PART IV.

Domestic Pets.

BEES.

CANARIES.

DOGS.

GOLD FISH.

GUINEA PIGS.

HEDGEHOGS.

JACKDAWS.

JAYS.

MAGPIES.

OWLS.

PARROTS.

PIGEONS.

POULTRY.

RABBITS.

RAVENS.

SILKWORMS.

SQUIRRELS.

WHITE MICE.

[Illustration: OUR DOMESTIC PETS.]

[Illustration]

BEES AND BEE-KEEPING.

In treating of that useful insect the honey-bee, we will first explain

briefly the domestic economy of the hive, and the distinction between

the different individuals composing the entire colony, and then pass on

to the more practical details of bee-keeping.

A beehive contains three kinds of individuals--a queen, drones, and

workers. The queen is a female, and is the mother of the community. The

drones are males, and the working bees neuters, being neither males nor

females. During the warmer part of the year the queen seems to be

incessantly employed in laying eggs. She is slow and majestic in her

motions, and differs from the workers in having a larger and longer

body, shorter wings, and a curved sting.

The drones are males; though much more bulky, they are not so long as

the queen, but much larger than the working bees. They live on honey,

but bring none home. When the season for swarming has passed, the

workers expel them from the hive, and none make their appearance till

the following spring.

The working bees are the smallest in the hive and by far the most

numerous; and they do the entire work of the community--they build the

cells, guard the hive and the queen, collect and store the honey,

elaborate the wax, feed the young, and expel the drones. The average

number of these three kinds of bees in a hive is one queen, two thousand

drones, and ten to twenty thousand workers, the numbers varying with the

strength of the hive and the season.

For the greater part of the year the queen lays only workers’ eggs; but

during the spring she also lays those which produce drones. As soon as

this takes place, the workers begin to construct royal cells, in which,

without discontinuing to lay the drone eggs, the queen deposits eggs

which are destined to produce queens.

[Illustration: QUEEN BEE.]

[Illustration: THE DRONE.]

[Illustration: WORKING BEE.]

The workers’ eggs hatch in a few days, and produce little white maggots,

which immediately open their mouths to be fed; these the workers attend

to with the greatest care. In six days each maggot fills up its cell; it

is then roofed in by the workers, spins a silken cocoon and becomes a

chrysalis, and on the twenty-first day it comes forth a perfect bee. The

drones emerge on the twenty-fifth day, and the queens on the sixteenth.

The combs of a beehive comprise a number of hexagonal cells, built by

the bees as receptacles for honey and for the nurseries of their young.

Each comb in a hive is composed of two ranges of cells, backed against

each other. There is a continued series of these double cells in every

well-filled hive, the spaces between them being just sufficient to allow

two bees, one on the surface of each comb, to pass without touching.

Each cell is six-sided, the six sides being perfectly equal. This is one

of the geometrical figures that ensures the greatest economy of material

and the largest space. The construction of several combs is usually

going on at the same time, until the hive is filled. The cells of the

drones are larger than those designed for the workers; and those

designed for the hatching of the young queens pear-shaped, with the

small end downwards. The finest honey is stored in new cells constructed

for the purpose of receiving it.

The usual modes of establishing an apiary are, either by the purchase of

stock or of swarms. When intending to purchase a stock, do not buy upon

recommendation, but learn to judge for yourself. If you observe the

bees crowding in and out of the hive during the middle of the day, a

considerable number of them having little yellow pellets or balls on

their hinder legs, a very favourable opinion may be formed of the health

and condition of the interior, and especially of the prolific state of

the queen. If the bees appear savage, and bold in their attacks, it is a

good sign.

In the purchase of swarms the young bee-keeper must beware of

imposition; for it very often happens that, instead of having the _first

swarm_, he is cheated by having a second thrust upon him. This is seldom

so large; but it has the advantage of a young queen, as the old queen

always goes off with the first swarm. A good swarm generally numbers

about twenty thousand bees, and may in country places be obtained for

from half-a-guinea to a guinea.

There are several distinct systems of bee-keeping, each of which

requires a short notice. First, the old-fashioned plan of keeping the

bees in a common bell-shaped straw hive, or skep. When this method is

followed, the hives are usually allowed to stand for two summers; at the

end of the second season the bees are destroyed by the fumes of burning

sulphur, and the honey taken. The plan is a very bad one, as the honey

obtained is mixed with bee bread, is rank in flavour, and dark in

colour, and is never worth more than about sixpence per pound.

[Illustration]

A great improvement is to have the hives made with flat tops, like the

straw hive shown at the right hand of the engraving. When the bees are

first hived, this is closed by a straw mat. In the spring of next year,

when the bees become numerous and cluster round the entrance, this mat

is removed, and a small hive, termed a “super,” or a box or glass,

neatly furnished with a piece or two of clear empty comb, is put over;

the bees ascend into this, build combs, which they store with pure

virgin honey, without brood or bee bread; and this, when full, is

removed, leaving the stock below undisturbed for the next season. In our

engraving the artist has drawn this hive too small; it should have been

as large as the common skeps which are shown on the left-hand side.

Flat-topped hives, that are able to be supered, may be made of wood,

like a common box. One of these is shown on the ground, and two, placed

one over the other, are shown behind the flat-topped straw hive. In

Ayrshire, where they are very skilled in bee-management, they use

eight-sided boxes, with narrow slides to close the openings in the top.

These boxes are placed one over the other, and large tops of pure virgin

honey, twenty to thirty pounds in weight, are not unfrequently taken

off. The back hive in our group is one with side boxes, or, as it is

sometimes called, a collateral hive. These are the most expensive in

first cost, and the least productive of all the varieties. The cottage

hives, with three little glasses, instead of one large one, are only

playthings, and not at all productive.

Frame hives, in which each comb is placed in a separate frame, so that

it can be taken out and examined, are very useful for making

observations on the natural history of the bees, but are not so well

suited for profitable purposes as the hives that we have described that

are arranged in storey or with large supers.

In removing a super of honey, it should be first loosened from the hive

by drawing a thin string between the two; and then, when the bees have

become quiet, taken quietly away, and covered over, until those

remaining in it have discovered that they are away from the queen, when

they will rapidly fly back to the hive, on being uncovered. But the

honey must not be left exposed, or it would attract all the bees in the

neighbourhood, and would rapidly be stored up in the hives.

In taking off the supers, it is best to be protected from the stings of

the bees. This is readily done by making a bag of leno, open at top and

bottom; in use, the top is tied round the hat, the bag encircles the

head and face, and the bottom is tucked under the collar of the coat,

which is buttoned closely round the neck. In this manner the face is

perfectly protected from stings; but with the knowledge, quietness, and

confidence acquired by practice, almost anything can be done to bees by

a skilled bee-master, even without a veil.

THE CANARY.

The canary is a justly favoured pet among boys, for it is a hardy bird

that requires a very small amount of trouble. It is a pleasant,

fascinating little being, full of quaint ways and sprightly attitudes,

and, better than all, the cage is its native element.

Though an ardent admirer of all birds, and indeed of everything which

draws the breath of life, we can never pass the cage wherein is confined

a lark, a nightingale, a bullfinch, or any other of our indigenous

birds, without a feeling of sadness and regret.

They are not cage birds, and never ought to be confined within the

narrow limits of wood and wire. Their attitudes show their uneasiness.

The mellow, exultant tone of the skylark sounds as joyously when the

bird is imprisoned within a cage as when it soars high in air, its wings

quivering in the breeze, its frame rejoicing in the glory of the

sunbeams, and its ken surveying the wide panorama which lies spread

beneath its gaze. But the gestures of the bird are full of eloquent

misery, and speak volumes to him who will stop and look with his eyes as

well as listen with his ears.

See how the bird flings itself upwards from the little patch of turf,

which is but a shallow mockery of the green sward to which the skylark

is accustomed--how it dashes itself against the roof of green baize,

which represents so feebly the expanse of azure sky--and how it learns

at last the lessons of experience, and stands helplessly in the bay

window of the cage, its wings shivering restlessly, and its feet

trampling impatiently, in lieu of the the upward leap and soaring flight

which it longs to undertake, but which it will never more be permitted

to experience. No more will it roam through the wide expanse of air, no

more will it seek for its mate, and know all the joys of nest and

children. Henceforth it is but a prisoner in solitary confinement,

without hope of escape, and its very individuality destroyed by

surrounding circumstances.

So with the generality of our cage birds. The man who would imprison the

nightingale, who would limit to one spot the bird that loves to wander,

and who would condemn to solitary confinement the creature which is

peculiarly destined for conjugal affection, which finds expression in

liquid melody, ought to be imprisoned for a month or two, just to see

how _he_ likes it. “I can’t get out,” is the lament uttered in silent

gesture by all birds that ought to roam in wild freedom, and have been

imprisoned in a cage. We always wish to open the cage door, and set free

the prisoner; at all events, to remove it to some spot where it might be

liberated without danger to itself.

But with the canary the case is different. The pretty little bird never

has known wider freedom than that of the cage, and a humane bird-keeper

will endow it with increased freedom by enlarging the size of its

dwelling. The free use of wings has never been known to the bird, nor

even to its parents; and the perch is to the canary more familiar than

the bough. Release an imprisoned lark, and after the first few moments

of surprise it will speed away exulting in its freedom. Release a

nightingale or a thrush, and it will dart swiftly to the well-known

shelter of the woods. But release a canary, and you have committed an

act of positive cruelty. The poor bird knows not where to go or how to

procure its food. Throughout all its little life it has been accustomed

to reside within the narrow limits of its cage, and to find its food and

water prepared without any expenditure of labour. Consequently, it has

no idea of searching for food, but sits bewildered on a branch of some

tree, and would perish with hunger simply because it does not know how

to procure food.

Ignorance is ever the parent of fear, and a canary-bird has been known

to perish of hunger when removed to a large from a small cage, simply

because it dared not fly down from the comparatively lofty perch on

which it had settled when first introduced, and to which it clung with

the tenacity of fear. Even the genuine British soldier can hardly be

more helpless when deprived of ordinary military routine than is a

canary-bird when set free and forced to fly alone into the world.

