"Ye ken where yon wee burnie, love,
Runs roarin' to the sea,
And tumbles o'er its rocky bed
Like spirit wild and free.
The mellow mavis tunes his lay,
The blackbird swells his note,
And little robin sweetly sings
Above the woody grot."
W. Cameron.
"The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell,
The lintie in the bosky dell,
No blither than your bonnie sel',
My ain, my artless Mary."
Idem.
Scottish poets cannot keep birds out of their love-songs any more than
they can the gloaming star, the bloom of flowers, the scent of golden
gorse, or soft winds sighing through woods in summer. And well may the
lovely wee linnet be compared to a young and artless maiden, so good and
innocent, so gentle and unobtrusive is the bird, and yet withal so
blithe. Nor could a better pet be found for girls of a quiet, retiring
disposition than the linnet. Some call it a shy bird. This hardly
coincides with my own experience, and I dearly like to study the
characters of birds and animals of all kinds, and have often discovered
something to love and admire even in the wildest beasts that ever roamed
o'er prairie or roared in jungle. No, the linnet is not shy, but he is
unostentatious; he seems to have the tact to know when a little music
would be appreciated, and is by no means loath to trill his sweet song.
He is also most affectionate, and if his mistress be but moderately kind
to him, he may _like_ other people well enough, but he will _love_ but
her alone, and will often and often pipe forth a few bars, in so low a
key that she cannot but perceive they are meant for her ear only.
Even in the wild state the rose-linnet courts retirement. Thinking
about this bird brings me back once more to the days of my boyhood. I
am a tiny, tiny lad trudging home from the distant day-school, over a
wide, wild moorland with about a stone of books--Greek and Latin
classics and lexicons--in a leather strap over my shoulder. I am--as I
ever wished to be--alone. That is, I have no human companionship. But
I have that of the wild birds, and the thousand and one wild creatures
that inhabit this great stretch of heathy wold, and I fancy they all
know me, from yonder hawk poised high in the air to the merlin that
sings on a branch of broom; from the wily fox or fierce polecat to the
wee mouse that nestles among the withered grass. I have about a score
of nests to pay a visit to--the great long-winged screaming whaup's
(curlew's) among the rushes; the mire-snipe's and wild duck's near the
marsh; the water-hen's, with her charming red eggs, near the streamlet;
the peewit's on the knoll; the stonechat's, with eggs of milky blue, in
the cairn; the laverock's, the woodlark's, and the wagtail's, and last,
but not least, the titlin's nest, with the cuckoo's egg in it. But I
linger but a short time at any of these to-day, for on my way to school
I saw a rose-linnet singing on a thorn, and have been thinking about it
all day. I have been three times thrashed for Cicero, and condemned to
detention for two hours after my schoolmates are gone. I have escaped
through the window, however. I shall be thrashed for this in the
morning, but I should be thrashed for something, at all events, so that
matters nothing. The sun is still high in the heavens, summer days are
long, I'll go and look for my linnet's nest; I haven't seen one this
year yet. The heather is green as yet, and here and there on the
moorland is a bush or patch of golden furze, not tall and straggling
like the bushes you find in woods, that seem to stretch out their necks
as if seeking in vain for the sunlight, but close, compact, hugging the
ground, and seeming to weigh down the warm summer air around it with the
sweetness of its perfume.
Now, on one of those very bushes, and on the highest twig thereof, I
find my cock linnet. His head is held well up, and his little throat
swells and throbs with his sweet, melodious song. But I know this is
all tact on the bird's part, and that his heart beats quick with fear as
he sees me wandering searchingly from bush to bush. He is trying to
look unconcerned. He saw me coming, and enjoined his pretty mate to lie
close and not fly out, assuring her that if she did so all would be
well.
He does not even fly away at my approach.
"There is no nest of mine anywhere near," he seems to say. "Is it
likely I would be singing so blithely if there were?"
"Ah! but," I reply, "I feel sure there is, else why are you dressed so
gaily? why have you cast aside your sombre hues and donned that crimson
vest?"
Pop--I am at the right bush now, and out flies the modest wee female
linnet. She had forgotten all her mate told her, she was so frightened
she could not lie close. And now I lift a branch and keek in, and am
well rewarded. A prettier sight than that little nest affords, to any
one fond of birds, cannot easily be conceived. It is not a large one;
the outside of it is built of knitted grass and withered weeds, and on
the whole it is neat; but inside it is the perfection of beauty and
rotundity, and softly and warmly lined with hair of horse and cow, with
a few small feathers beneath, to give it extra cosiness. And the eggs--
how beautiful! Books simply tell you they are white, dotted, and
speckled with red. They are more than this; the groundwork is white, to
be sure, but it looks as if the markings were traced by the Angers of
some artist fay. It looks as though the fairy artist had been trying to
sketch upon them the map of some strange land, for here are blood-red
lakes--square, or round, or oval--and rivers running into them and
rivers rolling out, so that having once seen a rose-linnet's egg, you
could never mistake it for any other.
"I think," said Ida, "I should like a linnet, if I knew how to treat
it."
"Well," I continued, "let me give you a little advice. I have
interested you in this bonnie bird, let me tell you then how you are to
treat him if you happen to get one, so as to make him perfectly happy,
with a happiness that will be reflected upon you, his mistress."
I always counsel any one who has a pet of any kind to be in a manner
jealous of it, for one person is enough to feed and tend it, and that
person should be its owner.
