trinata, chasing after him, screeching, and opening their bills very wide, just as if he was their mother and would drop some goodies in. One day he was perched on the window-sill of the executive mansion, when up came Jack and Jill with gaping mouths. In turning to go away, Trinata saw on Teddy’s floor a piece of court-plaster that had come off from his wing. Trinata picked it up and dropped it in Jack’s mouth. He spit it out, and then the tender morsel was thrust down Jill’s throat by Trinata. After that they never begged him to feed them.
Most birds get used to certain dresses that a person wears, and usually are frightened when they see them in anything else, but Trinata was never afraid. Once I put on a large hat covered with pink roses, thinking surely that wouldfrighten him, but he only tucked his head under his wing and went to sleep on my shoulder. Another time I put a rustly silk skirt over my head when he was on top, but not an inch did he budge. When dressing, he would often get inside my waist, and I would fasten it up, leaving just enough room for him to stick out his head. He did not mind soap and water in the least, and very often would perch on me while I was taking my morning bath, keeping up an incessant chatter through it all. He delighted in visitors, and would light on their hands without the least sign of fear, and one day he tried to perch on a gentleman’s bald head, but found it too slippery. Children all loved him, for he was not at all exclusive, and would let them handle him all they wished.
The rougher I played with him the better he liked it, and I would throw him here, there, and everywhere, but he would be back on me quicker than aflash. I do not believe many birds help make the bed in the morning, but Trinata used to try to, and seemed to think it great fun. He would fairly run from bottom to top and back again, never minding if sheets and blankets were thrown over him. When the day spread was put on, he was told to keep off, but he seldom obeyed, and would play a long time trying to pick up the embroidered pink flowers.
At that time two or three birds were brought into the hospital nearly every day. Some died from wounds, and some from starvation when I was unable to make them eat. One day I had a forlorn baby sparrow, a dainty yellowbird (not much larger than a bumblebee), and two baby Baltimore orioles. When night came, I felt like the old woman who lived in her shoe, for I had so many birds I didn’t know what to do.
I could not supply them all with separate baskets, so I took a large round one,all gilded, and filled it with cotton, then made little indentations so it looked like many little cots. First the strangers were put in, next Jack and Jill, and they all lay quietly, but, when it came to Trinata, there was a row. He evidently had no intention of sleeping with that motley crowd, and would not stay in one second. He knew his own basket, and would never sleep in any other, or have any bird sleep with him. In the morning one of the orioles was dead, but another a year old came to take its place. He was a beauty, but had been shot by some cruel, wicked boy. One wing was broken, so he could never fly again, and he had a bad sore, so for days I thought he could not live, but careful attention brought him out all right. I named him the Prince of Wales, and the other oriole the Princess, who turned out to be the biggest mischief you can imagine.
About that time a dear little chipmunk (whom I named McKinley) came to thehospital, and his life was made miserable by the Princess. She would steal his food, examine his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth with her long bill, and, when he would not be looking, would give his tail a good pull.
The morning of the Fourth of July was intensely warm, so I moved all the birds into the hall, where it was cooler. Trinata was put by himself, because if he was shut up in a cage with Jack and Jill, he would amuse himself by pecking them and not letting them get on any of the perches. If they would try, he would lift them up by the feathers of their heads, then throw them down on the bottom of the cage. Jack and Jill, then, were put in a cage with the Prince and Princess, and they all looked very sleepy when I darkened the hall and went out. Few people who keep birds, and especially wild ones, know that they like to be in the dark during the middle ofthe day, and it simply ruins a canary to be left in the sun all day long.
You may imagine my surprise when I returned to the hall an hour later to find the Prince in the cage alone. One of the birds had pried open the place where a food-dish had been, and Jack, Jill, and the Princess had gone through the shutter. The Prince probably realized he could not fly, so stayed at home. I never found any trace of Jack and Jill, but, after looking an hour, located the Princess. I had only had her about a week, and did not think she knew her name. As soon as she heard my voice, she answered, but was afraid to come down, as there were so many boys with firecrackers in the street. Finally she was frightened to the top of a very tall tree, where some robins chased her, and she flew blocks away. A hard thunderstorm came, and the rain fell in such torrents that I was sure I had seen the last of my pretty Princess. After havingher liberty for hours, I thought I heard her voice in the next street. I went to the open window and called, “Princess.” She answered, and every time I called, the answer came nearer. Soon I saw her fly across the street and light on the roof of a house. I hurried over and held my hand as high as I could, when down she flew and lighted on my finger. I think it marvellous, her coming back, especially as she had been gone over four hours.