The very colour of the bird prevents it from obtaining food like others

of the same tribe. All the small birds are absurdly jealous of novelty,

and will mob and worry any feathered being to which they are not

accustomed. You may assemble a crowd of them at any time by fixing a

comb of scarlet cloth on the head of a sparrow, and glueing a few

scarlet hackles into its tail. The little birds will always gather round

an owl that has made its appearance in the daytime, and will scold the

intruder until one would think that their throats would be hoarse. Their

anger towards the owl is, however, mitigated by a wholesome dread of its

beak and talons, and it may therefore be imagined that when they find a

little yellow bird sitting all alone on a branch, and looking bewildered

at the position in which it finds itself, they are not very likely to

lose so excellent an opportunity of bullying a foreigner without danger

to themselves. Successive generations of captivity have rendered the

canary unfit for freedom, and therefore the young naturalist need not

think himself cruel because he keeps the bird in a cage.

As to cages, the simple form which has already been described in vol. i.

p. 21 of “Every Boy’s Magazine” will be found amply sufficient for all

purposes. The wires, however, should be closer together than is required

for squirrels, so that the cat may not be able to dart her lithe paw

between them and hook out the inmates. The size of the cage is of little

consequence, except that you can never make it too large. If a whole

room can be given up to the birds, the better they will be pleased and

the brighter they will look; and, if possible, it should be lighted from

above.

Wherever the birds may be placed, ventilation is of the greatest

consequence. We remember being once summoned to give our opinion upon

the continued illness of some canaries of which every care was taken.

They had fresh water daily, were plentifully supplied with sand, and

were fed with the proper seeds, and cresses, groundsel, and other green

meat, and yet they drooped and moped, and never seemed well. No fault

could be found with the arrangements, and therefore we looked for the

cause of illness in another direction. The air of the room seemed very

close when I entered it, and on examination we found that there was no

outlet whatever, the chimney having been blocked up and the windows

carefully shut, in order to prevent the birds from escaping. We at once

recommended that a pane of glass should be removed at the top of the

window, and a piece of perforated zinc inserted instead; and when this

was done the birds recovered themselves, and resumed their normal

aspect.

The two secrets--if secrets they can be called--in bird-keeping are a

good supply of fresh food and water and perfect cleanliness. The former

necessaries can be easily insured in a very simple manner, and should be

made after the pattern of the accompanying figures. Both are founded on

the same principle--namely, that of self-feeding from a reservoir.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

The seed-box is thus constructed. Get an old cigar-box, from which the

aroma of tobacco has been removed by long airing, and take off the lid

and the whole of one side; cut off two-thirds of the lid-piece, bore

three holes in it, and fix it where the lid was, as at _a_; cut the rest

of the lid in two, and fix the pieces in the box, so as to separate it

into three compartments, fixing them with glue and a few very tiny

brads. You should use pieces of slender brass wire for the purpose. If

you left the box in this condition all the seed would run out at the

round holes, and you must therefore correct that error.

How this is done will be seen in fig. 2, which gives a section of the

seed-box.

Cut a squared piece of wood, which will just slide into the partition,

so as to make a flat flooring to it. But, instead of laying it flat,

place it in a sloping direction, as seen at _d_, so that a small space

is left between the end of the floor and the back of the box. The

reader will see that when the seed is poured into the partition it will

drop through the open space at the back, and fall into the bottom of the

box. The birds put their heads through the holes to eat the seeds, and

as fast as they peck them away below, more fall from above and supply

the deficiency.

In the front, and above the holes, fix a piece of glass, which is

represented by _b_ in fig. 2, and which is seen in its place in fig. 1.

The object of the glass is to permit the bird-keeper to see when there

is a sufficiency of seed. The sloping top is also of glass, which is

fixed by a strip of American leather, acting as a hinge. It is made of

glass, and set at a sharp angle, in order to prevent the birds from

perching on it, which they are certain to do if they can find the least

foothold. It will be found that the best cement wherewith to fix the

glass is gold-size, and that a coat or two of black sealing-wax varnish

makes a nice finish to the job.

The holes through which the birds feed should not be much larger than

the size of their heads. The reason of this arrangement is that the

canaries are apt to shell the seeds while their heads are over the

vessel in which the food is contained, so that the husks fall among the

seed, and it is not easy to discover when the supply is exhausted. But

no diurnal bird will feed in the dark, and as the canary effectually

darkens each hole by introducing its head, it will not crack and eat the

seed until it has withdrawn its head and restored itself to light.

The object of the partitions is that the birds can be supplied with

different kinds of seed, each of which can be restricted to its own

division. The receptacles should be of different sizes--the largest for

canary-seed, the next in size for rape, and the least for millet, among

which a little hemp may be shaken. In front of the holes, and about

three-quarters of an inch from them, should be fixed a perch, upon which

the birds can sit while they feed.

At the back of the seed-box are fastened a couple of stout hooks--those

which milliners call “stay-hooks” answer admirably--so that the box may

be hung on the wires at any convenient height. It should not be placed

on the ground, because in that case the canaries will stuff all the

refuse stems of the green-meat into the feeding-holes, and will probably

mix sand and husks with the seeds. They are as mischievous as monkeys,

and quite as ready at discovering and taking advantage of the slightest

opportunities of doing something which they know is forbidden.

The “fountain” from which they drink is made on a similar principle.

Fountains can be purchased at any bird-dealer’s; but as it is preferable

that boys should use their hands rather than drain their pockets, we

offer simple directions for making a fountain as efficacious, though not

quite so elegant, as those which are purchased in the shops.

The materials required for the purpose are very simple, and consist of

some wire, both stout and fine, of an empty Florence-oil flask, a

saucer, and some wood. The mode of employing them is shown by the

illustration (fig. 3).

[Illustration: Fig. 3]

Make three rings of stout wire, each diminishing in diameter, and

arrange them as seen at _b_, the smallest being uppermost. Four pieces

of stout wire are then firmly attached, so as to make a kind of conical

stand. Were not the birds so mischievous, this would be sufficient for

all purposes; but as they are sure to go and bathe in the water, they

must be kept out by intermediate wires, so as to make a kind of cage,

through which the birds can put their heads, but which will not permit

the passage of their bodies.

Then take your oil-flask, strip off all the rushen covering, and wash

the interior with strong soda until every trace of the oil is removed.

Place it in the wire frame, as shown at _c_, and try whether it stands

upright. If the wire ring should be too large, and allow of its slipping

through too far, cut a round hole of the proper size in a piece of

pasteboard or very thin wood, lay it on the ring, and then introduce the

flask.

Make a round stool or table, such as is seen in the illustration, and

fix the turned-up ends of the wires to it with small staples. If the

fountain were on the ground, the birds would fill the saucer with sand

and husks; and if it were not firmly fastened, it would be knocked over

by the fluttering wings of a passing bird. The stool must be wide and

strong, or the whole affair will be upset.

The mode of preparing the fountain is very simple. Fill the flask with

water, and stop up the mouth with a shallow cork. Place a saucer (like

_a_) under the wire frame, insert the flask, hold its mouth in the

saucer with one hand, and remove the cork with the other. The water will

immediately rush into the saucer, and will half fill it, but owing to

the pressure of the atmosphere no more water will descend. When,

however, the birds have drunk enough to bring the level of the water

below the mouth of the flask, air immediately rushes up in great

bubbles, down comes a corresponding amount of water, and a fresh supply

is thus afforded.

In canary-keeping much depends upon the kind of bird. We presume that a

good singer will be required, as well as a strong and healthy bird. If

you are not learned in canary lore, try to induce an experienced friend

to choose a bird for you; but if you are not fortunate enough to possess

such assistance, the following concise directions may aid you. Look at

the birds for sale, and note those that stand straightest on their

perches, and that hop quickly and smartly about the little apologies for

cages in which they are mostly confined. Next hear them sing before

deciding on your purchase, and select the one that possesses the

sweetest and fullest tone. The dealer can always make the bird sing when

he likes, and if any bird refuses to sing, do not buy it, however

handsome it may look. If possible, procure one that possesses the

nightingale’s song; you will have to pay rather heavily for it, but any

one who can afford such a bird will be amply repaid by the very great

superiority of the song, which is divested of that ear-piercing

shrillness so unpleasant in most canaries.

When you are satisfied with the song, look the bird well over to see

that it has no defects; and if you prefer the variegated breed, take

care of three principal points--namely, the top of the head, technically

called the “cap;” the markings on the back, called “spangles;” and the

number of quill feathers in the wings and tail. The cap must be uniform

and rich in colour, the spangles bold and well defined, and the quill

feathers not less than eighteen in each wing and twelve in the tail.

Imperfect or damaged feathers can easily be replaced by pulling them

out, for their places will soon be filled with new and perfect feathers.

Some persons prefer the yellow varieties, and many are fond of the

crested canaries.

We intentionally omit all mention of “fancy” canaries, for the fashion

changes with them as fast as it does with tulips or dress. The fashion

in canaries seldom outlives a year, and the prize bird of one year will

possibly be despised in the next season. Do not, therefore, be persuaded

to attempt the purchase of costly fancy canaries. They may certainly be

of great value when you happen to buy them, but in a few years no one

will think anything of them. Choose strong, sweet-voiced, and healthy

birds, with colours that please your eye, and leave the fancy canaries

to professional breeders.

As to the general management of the canary, it may be summed up by

saying that it chiefly consists in judiciously letting alone. Don’t

meddle with the birds more than is absolutely needed, and do not worry

them with medicines whenever they seem to be unwell. As, however, all

canaries are liable to certain ailments, in which a knowledge of the

proper treatment is highly useful, we will just give a few plain

directions.

One pest is vigorous throughout the year, and always ready to seize on

the birds, and that is the “red-mite,” a parasite known to all

bird-keepers.

If you find your birds restless, especially at night, and see them

continually pecking among the roots of the feathers, and especially if

they lose appetite, and become fretful and ill-tempered to their

companions, look out for the red-mite. You can always detect the tiny

but formidable foe by placing the bird in a dark room, and, after a few

hours, holding a bright lamp close by the cage. If there are any mites

about, you will soon see them crawling upon the perches, the wires, and

even showing themselves among the feathers. They are not larger than the

dot over the letter i, but their numbers are often very considerable,

and the injury they inflict is great.

Let not one escape, for it may be the parent of hundreds more. When the

red-mites have once obtained possession of a cage, their extirpation is

a task of very great difficulty to those who do not understand the

constitution of the creatures. So difficult, indeed, is the business,

that many fanciers will not even attempt it, but burn the cage and buy

another. The metal cages, which are now so common, are preferable to

those made of wood and wire, inasmuch as they present very few spots

wherein the red-mite can find a hiding-place, and for that reason metal

is to be preferred to wood. Even if they have gained admission to an

ordinary cage, they can be extirpated without very much trouble. We have

succeeded in doing so in several instances, and think that in a

fortnight any cage can be freed of its troublesome parasites.

