A city rough of the lowest type--you could tell that from the texture of
the ragged, second-hand garments he wore; from his slipshod feet, his
horrid cap of greasy fur, and pale, unwholesome face.
He proceeded to hoist a leafless branch, smeared with birdlime, in a
conspicuous place, and not far off he deposited a cage, with a bird in
it. Then he addressed me.
"I'm goin' away for half an hour, and you'll stop here and watch. If
any birds get caught on the twigs, when I come back I'll mebbe gie you
something."
When he came back he did "gie me something." He boxed my ears soundly,
because I lay beside the cage, and talked to the little bird all the
time instead of watching.
You may guess how I loved that man. I have had the same amount of
affection for the whole bird-catching fraternity ever since, and I do a
deal every summer to spoil their sport. I look upon them as followers
of a most sinful calling, and just as cruel and merciless as the
slave-traders of Southern Africa. Many a little heart they break; they
separate parent birds, and tear the old from their young, who are left
to starve to death in the nest.
The redstart was a great favourite with me in these joyous days. In
size and shape he is not unlike the robin; but the bill is black, the
forehead white, the rest of the upper part of the body a bluish grey.
The wings are brownish, the bird wears a bib of black, but on the upper
portion of the chest and all down the sides there is red, though not so
bright in colour as the robin's breast. That is the plumage of the
cock-bird, so these birds are easily known. They make charming cage
pets, being very affectionate, and as merry as a maiden on May morning,
always singing and gay, and so tame that you need not be afraid to let
them out of the cage.
Another was the wren. Some would love the mite for pity sake. It is
very pretty and very gay, and possesses a sweet little voice of its own;
it needs care, however. It must not, on the one hand, be kept too near
a fire or in too warm a room, and on the other it should be well covered
up at night; a draught is fatal to such a bird. There is also the
golden-headed wren, the smallest of our British birds, but I do not
remember ever having seen one kept in a cage. There is no accounting
for tastes, however. I knew a young lady in Aberdeen who kept a golden
eagle in a cage of huge dimensions. He was the admiration of all
beholders, and the terror of inquisitive schoolboys, who, myself among
the number, fully believed he ate a whole horse every week, and ever so
many chickens. While gazing at the bird, you could not help feeling
thankful you were on the _outside_ of the cage. I admired, but I did
not love him much. He caught me by the arm one day, with true Masonic
grip--I loved him even less after that.
Wrens are fed in the same way as robins or nightingales are. In the
wild state they build a large roundish nest, principally of green moss
outside, and with very little lining. There is just one tiny hole left
in the side capable of admitting two fingers. Eggs about ten in number,
very small, white, and delicately ticked with red. If I remember
rightly, the golden wren's are pure white. The nests I have found were
in bushes, holly, fir, or furze, or under the branches of large trees
close to the trunk. The back of the nest is nearly always towards the
north and east.
The stonechat or stone-checker is a nice bird as to looks, but possesses
but little song. It would require the same treatment in cage or aviary
as the robin. So I believe would the whinchat, but I have no practical
knowledge of either as pets.
With the exception of the kingfisher, I do not recollect any British
bird with brighter or more charming plumage, than our friend the
goldfinch. He is arrayed in crimson and gold, black, white, and brown,
but the colours are so beautifully placed and blended, that, rich and
gaudy though they be, they cannot but please the eye of the most
artistic. The song of the goldfinch is very sweet, he is with all a
most affectionate pet, and exceedingly clever, so much so that he may be
taught quite a number of so-called tricks.
In the wild state the bird eats a variety of seeds of various weeds that
grow by the wayside, and at times in the garden of the sluggard.
Dandelion and groundsel seed are the chief of these, and later on in the
season thistle seed. So fond, indeed, is the goldfinch of the thistle
that the only wonder is that our neighbours beyond the Tweed do not
claim it as one of _the_ birds of Bonnie Scotland, as they do the curlew
and the golden eagle. But, on the other hand, they might on the same
plea claim a certain quadruped, whose length of ear exceeds its breadth
of intellect.
"Won't you tell us something," said Ida, "about the blackbird and
thrush? Were they not pets of your boyhood?"
"They were, dear, and if I once begin talking about them I will hardly
finish to-night."
"But just a word or two about them."
It is the poet Mortimer Collins that says so charmingly:
"All through the sultry hours of June,
From morning blithe to golden noon,
And till the star of evening climbs
The grey-blue East, a world too soon,
There sings a thrush amid the limes."
Whether in Scotland or England, the mavis, or thrush, is one of the
especial favourites of the pastoral poet and lyrist. And well the bird
deserves to be. No sweeter song than his awakes the echoes of woodland
or glen. It is shrill, piping, musical. Tannahill says he "gars
(makes) echo _ring_ frae tree to tree." That is precisely what the
charming songster does do. It is a bold, clear, ringing song that tells
of the love and joy at the birdie's heart. If that joy could not find
expression in song, the bird would pine and die, as it does when caught,
caged, and improperly treated. When singing he likes to perch himself
among the topmost branches; he likes to see well about him, and perhaps
the beauties he sees around him tend to make him sing all the more
blithely. But though seeing, he is not so easily seen. I often come to
the door of my garden study and say to myself, "Where can the bird be
to-night?" This, however, is when the foliage is on orchard and oaks.
But his voice sometimes sounds so close to my ear that I am quite
surprised when I find him singing among the boughs of a somewhat distant
tree. This is my mavis, my particular mavis. In summer he awakes me
with his wild lilts, long ere it is time to get up, and he continues his
song "till the star of evening climbs the grey-blue East," and sometimes
for an hour or more after that. I think, indeed, that he likes the
gloaming best, for by that witching time nearly all the other birds have
retired, and there is nothing to interrupt him.
In winter my mavis sings whenever the weather is mild and the grass is
visible. But he does not think of turning up of a morning until the sun
does, and he retires much earlier. I have known my mavis now nearly two
years, and I think he knows me. But how, you may ask me, Frank, do I
know that it is the selfsame bird. I reply that not only do we, the
members of my own family, know this mavis, but those of some of my
neighbours as well, and in this way: all thrushes have certain
expressions of their own, which, having once made use of, they never
lose. So like are these to human words, that several people hearing
them at the same time construe them in precisely the same way. My mavis
has four of these in his vocabulary, with which he constantly interlards
his song, or rather songs. They form the choruses, as it were, of his
vocal performances. The chorus of one is, "Weeda, weeda, weeda;" of
another, "Piece o' cake, piece o' cake, piece o' cake;" of the third,
"Earwig, earwig, earwig;" and of the last, sung in a most plaintive key,
"Pretty deah, pretty deah, pretty deah."
"That is so true," said Ida, laughing.
On frosty days he does not sing, but he will hop suddenly down in front
of me while I am feeding the Newfoundlands.
"You can spare a crumb," he says, speaking with his bright eye; "grubs
are scarce, and my poor toes are nearly frozen off."