Of course, if you mean to have one as a companion you will procure a
male bird, and one as pretty as possible, but even those less bright in
colour sing well. Let his cage be a square or long one, and just as
roomy as you please; birds in confinement cannot have too much space to
move about in. Keep the cage exceedingly clean and free from damp, give
the bird fresh water every morning, and see that he has a due allowance
of clean dry seed. The food is principally canary-seed with some rape
in it, and a small portion of flax; but although you may now and then
give him a portion of bruised hemp seed, be careful and remember hemp is
both stimulating and over-fattening. Many a bird gets enlargement of
the liver, and heart disease and consequent asthma, from eating too
freely and often of hemp. In summer it should never be given, but in
cold weather it is less harmful.
Green food should not be forgotten. The best is chic-weed--ripe--and
groundsel, with--when you can get it--a little watercress. There are
many seedling weeds which you may find in your walks by the wayside,
which you may bring home to your lintie. If you make a practice of
doing this, he will evince double the joy and pleasure at seeing you on
your return.
Never leave any green food longer than a day either in or over the cage.
So shall your pet be healthy, and live for many years to give you
comfort with his sweet fond voice. I may just mention that the linnet
will learn the song of some other birds, notably that of the woodlark.
Sea-sand may be put in the bottom of the cage, and when the bird begins
to lose its feathers and moult, be extra kind and careful with it,
covering the cage partly over, and taking care to keep away draughts.
After the feathers begin to come you may put a rusty nail in the water.
This is a tonic, but I do not believe in giving it too soon.
Let me now say a word about another of my boyhood's pets--the robin.
But I hardly know where or how I am to begin, nor am I sure that my
theme will not run right away with me when I do commence. My winged
horse--my Pegasus--must be kept well in hand while speaking about my
little favourite, the robin. Happy thought, however! I will tell you
nothing I think you know already.
The robin, then, like the domestic cat, is too well known to need
description. We who live in the country have him with us all the year
round, and we know his charming song wherever we hear it. He may seem
to desert our habitations for a few months in the early spring-time, for
he is then very busy, having all the care and responsibility of a family
on his head; but he is not far away. He is only in the neighbouring
grove or orchard, and if we pay him a visit there he will sing to us
very pleasantly, as if glad to see us. And one fine morning we find him
on the lawn-gate again, bobbing and becking to us, and looking as proud
as a pasha because he has his little wife and three of the family with
him. His wife is not a Jenny Wren, as some suppose, but a lovely wee
robin just like himself, only a trifle smaller, and not quite so red on
the breast nor so bold as her partner. And the young ones, what
charmingly innocent little things they look, with their broad beaks and
their apologies for tails! I have often known them taken for juvenile
thrushes, because their breasts are not red, but a kind of yellow with
speckles in it.
"Tcheet, tcheet!" cries Robin, on the gate, bobbing at you again; "throw
out some crumbs. My wife is a bit shy; she has never been much in
society; but just see how the young ones can eat."
Well, Robin is one of the earliest birds of a morning that I know. He
is up long before the bickering sparrows, and eke before the mavis. His
song mingles with your morning dreams, and finally wakes you to the joys
and duties of another day, and if you peep out at the window you will
probably see him on the lawn, hauling some unhappy worm out of its hole.
I have seen Robin get hold of too big a worm, and, after pulling a
piece of it out as long as a penholder, fly away with a frightened
"Tcheet, tcheet!" as much as to say, "Dear me! I didn't know there were
yards and yards of you. You must be a snake or something."
Robin sings quite late at night too, long after the mavis is mute and
every other bird has retired. And all day long in autumn he sings.
During the winter months, especially if there be snow on the ground, he
comes boldly to the window-ledge, and doesn't ask, but demands his food,
as brazenly as a German bandsman. Sparrows usually come with him, but
if they dare to touch a bit of food that he has his eye on they catch
it. My robin insists upon coming into my study in winter. He likes the
window left open though, and I don't, and on this account we have little
petulancies, and if I turn him out he takes revenge by flying against
the French window, and mudding all the pane with his feet.
Almost every country house has one or two robins that specially belong
to it, and very jealous they are of any strange birds that happen to
come nigh the dwelling. While bird-nesting one time in company with
another boy, we found a robin's nest in a bank at the foot of a great
ash tree. There were five eggs in it. On going to see it two days
after, we found the nest and eggs intact, but two other eggs had been
laid and deposited about a foot from the bank. We took the hint, and
carried away these two, but did not touch the others. The eggs are not
very pretty.
While shooting in the wildest part of the Highlands, and a long way from
home, I have often preferred a bed with my dog on the heather to the
smoky hospitality of a hut; and I have found robins perched close by me
of a morning, singing ever so sweetly and low. They were only trying to
earn the right to pick up the crumbs my setter and I had left at supper,
but this shows you how fond these birds are of human society.
In a cage the robin will live well and healthily for many years, if
kindly and carefully treated. He will get so tame that you needn't fear
to let him have his liberty about the room.
Let the cage be large and roomy, and covered partly over with a cloth.
The robin loves the sunshine and a clean, dry cage, and, as to food, he
is not very particular. Give him German paste--with a little bruised
hemp and maw seed, with insects, beetles, grubs, garden and meal worms,
etc. Let him have clean gravel frequently, and fresh water every
morning. Now and then, when you think your pet is not particularly
lively, put a rusty nail in the water.