First place the cage in the sun for a short time, so as to induce the

light-hating mites to leave the bird and hide themselves in the crevices

of the cage. Remove the bird, and transfer it to another cage, or even a

box, and let it wait. Take the cage and examine it well, introducing a

heated needle or thin blade of iron into every crevice. Next take some

insect-destroying powder, force it into a hollow paper cylinder, light

the paper, put it into the cage, and envelop the whole in a newspaper.

Leave it there for an hour, and when you remove it you will see dozens

of the red-mites, of all sizes, lying dead on the floor, or clinging

half-stupefied by the fumes of the powder. Scrape them all into boiling

water, and dust the whole of the cage with the powder.

By this time every mite will be dead; but there is a goodly store of

eggs which will be hatched in due time, and infest the cage anew. These

are destroyed by means of oil. Take a camel’s hair brush and some

salad-oil, and with the brush apply the oil to every crevice. If there

should be the tiniest scratch on the wood, touch it with the oil. Let

oil be applied to every spot where the wires enter the wood, where they

cross each other, and where the hinges of the door are fixed. Every egg

will thus be destroyed, and the cage freed.

About half an hour before you restore the bird to the cage hold it in

the left hand, and dust it well with the powder, blowing up the

feathers, so as to get it well to the roots. Scatter some of the powder

upon a piece of soft rag, and roll the bird in it, carefully binding

down its legs and wings, under each of which a pinch of powder must be

sprinkled. You can now attend to the head, which requires rather neat

handling, as the powder is very apt to settle upon the eyes and to worry

the bird. Let your feathered pet lie for half an hour in this beneficial

bondage, and then replace it in the cage, scattering some powder upon

the floor. The bird will shake its plumage sharply, and send a cloud of

dust flying, and in a minute or two will begin to peck among the

feathers and settle the plumage. The different aspect of the bird is

then quite remarkable, for it exchanges the fussy, anxious, fretful

moments for quiet ease, and even when it does peck among the feathers,

it does so gently and deliberately, and seems quite another bird.

Moulting is a disorder to which the canary is annually subject, and

which requires some little attention. Some time in the autumn all the

canaries exchange the feathers which have endured the wear and tear of a

twelvemonth for a completely new suit. Feathers are subject to damage in

many ways, and just before the moult takes place the bird is quite

ragged and disreputable in dress. Meanwhile the germs of new feathers

have been growing in the sockets which held the old suit, and in the

course of a few weeks all the feathers are shed and replaced by others.

It may easily be imagined that such an operation is not achieved

without much physical disturbance, and it is accordingly found that all

birds are more or less indisposed during the time of the moult.

Scarcely any two birds are affected in precisely the same manner, and

the “moulting sickness” tells with especial severity upon the young.

Quiet and nourishing food are the best remedies for the curious mixture

of languor and fever which is always visible among the birds; and the

most accomplished canary-breeders are in the habit of giving the yolk of

hard-boiled eggs, and even a little raw meat, scraped and cut very fine.

Sometimes, in their desire for animal food, the birds pluck the

newly-formed feathers from the bodies of their companions, and nibble

the still vascular and bleeding ends. Wine is recommended by some

fanciers, but we cannot agree with them. The moult is a natural ailment,

and the remedies which are best calculated to modify its effects upon

the health are those to which the natural instincts of the birds would

lead them.

Frequently the claws and bill of the canary become overgrown, and

produce very unpleasant results; the latter causing much difficulty in

taking food, and the former entangling the foot in the wires of the

cage. The remedy in either case is the same. Take the bird in the left

hand, and hold it against the light; the overgrown portions of the claws

will then be easily distinguished, inasmuch as a delicate scarlet line

runs along the centre of each claw and nearly reaches its extremity.

Taking this line as your guide, you carefully cut off the overgrown

parts with a sharp pair of scissors, and cause thereby immediate relief

to your feathered patient. The bill must be cut in the same way, but

requires a little more care and some neatness in trimming. No pain is

given to the bird when the operation is rightly conducted, for neither

bill nor claw possesses sensation.

Dysentery and diarrhœa are very common among cage birds, and should be

treated, the former with a drop or two of castor-oil, and the latter

with a lump of chalk to peck at, and a rusty nail in the water.

Sometimes the bird loses the feathers of the head and neck, and presents

a most ungainly appearance. In such cases rub the head with almond-oil,

and feed the bird for a few days on a mixture of lettuce, scalded bread,

olive-oil, and a sprinkling of maw seed. Health will soon return, and at

the next moult the bird will recover its lost plumage.

Broken legs are of frequent occurrence, and mostly happen by the bird

entangling itself in the wires and then struggling to free itself.

Overgrown claws are a fertile cause of this misfortune. Do not try to

bandage or in any way to meddle with the leg; but put the bird in a

separate cage, take away the perches, place the food and water within

reach, so that the patient may partake of them without needing to

stand, and wait until the limb is healed. The bones unite very rapidly,

and in a week or ten days the limb will be nearly as strong as before

the accident, and will betray no sign of the recent misfortune.

DOGS.

It is to be supposed that each reader of these pages is either the

possessor of a dog, or desires to obtain that privilege, and that he

will wish to learn in a few lines the best way of managing and training

his favourite.

There are many works which treat of the Dog; but all those which are

trustworthy are of very large dimensions, necessarily costly, and

contain a vast amount of information which is very valuable to the owner

of hounds, to the sportsman, or to the game-keeper, but is not required

by the generality of those to whom these words are addressed. We have,

therefore, endeavoured to condense into the few pages which can be

allotted to a single subject all the information which is absolutely

needed by those who keep dogs merely for amusement and the love of their

society.

Firstly, we may answer here a question that is often asked--namely,

which is the best breed of dogs for ordinary purposes? We of course

exclude all the strictly sporting dogs, such as the foxhound and

harrier, the greyhound, and perhaps the bull-dog, though there is

something to be said in favour of the last-mentioned, and somewhat

maligned, animal.

The tasks that we wish to impose on the dog are light and simple. We

want him to be watchful at night, to alarm the house at the sound of a

strange step on the premises; if possible, we want him to be courageous

enough to attack an intruder. We want him to be a pleasant companion in

our daily walks, to hunt after anything at which we may set him, to swim

after any object that we may point out, and to retrieve anything for

which we may send him. At the same time, we want him to be completely

under command, and to be obedient at the least word or sign.

Lastly, we want him to be cleanly and comfortable in the house, to know

how to keep out of the way when he is not wanted, and to be sufficiently

clever to learn all kinds of amusing performances.

Where, then, shall we find an animal that is capable of fulfilling all

these conditions?

There are several varieties of dogs which are well suited for general

purposes. There is the spaniel for example, faithful, affectionate,

clever, and docile. There is the poodle, perhaps the best “trick” dog

in the world, with his funny curly coat and his soft brown eye, full of

intelligence almost human. There is the Newfoundland dog, who is perhaps

almost too big to be a dweller within the house. There is the terrier,

an amusing, bright-eyed, agile-limbed, fussy animal. There is the

Italian greyhound, one of the most beautiful animals in the world, but

too delicate to please the taste of a boy. There is the Scotch terrier,

that odd, wiry-haired, clever creature, which has so often been

immortalised by affectionate owners.

[Illustration: THE SPANIEL.]

[Illustration: THE TERRIER.]

All these varieties are delightful animals, and we like them all. But

had we the choice of a dog, we should take neither of them, preferring a

mixture between the terrier and the bull-dog, provided, of course, that

each were of good breed. Many people fancy that a bull-terrier is a

dangerous dog to have about the house, and imagine that it is given to

biting without due cause, and is too savage to be turned into a pet.

But much of this misapprehension may be traced to the long-established

and popular error regarding the bull-dog. It is seldom that a favourable

account of this animal is given, and it is thought to be brutal, stupid,

vindictive, and irreclaimably ferocious. It is impossible to deny that

too many bull-dogs agree with this description; but it is equally

impossible to deny that whenever they possess such bad characters the

fault lies almost entirely with their master. “Like master, like dog,”

is an old and true saying, which has been based on the experience of

many years.

If the bull-dog is properly treated, if the owner makes the animal his

companion, and if he carefully studies its character, as every pet owner

ought to do, encouraging the good qualities, and gently reproving the

bad, it will be as gentle and much more quiet than a King Charles or a

toy terrier. Looks are certainly against the animal. There is, perhaps,

no creature with a more fell aspect than a thorough-bred bull-dog. Its

underhung jaw, its glittering teeth, its sunken eyes, its tremendous

chest, and lowering countenance are calculated to inspire terror rather

than interest.

Yet, when a bull-dog is managed with a due appreciation of canine

nature, its aspect thoroughly belies its true nature. We know a

thorough-bred bull-dog belonging to a friend, one of the fiercest and

most sullen-looking beasts imaginable. Every one gives the animal a very

wide berth; and we confess that when we first saw it we thought that its

owner was not acting very wisely in permitting it to walk about

unmuzzled. Yet this creature is playful and harmless as a kitten. Its

great jaws look positively awful as it opens its mouth, and until its

real qualities are known, it requires some little presence of mind to

withstand its playful rush.

For a pet, however, the bull-dog is scarcely suited, not being

sufficiently active or lively. The purely-bred English terrier, on the

other hand, is as mercurial a beast as one can wish to see; but it has

little steadiness of purpose, is apt to run riot, and is a rank coward,

not daring to face a rat, and having serious doubts before it can make

up its mind to attack a mouse; therefore the skilful dog-fancier

contrives a judicious mixture of the two breeds, and engrafts the

tenacity, endurance, and dauntless courage of the bull-dog upon the more

agile and frivolous terrier. Thus he obtains a dog that can do almost

anything, and though perhaps it may not surpass, it certainly rivals,

almost every other variety of the canine species in its accomplishments.

In the capacity for learning tricks it scarcely yields, if it does

yield at all, to the poodle. It can retrieve as well as the dog which is

especially bred for that purpose. It can hunt the fox with the regular

hounds. It can swim and dive as well as the Newfoundland dog. In the

house it is one of the wariest and most intelligent of dogs, permitting

no unaccustomed footstep to enter the domain without giving warning. It

will chase rabbits, weasels, rats, or, indeed, any game, with

unextinguishable ardour, and will fight any foe at which its master may

set it.