Taffy grew more and more jealous of Trinata every day, probably not liking it that I kept him with me so much of the time. He insisted upon staying in the hospital all day, and often there would be nine or ten birds loose in the room. Frequently he would be there hours before I knew it, and then I would not know if I did not happen to hear the bells on his collar. Then I would lift up the valance of the bed and find him stretched out full length, looking ashappy and lamblike as though there was not a bird anywhere near. One day a lady saw him trying to catch a bird in the street, and she called out: “You silly cat, why don’t you go up-stairs where there is a room full of them?” He would never pay the slightest attention to the birds until I would come in the room, and Trinata would light on me. Then he would come up to me, wave his tail, and seem consumed with jealousy.
One evening when he saw Trinata on me, it seemed as if he could not contain himself any longer. He was like a wild tiger fresh from the jungle. I could not pacify him, so sent him down-stairs. At dusk I stood in my dressing-room door and saw Taffy sneak under my bed. I was called down suddenly and forgot him. When I went back a few moments later, I missed Trinata at once. When I could not find him, I remembered Taffy, and rushed down to look for him.He came up from the cellarway looking pleasant and happy. I took him directly up to my room and asked him about his little brother, Trinata. He rubbed against me, purred, and the fierce tiger had all left him. I took him down and said: “Taffy has not taken Trinata, for he never looks or acts like this when he is guilty.” In a few moments I was called out on the back stoop, and there sat Taffy with Trinata’s mangled remains before him. When he saw me, he began to cringe and crouch, and there was not the slightest doubt of his guilt. I never knew him to eat a bird before, and I feel sure, when he heard me calling him, he swallowed Trinata almost whole, thinking I would never find out where he went, and of course it made him deathly sick. Late that evening he came into my mother’s room. First he stood in the door. I did not notice him. He kept coming nearer and nearer, and finally jumped into my lap, putting bothpaws about my neck, and began loving me. For days he was in disgrace, and for two months he never entered my room.
He hated Trinata out of pure jealousy of me, so killed him. He has never noticed the other birds since, and sleeps quietly for hours, with any number flying about him.
One day when my hospital was so full of birds I did not know which way to turn, a little girl came in with a nice fat baby robin. I said: “I cannot take another patient, for my hospital is full to overflowing.” She begged so hard, and said: “I have taken it away from a cat three times. The father and mother bird have gone and left it, and I cannot make it eat.” I could not resist such pleading, and said: “I will feed it for a few days, then let it go.” But my few days lasted for a year and a half.
Just at that time I was having a very pleasant correspondence with Mrs. Stanton,so I said: “I am going to name the bird Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and call it Cady for short, so, if it turns out to be a boy, as she always wanted to be, the name will be all right.”
I had no trouble in making Cady eat, and of all the birds I ever had, he was the most interesting. He seemed to understand anything I said to him, and would talk to me by the hour. We had no difficulty in understanding each other’s language, but I expected every day to hear him say real words.
For many weeks he lived on crackers and milk, then Mocking Bird Food, with only two meal worms a week, for they are very rich. He loved them dearly, and it was very hard sometimes not to give in to him when he asked for more. He knew where they were kept, and often turned over the bottle and tried his best to get them out. He always played with a worm a long time before eating it. Then all at once he would give his heada good toss, and down the worm would go.
One day he treated a large rubber band in the same way he did his worm, and, before I realized there might be danger, it had disappeared. I was dreadfully frightened, and watched him carefully all day, but he seemed none the worse for a change in his diet.
I had him for a year and a half, and his food always consisted of the Mocking Bird Food, meal worm, and cracker and milk for his supper at five o’clock. He was so fond of the latter, I could not take it away from him entirely, and when five o’clock came, he always knew and made me understand it was time for his supper, and would not touch his other food, no matter how much he had in his dish. He grew to be very large and strong and the handsomest robin I have ever seen. He was very playful, and had many playthings and played with them like a dog. Corks were his specialdelight, and he had many sizes. A piece of embroidery he could put his bill through would amuse him many hours. He knew his name in a very short time, and, when a baby, if he heard my voice, or even saw me out in the yard, he would call just as birds do for their mother. He was full of mischief and very foxy. He never was caged, and lived on the floor and his perches.