[Illustration: THE BULL DOG.]

One fault indeed it has. It is just a trifle too quarrelsome with other

dogs, and when it meets a strange individual of its own species, and has

gone through all the preliminaries of back-arching, bristle-setting,

_sotto voce_ growling, and the various performances with which two

strange dogs greet each other, it is a little too apt to cut matters

short by challenging the other to instant combat. Even this fault,

however, is easily overcome by a kind but firm master, who can impress

upon his pupil that it is not to fight anything at which he has not set

it.

And here let us make a few remarks upon the management of dogs.

Severity is not at all needed, but firmness of purpose is indispensable.

Patience and good temper are also two requisites, without which no one

should attempt to manage a dog. The animal must be made to feel that

when an order is given it has to obey at once, and not even the very

slightest act of disobedience should be passed unnoticed. He will soon

learn that lesson, and the rest is easy.

If you can procure a dog in his early puppyhood, it is certainly the

very best method, and you will not require a whip; but should the animal

have attained maturity, you may employ this instrument, but must use it

with the greatest discretion. If the dog is worthy of the name, you can

punish him in a far more effectual way by appealing to his sense of

shame than by flogging him; but if you once lose your temper, and begin

to inflict a beating on the animal, half your influence will vanish.

If the dog wilfully disobeys you, as will often be the case when he is

full-grown and is trying your mettle, take him by the neck, tell him how

wicked he has been, and give him one very sharp blow; not more than

one,--because if you do so he gets so frightened that he forgets all

about the scolding. Then let him have another chance, repeat the order,

and if he disobeys again, inflict another stroke. He is not likely to

offend a third time; and when he obeys the order, speak kindly to him,

praise him, and make much of him,--for you can do more with a dog by

praise than by rating.

With a dog which you have possessed from puppyhood there is seldom the

least necessity for severity. The creature is so accustomed to do what

his master desires, that he hardly conceives the possibility of

disobedience. Gentle firmness is all that is necessary in such a case;

indeed, we are always opposed to the infliction of pain, except in rare

instances, where it is the only means by which the animal can be taught

the necessity for obedience.

We cannot bear to see a dog look up to its master with the

half-frightened, half-shrinking expression which is observable in one

that has been accustomed to the whip. The animal ought to consider its

master as its best friend, and to run to him when it is in distress,

rather than to fear his presence and tremble at his voice.

The Rev. J. G. Wood, writing on this subject, says:--

“My dear old Rory used to be most abjectly miserable when he had

offended me. His frisky tail and pretentious ears would droop on such

occasions, his easy assured carriage would sink into a listless,

spiritless gait, he would hide his head like a naughty child, he would

not leave or enter the room openly, but would make the transit of the

apartment by slinking under the chairs and tables, so as to keep

himself out of sight as much as possible. He would crawl under my chair,

and after waiting some time in hopes that I should notice him, would

just push his nose against my heel, and then retreat again to his

hiding-place. He would not eat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor be comforted

by any one until I had spoken the desired words of forgiveness.

“And then, when the first words of reconciliation were spoken, how he

would advance with hope beaming in his countenance, still mixed with

diffidence, lest he should have mistaken the tone of voice. And when he

was quite certain that he was pardoned, when he felt my hand upon his

head, how wild he was with delight! How he would jump about, and run

from one person to another on his hind legs, and roll over on his back,

and pretend to bite every one in turn, and knock the cat over, and bark

until he had to be turned out of the room for the sake of preserving the

drums of our ears.

“Then how he would get out of the house, dash down the street at full

speed, come pelting back again, jump on the window sill, bang with his

tail for admission, and then walk quite soberly to his usual place, and

lie on the hearthrug just as if nothing had happened.

“There certainly are dogs whose feelings are quite beyond the reach of

human sympathies; but it is more than probable that their callousness is

attributable to the bad treatment of their owner, and not to any

inherent defect in the animal’s nature. In my little book, ‘Glimpses

into Petland,’ the reader may see an account of a ridiculous dog who

fairly got the better of me by simple vacuity and selfishness. I never

saw such a dog in my life, and I really do not want to see such another.

“Nothing could be made of him. He did not care for kindness; he could

not be influenced by the whip; he never thought of obeying orders; he

got into every scrape in which a dog could by any possibility fall; and

was altogether a hopeless subject. Had I been a novice in the management

of animals, I should have thought myself in fault; but being tolerably

experienced in such matters, I was at no loss to set the failure down to

its right source.

“Just before commencing this account, I received a letter from a

correspondent who had read the account of ‘Roughie,’ and wrote a

vindication of the Skye terrier, to which variety the dog belonged. My

correspondent stated that if the Skye terrier were obtained when young,

and well treated, it was one of the most affectionate and faithful

animals that could be found; but that if it were bandied about from one

master to another, it lost all its loving qualities, and became a

reckless, selfish beast. Such had evidently been the case with

‘Roughie,’ and thus his peculiar disposition was accounted for.”

We will now just run through the list of the dogs which are best suited

for pets. Of the bull-dog we have already spoken, as also of the

terrier, which, as we have said, should be, if possible, a mixture of

the two varieties. If you can secure a good healthy puppy from well-bred

parents, think yourself fortunate, and make much of the dog.

Do not crop his ears. If you have any sporting friends, they will advise

you to do so, tell you that it spoils the dog, and give you all kinds of

advice about it. Now, in the first place, it is reasonable to think that

the dog’s Maker knows best the kind of ear that is most suitable for the

dog, and frames it accordingly. If the short, cropped form had really

been the best, it would have been made after that pattern, and not left

to the scissors of the dog-doctor to complete the work.

So we say to our readers, defy the ridiculous prevailing fashion, and

oppose common sense to it. In a few more years this cropping process

will be pronounced obsolete and unnatural; so be amongst those who lead

opinion, and save your dogs the pain of that cruel and unnecessary

process. Not long ago worming was all the fashion. No dog was considered

safe unless it had been wormed; that is, unless the under side of the

tongue had been cut open, and the central tendon pulled out. Of course,

when a tendon is drawn from the living body and laid in the cold air, it

contracts and twists about. Therefore it was held to be a worm, and

everywhere believed to be the cause of hydrophobia.

Horses, again, were cropped in a most atrocious manner. Their ears were

clipped close to their head, and their tails were cut quite short,

leaving only a few inches of hair on the stump; so that the French

satirist was quite justified in his sneer against the English as a

people, who, he said, cut off the tails of their horses and the heads of

their kings. The French did both afterwards, with the addition of a

queen and a few princes. Nor was this all. The under side of the tail

was cut across in several places--nicking, the operation was called--and

then the tail was forcibly bent upwards, and tied in that position until

the wounds healed, and the member left immovable. Fancy the torture the

poor animals must have undergone, the fresh wounds being torn open and

exposed to the air!

Mr. Waterton, the venerable naturalist, remarks that in former days he

tried to aid the cause of humanity by his example, and rode a horse with

a proper allowance of tail and with uncropped ears. The experiment

failed. The “_arbitrium popularis auræ_” was pleased to declare itself

against ears and tails. There was such a commotion whenever the humane

rider ventured to show himself abroad on a horse which possessed the

abominations of ears and a tail--he was so mobbed, and his horse was so

reft of his tail by the urchins who wanted fishing-lines--that, for the

sake of the beast as well as himself, Mr. Waterton was obliged to

conform to the popular verdict, and dock the tail of his horse as a

compromise for his ears.

Now, however, the verdict of popular opinion has undergone a change, and

horses are permitted to wear their ears and tails; and the time will

come before very long when a dog will be thought as much disfigured by

having cropped ears as he is now thought to be when he is allowed to

wear those members in their natural proportions.

The only rational excuse that can be put forward for adopting such a

practice is that which is employed by the owners of game-cocks, when

they clip the combs of their feathered _protégés_. It is, that the

length of the ear affords a hold for an antagonist. But as it is not to

be supposed that any of my readers are likely to belong to that brutal

class of human beings who keep dogs for the purpose of making them fight

each other, we may pronounce that not one single valid reason can be

urged for depriving a dog of his ears.

There is the poodle, a delightful dog for a pet. They are docile in no

ordinary degree, and can learn all kinds of tricks without seeming to

take much trouble. Performing dogs mostly belong to this variety, and

very amusing are the tricks which they will learn. They will dance a

polka with easy skill. They will imitate a ball-room company with such

ludicrous burlesque that no one can resist the temptation of laughing.

They will walk about on their hind legs, on their fore legs, and have

even been seen to walk with the two legs of one side, the other legs

being held up in the air.

It was difficult to imagine how they could have been taught such a feat;

but it had been done by setting a board on edge, hitching the two legs

of the left side over the board, and making the dog walk along in this

attitude. After passing along the board three or four times, the dogs

found that they could lighten the labour by holding their upper legs

clear of the board, and so they soon learned to dispense with its

presence.

If you do have a poodle, you must wash him often and carefully, because

these long, curly-headed dogs are apt to give out a disagreeable odour

unless they are kept very clean. But do not on any account clip his hair

in the stupid and ugly fashion that is so often adopted, and which was

first imported from France.

In that country they shave all kinds of dogs in the same manner, leaving

only a ruff round the neck, a tuft on each leg, and a tuft on the end of

the tail. There are men and women who make the clipping of dogs a

profession. They have carts with pictures of dogs undergoing the

process, and they perambulate the streets in search of patients, just as

knife-grinders do in search of work.

When they have collected a goodly assemblage of dogs, they set off to

the river side, and take up their station under one of the bridges. The

poor dogs, which have been trailing behind the cart at the end of cords,

are now bound and muzzled, and miserable objects they look as they lie

on their sides awaiting the shears of the operator. The hair that is

removed is put into sacks, and sold, it is said, for manure; and the

dogs are returned to their owners, metamorphosed out of all knowledge,

and shivering at the slightest breeze.

[Illustration: THE POODLE.]

If your dog should be ever troubled with ticks and fleas, you may free

him from his foes in ten minutes. First tie up his mouth with a piece of

broad tape, to prevent him from licking off the substance which is to be

applied; and if he is not very well under command, tie his legs also.

Then lay him on a cloth, sprinkle him over with the insect-powder, which

may be procured in small quantities at No. 33, Newgate Street, and rub

the powder well into his fur from his nose to the tip of his tail. When

you have done this, roll the cloth round him, and pin it well together,

so as to envelop him entirely in its folds.

You may let him lie as long as you like, but ten minutes will mostly be

sufficient; then with a hard brush go all over him, and brush out all

the powder into the cloth. You will be surprised at the multitude of

parasites which will be lying dead and dying in the cloth. The powder,

insects, and all should be carefully shot into the fire, and your doggie

will be grateful to you for the relief which you have afforded him.

Perhaps next to the bull-terrier ought to come the Scotch terrier, a dog

that will hunt anything, and is always a quaint, independent beast, with

something of the lawless Highlander about him, but a capital companion

for any one who values dogs and knows how to treat them. Spaniels are

all beautiful creatures, very affectionate, and often very clever; but

their long, silky hair gets sadly bedabbled with mud and wet, and they

cannot be admitted into the house until they have undergone a careful

purification.

Whatever dog you may have, do not tie him up in a kennel, or, at all

events, allow the animal to enjoy human society for some hours daily.

Dogs are _made_ savage by this too frequent procedure, especially those

whose blood is purest and whose spirits are highest. A dog that is

chained to one spot is sure to be irritable and captious, just as would

be the case with a man who is tied to one spot. Even the kingly spirit

of Napoleon lost its grandeur and became peevish and fretful when that

restless and ambitious nature was confined within the narrow limits of a

rocky island; and we cannot expect that the mind of a dog should be

superior to that of an autocrat.

As to the food of the dog, there is one simple rule,--do not overfeed

him; and, above all, never let him have scraps at meal times. It is a

very tempting practice, for the dog is so insinuating in the manner of

his request, and his thanks are expressed so warmly, that some little

strength of mind is required to refuse his demands. Still it is one of

the occasions on which the dog’s owner must show his firmness, for there

are few more miserable beings than a fat, over-fed dog. His life is a

positive burden to him, and the only remedy is to starve him down to his

proper dimensions. Give the animal but little meat and plenty of

biscuit, feed it once only _per diem_, and you will be repaid by the

healthy and active condition of your pet.

Lastly, as it is likely that the dog may fall into one of those canine

ailments which are to dogs what measles and chicken-pox and

whooping-cough are to children, we will just give a brief piece of

advice.

Distemper is the most common and most annoying of those ailments; and if

the services of a professional dog-doctor can be had, let the animal be

placed under his care. If no such assistance can be obtained, the best

plan is to give the dog no solid food, but to administer gruel or weak

broth, to prohibit _every kind of exercise_, and see that the

ventilation and cleanliness of his house are as perfect as possible.

Leave the rest to nature; and when the patient is recovering, let it be

led about to exercise, so as to avoid over-fatigue, which would, as a

matter of course, throw him back again.

[Illustration]

GOLD AND SILVER FISH.

These are of the carp family, and have been known in this country from

the year 1691. They abound in the fresh-water ponds, lakes, and rivers

of China; nor are they, indeed, at the present time quite uncommon in

our own climate, being now naturalised in ponds, and breeding freely in

pure waters. At Hampton Court are to be seen some of the finest

specimens of the family, originally placed there by Mr. Jesse, to whom

the frequenters of that place of public resort are so much indebted.

They have increased to several hundreds, and many of them are of

prodigious size and very fat, being to fish what royal porters are to

men.

The colours of gold-fish are liable to the greatest variation: some are

nearly all gold, mingled with red; some are marked with a fine blue,

brown, or bright silver hue; but the usually predominant colour is that

of a brilliant gold. As an article of food, they are not used; and are

only valued for their beauty and gentleness. It is a curious fact in the

history of the gold-fish, that it will bear without injury the extremes

of heat and cold; as it will live equally well in a tank, in a glass

vase, and in a pond in the open air. Instances have been known of

gold-fish having been frozen hard and stiff in the water, but yet, upon

being gradually thawed, becoming perfectly healthy and well.

Although many preserves of gold and silver fish exist in this country,

the supply was principally from Portugal, where they abound. They are

brought over in large numbers about spring time; and then numerous

perambulatory gentlemen, having purchased a few small glasses of the

most inferior description, and fish at twopence each, very moderately

ask, and often receive, for a couple of fish, glass, and water the sum

of five shillings; but our young friends must beware of such persons,

for the fish they sell usually die in a few days or weeks.

The silver-fish differs from the gold-fish only in colour, which is

similar to silver tissue: it generally has scarlet fins, and is

curiously marked in different parts of the body. Both varieties are also

subject to variations in the fins, which are occasionally double; and

specimens have been seen with triple tails.

GLASSES.

The glasses, or globes, should be moderately large, with wide mouths,

and three-fourths filled with water. For two fish the globe should be at

least a foot in diameter; and for three or four fish, sixteen inches.

They should be kept in a cool place--never exposed to a burning sun, or

the heat of a fire. Too many should never be crowded into one glass. A

few branches of box should be kept in the globe, for them to rub

against, which should be changed once a week.

FEEDING.

Some persons fancy that gold and silver fish need no food. It is true

that they will subsist for a long time with nothing but water, when it

is pure and frequently changed. They are best pleased with such _jejune_

diet as bread or biscuit; but these should be given sparingly, lest,

turning sour, they corrupt the water. They will also feed on the aquatic

plant called lemna, or duck’s-weed, and also on small fry. Hawkins, the

editor of Walton, says that fine gravel should be strewed at the bottom

of the vessel that contains the fish; and he directs them to be fed on

bread and gentles, and to have their water frequently changed.

DISEASES.

You can easily tell when a fish is falling off in his health by

observing him frequently coming up to the surface of the water for air.

This shows he has not sufficient power in his gills to extract the air

from the water. He also looks dull, and his motions are languid; a hazy

or cobwebby appearance likewise seems to envelop his body, and perhaps

some of the scales will drop off. When a fish gets into this unhealthy

state, he should be immediately removed from the others, who should have

fresh water given them several days in succession. The best remedy for

diseased fish is to put them into a pond for a few weeks; and it is

especially necessary for female fish, which, if not so treated,

frequently die for want of spawning. A fish is sometimes saved by being

placed in a little artificial dam, made from some running stream in a

garden, for two or three days; but their diseases are at all times very

difficult to remedy. The best way is to prevent them by the

precautionary measures--plenty of room and pure water.

[Illustration]

THE GUINEA-PIG.

The guinea-pig, or restless cavy, is a prettily-marked, stupid, little

animal, which came originally from South America, and has long been a

favourite with most little boys, for when a boy becomes a youth he

aspires to keeping something more interesting than these senseless

little squeakers. Still it is a pretty sight to see the old ones

followed by two or three litters, and to watch their antics when

pleased, which consist of a squeak and a peculiar sharp turn, as if

they tried to jump out of their skins, but could not, for they are

fitted in too tightly for that. As for the use they are, why, they eat

and sleep--

“Just do nothing all the day,

And soundly sleep the night away.”

It is, however, a pretty, harmless, little animal; but as a pet is far

inferior to others that are more commonly kept. Though gentle and

inoffensive in its manners, it seems incapable of feeling the slightest

attachment for those who feed and caress it--even for its own offspring

it evinces little or no affection: it will not only suffer them to be

destroyed before its face, without making the smallest efforts to defend

them, but will even at times devour them itself. For all useful purposes

guinea-pigs are utterly valueless, though their flesh is used as an

article of food in their native country; and their skins,

notwithstanding the beautiful sleekness of their appearance, have as yet

been turned to no account by the furrier. Their only recommendations,

therefore, are the gentleness of their disposition, the cleanliness of

their habits, and the beautiful colouring of their coats. In this latter

respect they are very varied; black, white, bright reddish brown, and a

mixture of the three, called tortoiseshell, being the principal

varieties. The latter are the most prized, particularly where the dark

colours predominate.

In their native country they are generally of a pure white, with pink

eyes, and it is nothing unusual to have one out of a litter white with

pink eyes in this country.

Rats are supposed by many people to have a great antipathy to

guinea-pigs, carefully avoiding the place where they are confined. Under

this impression--which, however, is an erroneous one--they are

frequently kept by fanciers in their rabbit-houses and pigeon-lofts, as

a means of protecting their stock against the depredations of those

rapacious vermin. They are allowed to run almost anywhere, and to shift

for themselves: no attention whatever need be paid to the feeding of

them, the mere refuse scattered about the floor being sufficient for

their subsistence.

When, however, they are kept for amusement, their cages are generally

made precisely similar to the rabbit’s hutch, only of rather smaller

dimensions: their treatment, too, in most respects, is much the same as

that pursued with regard to that animal. Their ordinary food should be

oats given twice a day, and not too many at a time. They are also very

fond of bran, which is a cheap diet; and they will fatten upon it, and

keep healthy, if allowed plenty of exercise. Green meat should also form

a portion of their usual diet, particularly the wild sorts, such as

dandelions, sowthistle, plantain, &c.; tea-leaves they are remarkably

fond of, but these should only be given them now and then by way of a

treat; bread, also, they are very partial to, dipped in milk or water.

They are sold by all bird-fanciers; the prices varying from sixpence to

half-a-crown, according to their age, colour, &c.: as before remarked,

the dark rich-coloured tortoiseshell ones are considered the most

valuable.

[Illustration]

THE HEDGEHOG.

This, though a rough and prickly customer to handle, is a clean little

animal, and a great pet with country boys. If you have ever seen

one--and they are commonly sold at the shops kept by men who call

themselves bird-fanciers, or even hawked about the streets of London by

countrymen--if you have seen one, you are aware that, saving the belly,

they are covered with sharp spikes, and that when alarmed, or whenever

they please, they have the power of rolling themselves up into a tight

round ball, which shows nothing but spikes, and may be rolled along,

like a cricket-ball, without causing the little animal to uncoil itself,

while every spike is firm and erect as a needle, and almost as sharp.

While in this shape very few dogs can worry the hedgehog; and as for the

fox, who is rather partial to him, true to his wily nature, he rolls the

poor hedgehog along with his paws until he comes to a pool of water,

when the hedgehog unrolls himself, exclaiming, no doubt, “Hey! why,

what’s this? I can’t breathe!” and trying to peep about and see what’s

the matter, the fox, on the look-out, seizes him by the belly, and eats

him all up, saving the spines. Were you to thrust a dozen pins with

large heads through a piece of parchment, you would have an exact

representation of the spines of the hedgehog, every one of which is

retained inside the skin by the large pin-like head.