I would often see him on the top perch, looking very intently over into one corner; then I knew he was like the little girl, “when I be’s still, I be’s thinking mischief.” In an instant he would turn and make a dive for one of the canaries. I had three canaries at that time, and one day I went into my room to find feathers all over the floor and many spots of blood, and Cady on the highest perch looking as innocent as a baby. After looking about, I found the dear little things in a most dilapidated condition. I was afraid Judy would die,for her wing was put out of joint, but she finally recovered.
Every morning when I took my bath, Cady would come into my dressing-room and have a visit, perched on the wash-stand or towel-rack, and tell me many stories. He was a great lover of water, but he would not take his bath alone, and I always had to play with him. He would wait for me until noon, or, in fact, all day. I gave him a large square willow-ware vegetable dish for his tub, which my friends thought much too good for him, but nothing was too good for Cady. He always insisted upon having fresh water for his bath, and never would take it in water that had stood in the pitcher overnight. Many times I tried to fool him, but he was too smart for me. When he was ready for his bath, he would go into my dressing-room and chirp, then come back to me, go back again, and keep it up until I got the water. Then the fun commenced. Ibegan by taking water in my hand and throwing it at him. He would hop all over the room, come back to me for more, dance around first on one foot, then on the other, turn his back to me, then face me. After we had played enough in that way, he would hop into the water, and I would take a whole handful of water and throw over him, then he would begin work in good earnest, and such splashing you never saw.
He certainly was a sight when he had finished and hopped about the room with streams of water running off him. It took him a long time to make his toilet, for every feather had to be preened just so.
At that time I had a dear little boy sparrow named “Mack,” who was a beauty and very bright. When Cady took his bath, he always came down and took a shower bath. In the fall I began Cady’s music lessons, and every one laughed at the idea of my thinking Icould teach him to sing with me. Every day after luncheon I spent an hour with him. I would put him on the back of a chair by the piano and play and sing a very catchy little waltz song, and I kept it up for weeks before he would sing at all, but I knew by his looks and actions he was taking it all in, so I was determined I would not give up. Finally one day he began to follow me with the sweet notes of a canary, and I hardly dared breathe, but went right on singing as if I did not hear him, and from that day on he improved with every lesson. Next I took the waltz song “First Love” from “Olivette,” and he showed great delight with the change, and entered right into the spirit of the song. We sung that for many weeks, always beginning our lessons with the first waltz song. Then for a change I thought I would try him with a waltz song, “May Blossoms,” which was entirely different in style and tone. He liked that bestof all, and it was simply marvellous the way he sang it. He was always in such a hurry to sing it, he would often begin before the music. I began with the idea of giving him a prize when we had finished our lessons, but that did not suit him at all, and he gave me to understand that he must have one to begin on. He soon learned to take his position on the chair when I brought him into the parlour. I would begin to play, and sometimes, before he thought, he would sing a few notes, then he would remember his treat, and down he would hop into a chair, then over to another chair which stood in the back parlour, as he was afraid of a fur rug that lay between the doors, and would never put his claws in it. He would perch on the arm of the chair until I went to my tea-table and got a crumb of biscuit or cake and gave to him, then he would hop back the way he came, take his position, and begin to sing. After his lesson he always had a taste of honey and a drink of water out of a whiskey glass. He seemed very proud of his accomplishments, and was always more than willing to show off for visitors,—take a bath as well as sing for them.
CADY TAKING HIS SINGING LESSON
CADY TAKING HIS SINGING LESSON
One day he was in the back parlour and wanted to go into the front parlour. A gentleman was sitting with his legs crossed in the chair that was his stepping-stone, and what to do he did not know. Several times he hopped on to the first arm, then on to the floor, would look at the fur rug, but could not get up enough courage to go over it. Again, as he hopped on to the arm, his eye caught the toe of the gentleman’s shoe. In an instant he was on it and over into the front parlour, singing with great glee over his cunning feat.