Some say that it sucks the cows, and draws off their milk; but this is

absurd, as its mouth is not adapted for sucking. Its favourite food are

insects and snails: it also feeds on frogs and mice, and will even kill

a snake, and eat it all up, beginning at the tail. The way it kills a

snake is very curious. It gives the snake a bite on the back, then

rolls itself up like a ball, remaining still as a stone for some time,

while the snake lashes and writhes about in agony; as soon as the snake

is a little quiet the hedgehog gives him another sharp bite on the

spine, and so continues until the snake is killed; then he begins at the

tail, as the Rev. J. G. Wood tells us in his “Illustrated Natural

History,” and eats him up “as one would a radish.” In a natural state it

sleeps all the winter, rolled up in a hole which it has filled with

grass, moss, or leaves; and when domesticated, it will hide itself in

some dark corner for weeks, and never once make its appearance, unless

it chances to awake and feel hungry; then some day you will see it come

creeping towards the fire, and be very glad to see it too. Hedgehogs are

great destroyers of beetles, eating them up as quickly as you would a

handful of raisins, and seeming fond of them. They need no looking after

at all, but will take care of themselves, though it is as well to have a

little hutch to put them into now and then. Their feeding-time is in the

night; and if there are black-beetles in the kitchen, the best plan is

to leave the hedgehog there, and let him devour all he can catch. They

have four or five young ones at a litter, which are born blind. It is no

uncommon sight to see a countryman with both old and young ones to sell.

You can buy a young hedgehog for sixpence, and an old one for a

shilling, or less than that even. We know of no animal that is less

trouble to keep, and in time it becomes so tame as to come out of its

hiding-place when called.

THE JACKDAW.

To procure a raven, an order to a dealer is almost necessary; but every

boy should be ashamed if he cannot catch a young jackdaw for himself.

These quaint birds make their nests in all kinds of places, especially

affecting old buildings, such as church towers, ruins, or colleges.

There is hardly an ancient church throughout the kingdom where a

basketful of young jackdaws could not be obtained within half an hour,

and old ruins positively swarm with them. It is curious to see how birds

of such different habits as jackdaws, owls, pigeons, and starlings will

roost amicably in the same locality, not appearing to have the least

distrust of each other, or making half the fuss about their

dwelling-places that is created nightly by the sparrows when settling to

rest.

Failing ruins and towers, he will take possession of deserted

rook-nests; and in cases of great distress, when the country is wide,

where men will not build towers, where rooks and crows will not build

nests, he is forced to fly for succour to the sea-shore and the warren,

and make his home with the gannets and the rabbits.

Many a person has been surprised, on looking into a deserted rabbit

burrow, to find it choked up with a strange mass of sticks and twigs,

and still more surprised when he has brought to view a couple of

jackdaw’s eggs, or hears the hungry cries of the young birds. This

seeming alliance of the rabbit and the jackdaw is not unique, for it is

observed in the Coquimbo owl, or burrowing owl, as it is sometimes

called, and the prairie dog of North America, both of which reside

within the same warren, and seem perfectly satisfied with each other’s

company.

[Illustration]

The sea-birds, too, receive the jackdaw into alliance, and whole

colonies of these grey-hooded birds may be seen hovering about the lofty

cliffs that bound our coasts, crying “Jack! Jack!” in inharmonious

chorus with the sea-birds’ wail.

Sometimes a young and too artless bird leaves its nest before it is

rightly able to use its wings, and is unable to ascend to the summit of

the cliffs, flapping idly about the shore, driven nearer and nearer to

the rocks by the advancing tide. The whole colony is roused by the

misfortune. They wheel about in the air over the unfortunate bird with

cries of distress; they do their best to encourage it to ascend; but

their endeavours are all in vain. Time after time it aims at gaining the

summit of the cliff, but strikes against the rock, and falls again to

the sands.

In some spots it contrives to gain an elevated perch, and then waits the

ebb of the tide; but in those places where the rocks afford no

resting-place within a moderate distance of the water’s edge the fate of

the poor bird is sealed.

Jackdaws are very easily tamed, and become very talkative, after their

fashion. Their vocabulary is, however, limited, and is mostly

restricted to the word “Jack,” which is uttered on every imaginable

occasion. If the bird sees its master coming, it calls “Jack!” in order

to express its joy; if it does not see him, it calls “Jack!” in order to

induce him to come. If it hears a strange noise, it uses the same remark

by way of giving notice; and if it hears its own name, it thinks itself

bound to repeat the word as a polite recognition.

It is a very vigilant bird, and is quite as useful as a watch-dog to

those who wish to gain early intelligence of strange visitors. It is not

nearly so mischievous as many of its compeers, but sits for the greater

part of the day on some chosen perch, and thence surveys the objects

around. A passing bee or beetle, however, immediately arouses its

energies: it pounces on them with unfailing certainty, batters them to a

shapeless pulp against a stone, and swallows them leisurely. It will

also catch mice, kill them by severe blows of the beak upon the head,

pull them to pieces, and eat them systematically, rejecting the skin as

indigestible and unsavoury.

As a general rule, it should be left out of the way of water; for it is

a positive slave to the bath, and would bathe so frequently that it

would not even give itself time to become dry. It may be fed on bread

and milk, oats, mice, small birds, insects, meat, or, indeed, upon

almost anything that can be eaten by the rapacious or frugivorous birds.

It is of an affectionate nature, and will attach itself firmly to those

who extend their sympathy towards it.

THE JAY.

The jay is a truly handsome bird, and will bear comparison with any of

the exotic species of the same genus. Although it does not possess the

exuberance of plumage nor the vivid brilliancy of colour that

distinguish many of the jays which inhabit the hotter parts of the

world, there is great beauty in the softly-toned hues of the general

plumage and the boldly-contrasted bars of azure and black upon the

wings. The moveable crest upon the head imparts a wonderful intelligence

to the expression, and when the bird ruffles up and displays these

ornamental plumes, a fresh charm is added to its appearance.

The jay is not nearly so common a pet as the magpie or jackdaw, probably

because it is a rare bird, and seems yearly to be diminishing in

numbers. It is not so impatient of captivity as the magpie, and will

bear confinement in a large cage with tolerable hardiness.

In its native state the jay seems to be rather more of a vegetarian than

the previously mentioned examples of the corvine birds. Still it will

eat meat, small birds, mice, insects, worms, &c., and has been known to

attack and devastate the nests of the thrush and other birds, and devour

the half-fledged young. But if any proprietor of a jay is desirous of

giving his pet an especial treat, he should supply him with a fresh egg.

Any egg will answer the purpose, but if the jay seems to have a

preference, the gaily-coloured egg of the thrush, perhaps, is most

attractive.

Like the magpie, he will soon learn to talk, and displays powers of

imitation scarcely, if at all, inferior to those enjoyed by that lively

bird. Even such sounds as the lowing of cattle, the grunting of pigs,

the bleating of sheep, or the neighing of horses, are reproduced with

marvellous fidelity by the jay, although its ordinary note is a soft and

rather pleasing cry.

[Illustration]

THE MAGPIE.

But what are we to say of the magpie, the very Mercury of the feathered

tribes,--light, active, eloquent, and the most accomplished thief in the

world? He wears all his bad qualities in the face, is not the least of a

hypocrite, and carries off his delinquencies with so impudent an air

that no one can help admiring him, however they may object to his

principles.

Not being so plentiful in England as the jackdaw, and building his nest

on the summits of lofty trees, he is not so readily procured as that

bird. He is, however, so extremely amusing in his manners, that most

persons would rather expend a little more money in procuring a healthy

magpie than give a much less sum for the more phlegmatic jackdaw. His

mischievous propensities are proverbial, and anybody who keeps one of

these birds must be prepared for the commission of every imaginable

delinquency. Nor must he blame the bird if it should happen to steal his

watch-chain, peck a hole through his best boots, fill his bed with

sticks and pebbles, upset his ink-bottle, tear his papers, put his kid

gloves into the dirtiest procurable puddle, or play practical jokes of a

similar kind; he has only himself to thank for his carelessness in

allowing it access to his domains.

But if he makes up his mind that under such provoking circumstances the

blame rests with himself, and that he will not be angry with the bird

for following the dictates of its instinct, he will find his magpie a

most entertaining companion, as full of odd tricks as a monkey, and as

playful as a kitten. It requires very little attention, and provided

that he be regularly fed, and furnished with a shelter in case of

inclement weather, he will live to a venerable old age.

The fertility of invention that characterises a magpie’s mind is

perfectly astonishing, and the anecdotes that are related by every one

who has watched his habits are as varied as they are wonderful. There is

an amount of self-reliance in the creature which betrays itself in every

gesture, as well as in the knowing twist of the head; and the triumphant

“carrack” that accompanies a successful piece of mischief and the

impudent flirt of the tail afford unmistakeable evidence of the bird’s

true character.

None of the corvine birds should be kept in cages. The jackdaw perhaps

suffers least from such captivity, and the magpie perhaps the most. It

has such a restless nature, that it is ever on the move, and if

confined, in a cage, may be seen hopping from perch to floor, and from

floor to perch, in miserable monotony of movement. Moreover, his

beautiful tail always suffers severely from contact with the bars of the

cage; and even if it is not rubbed down to a mere stump, as is

frequently the case, it is always rendered ragged and disreputable at

the tip.

As a general fact, the ordinary wicker cages are of small use. A lively,

active magpie, with all its senses developed, will make little of such a

cage. Sometimes he will direct his attention to the door, and never rest

until he has pulled it off the hinges. Sometimes he will set

deliberately to work, and peck so fiercely and continuously at the bars,

that he will break them away in splinters, and make his way out.

However, the best plan is to avoid cages; or if the bird really must be

placed in confinement, let the cage be roomy, and made of wire.

Perhaps the chief charm of the magpie is his great capability for

learning to talk, and his exceeding readiness to display that

accomplishment. Some individuals are more eloquent than others, have a

clearer articulation and a better memory,--just as is the case among

human beings. But though all magpies may not be peculiarly excellent in

their powers of conversation, they can all be taught to talk after a

fashion, and are seldom chary of exhibiting their powers.

A magpie has been known to imitate the human voice so perfectly that he

has induced his dupe to answer his queries, believing them to have been

made by the lad whose peculiar voice was so well simulated. Very little

trouble is needful to teach a magpie to talk, for his imitative

instincts are very largely developed, and he is sure to reproduce with

marvellous fidelity the various sounds which he may hear. He can bark

like a dog, mew like a cat, cry like a child, scream like a

costermonger, and occasionally swear like a trooper. But he means no

harm, and may be pardoned for the unrefined language he is sometimes in

the habit of using.

Magpies require plenty of water--not so much for drinking, although they

are always thirsty birds, but for washing. They are extremely fond of

bathing, and a plentiful supply of water is needful to keep their

beautiful plumage in proper condition. The food of the magpie is the

same as that of the jackdaw.

OWLS.

There are worse pets to be found than owls. They are not so immediately

engaging as many creatures that have already been mentioned, but by

proper management they can be made into very companionable birds,

quaint, grotesque, and affectionate withal.

The chief drawback to the owl as a pet is its nocturnal habits, which

cause the bird to sleep during the day and to be awake during the night.

To a certain degree this custom may be corrected. The chief reason why

the owl wakes at night is, that it preys upon mice and other nocturnal

creatures, whether mammals or insects, and must in consequence be able

to pounce upon them as they rove abroad.

Now, although at first to wake the owl will be found rather a tedious

business, and to keep it awake still more difficult, a present of a

mouse, or a small bird, or a large beetle, will generally rouse it, and

cause it to remain awake for some little time.

To change the creature into a wholly diurnal bird is impossible,

inasmuch as the entire bodily structure, as well as the temperament, is

that of a nocturnal being. The eyes, for example, are formed for vision

in a very dim light, being of very great size, and with pupils so large

that the ordinary light of day is painful to the bird, and dazzles it so

much that it cannot see sufficiently to direct its flight. Exceptional

cases have occurred, in which owls have been seen abroad in the daytime,

and been observed in the act of catching mice at mid-day; but such an

event occurs very seldom.

Even when the bird is placed in a comparatively dark room, where the

rays of the sun cannot beat upon it, the eyes are continually blinking

as long as they are open, and the large nictitating membrane is ever and

anon drawn over them. It may here be mentioned that the nictitating

membrane is a kind of inner eyelid, made of very elastic membrane, which

is gathered up in one corner of the socket, can be drawn over the eye by

means of special muscles, and returns by its own elasticity when the

tension is removed. It is peculiarly strong in birds of prey, and the

best examples of this curious structure are to be found in the owls.

[Illustration: WHITE, OR BARN, OWL]

In general, the owl sits, or rather stands, during the daytime, fast

asleep, having a very quaint aspect, the eyes being reduced to a mere

pair of lines, sloping towards the bill, and surrounded by the round

discs of stiff feathers which form a “splayed” window in the dense

plumage, and allow the bird a wider scope of vision than it would enjoy

if the aperture in the feathers were no larger than the eye itself.

Altogether the bird looks wonderfully like a Chinese mandarin of very

high rank, and consequently of great obesity; the sloping linear eyelids

being just as oblique as those of the Chinamen, and the two feather

discs representing the huge round spectacles with which the Chinese are

accustomed to aid their vision.

The position of the owl when at rest is rather curious. Instead of

sitting with its head reposing on the shoulder, its legs bent, and its

claws firmly grasping the perch, the bird stands stiffly upright, with

its legs perfectly straight and its head upright. Here we ought to

mention the popular error that birds sleep with their heads under their

wings. Not only is this mistake impressed upon the young, and fostered

by such familiar nursery-rhymes as that of “The north wind doth blow,”

but it is in force even among educated persons, who have learned to

observe as well as to think. In a recent controversy about fresh air and

human lungs some of the advocates for stuffiness and closed windows

employed as an argument the imagined fact that, when birds go to sleep,

they exclude fresh air by tucking their heads under their wings. The

force of their arguments and the accuracy of their facts were about on a

par. Many birds compose themselves to sleep, but no one ever yet saw a

bird put its head under its wing when going to roost. The real process

is simple enough, as any one can prove who will take the trouble to

watch a parrot or canary. The bird first settles itself in a comfortable

attitude, which varies according to the species, and then turns its head

round, and puts its beak among the loose feathers of the shoulder, the

wings being kept closed and held firmly against the body.

Owls may be procured in various methods. If the reader should happen to

possess proper premises, he will find that to attract owls will be as

easy as to buy them, and will give him better opportunities of studying

their habits. All that is required is the command of a retired spot,

where the birds will not be annoyed. A little ingenuity and the

expenditure of a few shillings will do the rest.

It is impossible to have a better or more complete plan of attracting

the owls than that which is employed by Mr. Waterton at Walton Hall. He

can, and does, attract all kinds of birds to his domain by the simple

plan of affording them a secure shelter and the prospect of food. In the

case of the owls the first precaution is the only one that is needful,

the birds being perfectly capable of finding food for themselves.

Possibly a few mice thrown on the ground might assist in attracting the

birds; but as they will come when no such precaution is taken, such bait

may be omitted.

There is a popular idea that neither the lion, the eagle, or the owl

will eat game which they have not killed. Nothing can be more opposed to

fact than such a notion: for the lion is generally killed by laying in

his haunts a dead animal, which he is sure to eat; the eagle is only too

glad to pick up a dead lamb; and the owl will carry off almost any

number of dead mice that are placed in its way.

If the reader wishes to attract owls to his premises, he must prepare

habitations for them. Knowing that the common barn owl, or white owl, as

it is sometimes called, is fond of resting in buildings, Mr. Waterton

has taken great pains to erect certain domiciles of which the owls are

likely to approve. A large hole made in an old ruin is sure to attract

the barn owl, especially if it be well sheltered with ivy, and a stout

perch across the cavity may be useful. There are owl-houses in different

parts of the domain, all tenanted by some bird, and most of them by the

inhabitant for whose use they were made.

The jackdaw is the most pertinacious usurper that can be imagined. Any

house that will suit an owl will suit a jackdaw, and the daw is so keen

at discovery and so quick at utilizing his faculties, that he takes

possession, and fills the hole with sticks, before the owls have a

chance of securing their home.

If the brown owl is wanted, there are few places like a hollow tree, an

article which can often be purchased very cheaply, set up in the

grounds, and its interior arranged for the reception of the birds.

A writer in the _Field_ newspaper has mentioned that he has been very

successful in attracting the brown owl by means of an empty

eighteen-gallon cask, made very clean, and fastened in a tree. A perch

was placed inside, a convenient entrance-hole cut, and a quantity of

very dry touchwood placed within. On this touchwood much of the success

seemed to depend, for wherever it was omitted the owls declined to take

possession of the cask. In order to fit it for its purpose, it was

carefully dried in an oven. The exterior of the cask was painted so as

to harmonize with the colours of the tree.

Should the reader be unable to fit up such a residence, he may always

purchase young owls at a cheap rate, and can train them after his own

fashion. In order to show how much amusement may be given by so despised

a bird as the owl, the following extract from a private letter is

interesting:--

“I saw a curious sight yesterday, which I think quite worth

communicating to you. Some folks about us have got a young owl just

fledged, and one of the boys had given him for his supper a dead swift,

rather high and gamey. While he was enjoying this dainty, a young tabby

kitten, æt. about eight weeks, came on the scene, and walking up to the

owl, deliberately invited herself to a share in the repast. Mr. Owl did

not express any objection, save by expanding his wings over his food,

_more suo_, whereupon pussy crept under the outstretched wing, and went

in for her share. It was droll enough to see the two going halves,

especially as every now and then the owl got pussy’s ear by mistake, and

she in like manner began gnawing at his claw.

“But the scene reached its climax by the appearance of five young

ducklings hatched on Thursday last” (the date of the letter shows that

it was written on Friday, and consequently that the ducklings in

question were just eight days old), “who surrounded the group, and did

what they could to help. The smell of the dead bird attracted, as I

suppose, many small flies, which hovered about and settled, now on the

owl, now on the cat, and now on the unfortunate swift. They had better

have stayed away, however, for the ducklings snapped them up as fast as

they alighted, while both the owl and the cat seemed quite to disregard

the pokes and pecks which their bodies received from the sturdy bills of

the ducklings.”

If the reader should keep owls in confinement, where they cannot procure

food for themselves, he must remember that they are hungry beings, and

give them plenty of food. They will eat almost any kind of meat, but are

very fond of mice and small birds, the latter of which they will mostly

contrive to swallow entire. There is no doubt that all the British owls

feed upon small birds when they can procure them. They have been

observed in the act of robbing the nests, in spite of the screams and

attacks of the angry parents, and the skulls, feathers, and bones of the

murdered birds have been seen in the pellets which all owls disgorge.

[Illustration: BROWN OWL.]

In common with most raptorial birds, the owls disgorge the indigestible

parts of their food, such as the bones, the feathers, and the skin; and

as the owl eats its prey entire, the amount of such substances is

remarkable. They are formed into egg-shaped masses, and may be found in

plenty in the nest or on the ground near the nest. In some parts of the

country these castings are called “quids.” When they are first ejected,

they are wet and rather tenacious; but they rapidly become dry, and can

then be crumbled down into a soft flock-like substance, which forms the

bed on which the eggs repose.

These eggs can easily be recognised by their peculiar shape and texture.

In form they are very globular, their shells are very thin, and the

surface is rough and chalk-like, as if some one had ground a piece of

chalk into coarse powder, mixed it with gum, and painted the egg with

the mixture. Any one who is experienced in such matters knows an owl’s

egg as soon as he handles it, even though he cannot see the object which

he touches.

Their method of eating mice is very curious, and that the owl should

derive any gratification from the process seems to be rather remarkable.

The owl catches the mouse with its foot--a member that is wonderfully

fitted for the purpose--and then shifts the mouse to its beak; in this

respect differing from the hawks, which hold the prey with the foot, and

only use the beak for the purpose of tearing it to pieces. At the

Zoological Gardens the falcons may be seen at feeding-time with the meat

in their claws, never taking it in the beak when they move, but hobbling

about with a lump of raw meat hanging to one foot, and presenting a very

absurd spectacle.

When the owl has settled itself into a comfortable position, it gives a

kind of snap and a gulp, and in a moment the head of the mouse is in its

throat. Another gulp and a shake of the head, and the mouse has

disappeared, with the exception of the tail, which hangs on one side of

the beak. This part of the process seems to afford the owl the greatest

satisfaction, for the bird remains for some time in this attitude,

standing perfectly still, but giving the tail an occasional roll in the

beak. Suddenly the head goes back with a jerk, the eyes close, there is

a mighty gulp, and the tail has followed the mouse into the bird’s

stomach. The whole process of swallowing the prey is very much like that

which may be observed in the toad, the gulping effort to swallow

appearing to be equally great in either case.