One day in the spring, when I was giving him his lesson, a friend came in with a very large dog. Cady had never seen a dog before, and I was afraid hewould die of fright and that his voice was ruined for ever. I could not get him to sing a note for many weeks. He showed the same fear every time I brought him down to the parlours. After he had finished moulting in the fall, he was more beautiful than ever. Every feather was perfect and shone like satin. I brought him down-stairs to show to a friend, and the first thing he did was to take his position on the chair by the piano and begin to chirp, and I knew he was asking me to play for him. For six months he had not sung a note, so you may imagine my delight when out poured the sweetest trills of the best bred canary. Like all robins, Cady was a very early riser, and during the summer he would wake me at five o’clock in the morning, and I would have no peace until I opened my blinds. Of course, it was very nice for Cady, but, oh, poor me! Never before or since have I ever gotten up so early, for sleep was out ofthe question. He would come down on my bed, perch on my shoulder, and send the sweetest trills right down into my ear, but I could not fully appreciate them at that early hour. If that did not take effect, he would peck my hands; if I put them under the cover, then my eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth.
I regret very much that Cady’s photograph was not taken when he was taking a sun bath. He would toss back his head, spread out his wings, lean against anything that was most convenient, and a lady with a train posing for her portrait could not have been more graceful. Every one said: “When winter comes, Cady will feel the cold,” but Cady had no intention of being cold, and a warm room was all the Florida he cared for.
Instead of a sun bath, he took a fire bath, and often before he went to sleep for the night he would perch on the back of a low chair by the fire, and drink in all the warm air he could hold.
The first autumn I had Cady, I was told I must clip his wings, for he was never caged. A friend came one day, and we clipped several of the birds’ wings, but my heart was broken when it was done, for they all felt so ashamed, especially Cady. At that time I had the Princess of Wales, and she was a most inquisitive little lady. She would follow Cady about, look him all over, get him into a corner, examine his wings, and lift up with her bill the one that had been clipped. The next autumn, when Cady’s new feathers came in, they were so beautiful I did not have the heart to clip his wings again. But he was getting so unruly, chasing my other small birds, flying through the air and picking them up as if they were flies, that I did not know what to do with him. I knew I must clip his wing or cage him, and I knew the latter would simply kill the poor bird. Each day I would get ready to cut it my courage would fail, and Iwould put it off until the next, and, like all things we keep putting off, there came a day when I would have given all I possessed if I had clipped his wing in the beginning.
Cady was afraid out-of-doors. One day he fell out of my bedroom window, and waited for me to come and get him. He often stood in my bedroom window, but never seemed to care to go out. If I took him into the yard, he would fly back into the house if the door was open.
One day I took him quite a walk to see a friend. He perched on my wrist (as my finger was too small), did not offer to get off, and seemed very much at home in the friend’s house, so I never thought of his going away. When he began his lessons in the autumn, his wing was all feathered out, and he could fly everywhere. Instead of hopping from chair to chair for his treat, he would fly out into the dining-room, light on thedining-room table and wait for me to come.
One Sunday morning I had been giving him a longer lesson than usual, for he was singing better than I had ever heard him. All at once he stopped short, flew as usual into the dining-room, where the door was opened on to the piazza, and out of it he went, soaring way up in the air. It was a glorious day, and when he lighted in a tall tree up the street, I could hear him singing with delight. If I could have had the street to myself, I am sure I could have gotten him, but it was just the hour when the children were returning from Sunday school, and I could not keep them away. Twice he came within a few feet of me, then the boys or the rustle of the leaves frightened him away. For weeks he was about, and I spent many hours trying to get him to come to me. He always answered my call, but seemed afraid to fly down to me.
I would not have taken hundreds of dollars for him, and whatever became of him I know not, but I fear he perished when winter came, as he knew nothing about migrating.
A young meadow-lark was brought to me one morning by a small boy, whose dog had chased it and broken its leg. I had never had any experience in setting bones, but, as there is always a first time, I thought I could at least try, even if I did not succeed. I found it was not a very easy thing to do alone, but, after trying a number of times, I managed to get my toothpick splint on securely. For several days the leg seemed to be doing nicely, and I felt quite proud of my work and sure the leg was knitting. All at once the bird began to smell very badly, and in a few days it died, so I think it must have been hurt internally.
Another morning I had an orchard oriole brought to me. He, like the Prince of Wales, had been shot. One wing was broken and there was a deep flesh wound underneath. I did not expect to save him, but, after a few days, the wound healed and he was perfectly well, except the broken wing, which did not bother him. He seemed very happy, even if he could only fly a very little, and spent most of his time hopping about on the floor. His favourite perching-place was on the top of a candle on my dressing-table.
One morning he came over to my bed and woke me by pecking my hands. As it was too early for me to wake, I put him on the floor and went to sleep. When I got up, I could not find my pretty Duke. He had never been in my dressing-room, but that morning the light must have attracted him, as my room was dark, and in trying to hop on the edge of the water-jar he fell in.
You can imagine my horror when I saw him in the water dead, with his lovely feathers all spoiled, and I felt I had been a careless nurse.
A cousin brought to the hospital from the country a young snipe. She was so afraid it would get away, she put it into a shoe box which was too small, then tied the cover down tight, without making one hole to let the air in. Consequently, when she arrived, the bird was just gasping and almost dead.
I had never seen a young snipe before, and I was so anxious to save it. It was a beauty. Of course, it was all legs and feet, but they were really beautiful in shape, and the colour like the soft shade of green in young twigs. I worked over it four hours, hoping I might bring it back to life, but it was beyond me. It was a most pitiful sight to see it take so long to die.
I was very glad one day to have the pleasure of looking over a chimney swift,but, as it was an old bird and not hurt in the least, I felt it would be cruel to keep it in the hospital. It was so frightened it did not fly off from my hand for five minutes after I took it out-of-doors.
One day a very tender-hearted little boy, with big tears in his eyes, came and asked me to take in a tiny baby bird not three inches long from end of bill to tip of tail. It was gray with white breast, long pointed white bill, and very large eyes. Its pretty little head was drawn back like a person having spinal meningitis, and it was making a mournful peep. When I took it into my hand, I did not think it could live but a few moments, but it did four hours, suffering all the time, and it seemed as if its pitiful peep would drive me wild. I managed to get a little milk down its throat, but I could not find the cause of the head being drawn back, as there was no sign of any bruise. Finally I saw a black speck sticking out of its bill. Ibegan to pull, and kept on until I had pulled out a quarter of a yard of coarse horsehair. I knew then there was something on the other end, and that the bird could not live with whatever it was in its throat. I gave a quick pull, and you can imagine my surprise when out came a piece of hard white shell, triangular shape, all wound around with the hair. No wonder the little thing peeped, and that its head was drawn back, with that sharp point sticking into its throat. The mother must have rammed it down her baby’s throat, thinking it was some goody.
After I had removed the shell, the little sufferer seemed so relieved; the peeping stopped, and it would try to flop its wee wings when it saw me with the milk. I was in hopes I was going to save it, but it did not have the strength to rally, and it went where all good birdies go.
For a week I had a dear baby robin,who came down-stairs every night to look me up when it was time for him to go to bed in his basket. I had a wild pigeon at the time who delighted in pecking any small bird who came to the hospital. He gave the robin a hard peck on the back of the neck, I suppose striking a nerve, for soon the head began to draw back, and in a few hours he died. Theodore Roosevelt, the wild pigeon, was in the hospital two long years, receiving constant treatment, from burns which he had received by being caught in electric wires.
Then I had a large white domestic pigeon that was taken away from a dog who was tearing him to pieces. Such a sight as he was, covered with blood and mud, when I took him in. The feathers were all torn out of one wing, and he could not stand on his feet. The first thing I gave him a bath in warm water and soap, then found several flesh wounds, which I powdered with talcum powder (never put anything greasy ona bird), and put him in a cot, where I kept him as quiet as possible for several days. He was not at all timid, ate from my hand, drank water from a whiskey glass, as if he had always been fed in that way, never even trying to stand up or get out of his cot. I felt quite encouraged when, after a week, he could perch on my wrist for a few minutes, so I knew that there were no bones broken, but I was afraid that he was never going to have the use of one of his claws, for the toes all turned under when he tried to put it down, but patience and care were my reward, for it got entirely well. You could fairly see the new feathers grow in his wing, and he was delighted when he could flop his wings and exercise. It was very interesting to watch him when he first began trying to walk. I would put him down on the floor. He would lift the lame foot very high, and throw the claws out before putting it down, to prevent the toes turningunder. I expected he would want to fly away when he found he was made whole again, but he did not seem to have the slightest desire. He became quite a pet, and when I spoke to him, he would bow his head and say, “Coo-wee, coo-wee, coo-wee,” but he was too large a bird for the house, and he now lives with many of his kind, where he has the best of care.
One morning I saw a baby sparrow on a piazza, and a cat just ready to spring at it. I got in ahead of the cat, and brought her home with me. I wish all of the people who say they hate the English sparrow could have known this one, whom I named “Monie.” She was a perfect little beauty, and full of all sorts of antics. Every feather shone like satin, and her colouring was the soft shade of brown you see in otter fur. She loved to tease the other birds, especially the canaries. She would go inside the cage when they were on top andbite their claws and try to pull them through the bars. Then she would hang with one claw caught on the top of the cage and go through all sorts of performances. I had a box which rested on a low table, divided off into two compartments, one filled with gravel and the other with food. In the centre of one side was part of a broomstick, with any number of perches all sizes on it, and a platform over the other side where a brass cage stood. The box and perches, being painted light green, made a pretty sight when the perches were filled with many birds of different size and colour. There was a platform that rested on the window-sill, where Teddy, the pigeon, liked best to stay. He would walk back and forth or sit there most of the day, looking out of the windows. When, he wanted to walk in the gravel or get something to eat, he would walk down the little steps into the box with a great deal of dignity.
Monie always insisted upon perching on one of the largest perches, and very often she would fall on to the floor, and, as her wing was clipped, she could not get back in the box until I picked her up. At that time there were some mice who came and ate with the birds. Taffy did not seem to think they had any right there, and often tried to catch them. Twice he picked Monie up off from the floor, thinking she was a mouse, and brought her down-stairs. When he saw me, he came right up to me and let me take her out of his mouth, as if he was glad to get rid of her. The next time I missed her, I looked ten minutes, then I heard Taffy ring his bells, and he kept it up until I found him behind a heavy curtain, lying down with his paws under him, and holding Monie very carefully in his mouth. I put out my hand and he laid her in it, and she was not hurt in the least. After that I tried my best to make Monie sleep on a smaller perch, but shewas as wilful as she was pretty, and no other perch seemed to suit her. Her wilfulness caused her death, for she fell off in the middle of the night when the room was dark. Taffy picked her up and she squealed like a mouse. As he held her tighter, she squealed louder, and Taffy thought he had a mouse sure. I jumped out of bed, but, by the time I got a light, he had choked her to death. When he saw that he had Monie instead of a mouse, he put her into my hand, and no person could have shown more grief.
Late one evening a small boy came to the door and asked if I did not want to buy a white rat. To get rid of the boy, I bought the rat, thinking I would give it to our boy the next morning, but he was so bright and cunning, I named him Billy Watt, and kept him many months. He was a most interesting pet and very much like a squirrel in all of his ways. Taffy thought it was “adding insult toinjury” to ask him to be polite to Billy Watt, but he soon understood he was to treat him as politely as the birds.
One day Billy Watt bit Monie so the blood came. I took him in one hand, Monie in the other, and let her bite his nose, ears, and paws, and it frightened him almost to death when he found a bird could bite as well as a rat, and he never touched her again.
It was hard to make people believe, who did not see it, that Taffy would sleep for hours in my room, with birds flying around and Billy Watt asleep in a basket near by.
The largest patient I ever had was a turkey-buzzard, and the smallest full-grown bird a Parola warbler.
When Taffy beheld Mr. Buzzard perched on the back of a chair, his wrath knew no bounds. He did not spring at him, simply sat down in front of him, and by the growling and spitting youwould have thought there were a dozen of cats instead of one.
One day our neighbour’s crow came to visit us, and insisted upon sitting in Taffy’s chair, which did not suit his Royal Highness at all. He stood upon his hind legs with his front paws on the chair, and smelled Mr. Crow all over, but Mr. Crow did not mind in the least and would not move, so Mr. Taffy jumped into the chair and curled himself up by the side of the crow, and they spent the day together.
Once I read with the greatest interest an article about a Parola warbler, and felt I would like very much to know the authoress, and tell her there was another person who had come in as close contact with one as she did. One can read dozens of beautiful descriptions of these daintiest of fairies, but no one can have the slightest conception of their beauty, or half appreciate them, until they have held one in their hand. Mine was caughtby a cat, but it lived all day, so I had plenty of time to study every exquisite feather.
I hope the day may come when I shall be fortunate enough to see another, but they are very rare, especially in Central New York.
The Parola warbler was the first bird that opened John Burroughs’s eyes to the beauty of birddom.