All owls can be treated in a similar manner, so that there is no need of

mentioning them individually. If, however, either of the eared owls can

be obtained, the young naturalist should not fail to do so. Owls kept in

captivity should not be placed in cages, provided that other

accommodation can be furnished, but should have a dark recess in which

they can sit during the day, and where they can always be found. They

are not easily seen by inexperienced eyes, as they have a habit of

choosing perches in spots where their colour harmonizes with that of the

locality. When properly treated, the owl can be made quite tame; but

unless it be taken when young, it is rather uncertain in temper, biting

very sharply. If any one approaches the owl, and hears a quick, snapping

sound, as if an elastic piece of wood were “flicked” against a table, he

may take it as a warning that the bird does not approve of him, and that

he had better not trust his hands too near the owl.

Any one can see how cat-like are the owls in their general physiognomy,

as well as in their nocturnal and mouse-loving habits; and they even

carry their feline propensities into peculiarities of diet. No animals

are less aquatic than the cat, and yet none are more fond of fish. Even

the best bred and most carefully-trained cat finds a difficulty in

resisting her appetite when she sees fish on the table, and she can

hardly have a greater treat than an occasional sprat, herring, or

plaice. Angler-cats are not uncommon: several that were accustomed to

haunt the water side have been known to catch the fish in shallow water,

and would even plunge into deep water for their prey. In like manner the

owl is a great fish-lover, and has been seen in the act of dropping into

the water, and rising again in the air with a fish in its claws. Now it

is an invariable rule with animals of all kinds, that these little

aberrations, if we may so term them, are conducive to health: a very

familiar instance is the occasional grass-eating propensities of the dog

and cat. The young naturalist will therefore consult the health of his

owl pets by giving them a fish now and then, as well as a few large

insects, in addition to their ordinary diet.

THE PARROT.

Among the vast multitude of birds which inhabit all parts of the earth,

or even among the many species which are found in our own country, it is

no easy matter to make a first choice. We will, however, commence with

the parrot; and before proceeding to describe the several species which

are generally in vogue among English fanciers, we may remark that the

parrots, paroquets, macaws, and cockatoos are found in almost every warm

portion of the globe. Many of the largest and most magnificent species

inhabit South America, while Australia is remarkable for possessing

several examples of this beautiful group of bird that are most

interesting to the young naturalist on account of their form, colour,

and habits.

One species, the Long-billed Parrot, or Nestor, scientifically called

_Nestor productus_, is now, as is feared, totally extinct, the last

known specimen having been shot some years ago. This curious bird was

notable for a wonderfully long upper mandible, very like a pickaxe in

shape, and employed in much the same service, being used for digging out

of the ground the roots and other vegetable substances on which the bird

was accustomed to feed. It is rather remarkable that, although this

strange land is very rich in the parrot tribe, none of them except the

cockatoo can be taught to speak, being apparently incapable of any

imitation of the human voice, and rarely uttering any sound except a

scream or a chuckle. Asia also possesses some very elegant species.

All the birds belonging to this tribe are furnished with rather big

heads, very large and curved beaks, with the upper mandible hooked well

over the lower, which is short and stout; and their toes are so formed

that they are divided into two opposable sets, so as to permit the bird

to grasp an object in its claws almost as if they were hands. In

climbing, an exercise of which the parrots are very fond, the young

naturalist will probably observe that the bird makes nearly as much use

of its beak as of its feet; and even when tame and accustomed to perch

on the hand of its owner, it aids itself in its movements by taking hold

of the fingers with its beak, although too gently to cause any injury.

The species which is most celebrated for talking is the Grey Parrot, a

well-known bird, living, when wild, in Western Africa, and being at once

identified by its grey plumage and short red tail. There are several

modes of obtaining this bird, such as requesting a naval friend to bring

one home on his return, or going and fetching one for yourself. But as

there are few who are so happy as to have an accommodating nautical

friend or relative, and still fewer who are able to undergo the perils

and hardships of a sea voyage, the best way is to go to a respectable

dealer, and give him an order for a young healthy bird. We say a young

bird, because the purchaser will then be able to teach it every word

that it speaks, and will find his feathered pet become far more familiar

than if it entered his possession when aged and with fixed habits.

Moreover, an older bird is very apt to pick up all kinds of phrases

employed by the sailors on board the ship in which it made its voyage;

and although such a vocabulary excites no particular surprise at sea, it

is rather too forcible and idiomatic for society.

The worst of the matter is, that the parrot is possessed of an iron

memory, and never seems to forget anything it has once learned, however

its acquirements may have been overlaid with fresh teachings. It has

often happened that a parrot which has behaved for a long time in the

most exemplary manner, and employed none but the most refined language,

has suddenly met with a sound which recalled all its old associations,

and induced the bird to pour forth a copious volley of language too loud

to be disregarded, and too plain to be misunderstood.

[Illustration: THE GREY PARROT.]

And parrots are just like children in their propensities for saying the

most dreadful things exactly at the most inconvenient times and to the

most fastidious persons, always choosing a dead silence for making some

deeply reprehensible remark, and invariably addressing their

observations to some lady or some staid ecclesiastical dignitary.

Parrots are marvellously nervous birds, and while young will often throw

themselves into such paroxysms of fear at the mere sight of a stranger,

that they will even endanger their lives. They have an odd and

unpleasant habit of scolding on such occasions, uttering loud, rough,

grating cries, as piercing to the ear as the sound of a file or a saw,

and stretching out their necks with ruffled feathers and agitated

gestures. Some birds retain this extreme timidity for a very long time,

in spite of all attempts to conciliate them.

As the management of the different species is nearly, if not quite,

identical, it is unnecessary to trouble the reader with a detailed

description of each kind of parrot and the mode of treating it; it will

be sufficient to tell him how to manage these birds generally, and give

a brief account of the country, form, and colour of those species which

are most commonly brought to this country. There are, indeed, so many,

that it is impossible to mention more than five or six sorts; but if the

reader desires to learn more about the parrot tribe, let him refer to

the Rev. J. G. Wood’s “Illustrated Natural History,” vol. ii., where he

will find the subject treated at length, and with large figures of all

the most remarkable species.

The Amazon, or Green Parrot, is so called from its colour, which is

mostly bright green, with some yellow and purple tints here and there.

This species is brought to England under the title of the Green Parrot,

the second species being more properly called the Festive Parrot. It is

much larger than the common species, being about fifteen or sixteen

inches in length, and having the feathers of the lower part of the back

of a deep vermilion.

Teaching this bird to talk is by no means a difficult task,--not nearly

so difficult, indeed, as hindering it from learning accomplishments

which it is not desired to possess, or inducing it to refrain from

producing objectionable sounds, whether articulate or otherwise.

In order to teach the parrot to imitate sounds, the best and simplest

mode is to take the bird into a perfectly quiet room, where it can hear

and see no one but the instructor, and will not have its attention

distracted by surrounding objects.

Then, after taking every care to render the feathered pet familiar,

speak the words, or produce the sounds, which the bird is required to

imitate, and be careful to avoid varying them even by the fraction of a

tone. You will soon see the pupil taking notice of the oft-repeated

sound, and it will presently hold its head aside, as if to catch the

tones more clearly. After a while it will try to imitate them, and as

soon as it makes an attempt, however imperfect, make much of the bird,

and give it a small morsel of some special dainty.

[Illustration: THE GREEN PARROT.]

Parrots are largely gifted with the faculty called by phrenologists

“love of praise,” and are in no slight degree incited by self-esteem; so

that it is possible to induce the bird to perform the oddest feats by

carefully working on these two propensities. They have an almost morbid

love of being noticed, and crave for words of praise with as much

appreciation as if they could understand their import. You can throw one

parrot into a very passion of jealousy by pretending not to hear it, and

talking to another bird.

One difficulty in the management of these birds is, that when you have

taught them to exercise their powers of imitation, they are apt to pick

up a kind of chance-medley of every sound they hear, instead of adhering

to one lesson and learning it thoroughly before they begin another.

Breaking them of the habit is a difficult task, but can be achieved with

ordinary care.

The simplest plan is to pounce at once on the obnoxious sound, and, by

never letting it pass unnoticed, give Polly an idea that it is not to be

uttered. If she persist in her delinquency, the best way is to scold

her, and put her at once into a dark closet, or throw a thick shawl over

the cage, so as to exclude the light. Parrots detest being left in the

dark, and it is surprising how soon the bird finds that her utterance of

the forbidden sound is sure to be followed by condign punishment, and

therefore ceases to be guilty of the offence.

Wherein shall our parrot live? This is a natural and a needful question,

and requires a few lines in reply.

Assuming that, in any case, the bird is to have plenty of room, as is

needful for a creature so restless and active, a cage is to be

recommended, unless the parrot is very tame, and there is no fear of

strange cats; we say strange cats, because Polly will generally contract

an alliance with the cat and dog of the household, and be on the most

friendly terms with them.

[Illustration]

A good form of cage is here given. As the reader will observe, it is

much wider across the top than is usually the case. This is to give the

bird room to traverse the cage, or luxuriate in its swing, without the

danger of rubbing its tail into a shabby and ragged condition. There is

a metal hoop suspended by a chain, and it is found that parrots are very

fond of getting into this hoop, and swinging about. The cage should be

made of galvanized iron wire, very strong, and at least five feet high.

We desire to dissuade our readers, in the strongest terms, from

purchasing cages made of brass wire for their parrot, or indeed for any

other bird. Brass is terribly apt to produce verdigris, especially in

London or in any other large town, and where gas is much used; and as

birds, and parrots especially, are fond of nibbling the wires, they may

be poisoned, and die a painful death.

Should, however, the bird be trustworthy, we would recommend one of the

common crutch perches, to which the bird is secured by a chain, having

one end fastened to a ring on its foot, and the other end affixed to the

crutch. If the room in which the bird is kept will permit the

arrangement, by far the best plan is to add a strong twisted wire to the

crutch, and carry it to the ceiling, as is done in the Crystal Palace.

The chain, instead of being fastened to the crutch, terminates in a

ring, which slides upon the upright wire, and permits the bird to mount

or descend at will.

[Illustration]

Polly will be charmed with this addition to her range of locomotion, and

the sight of his pet bird enjoying herself cannot fail to repay the

owner for the slight extra trouble he has taken.

Parrots are very fond of exercising their strong beaks, and are apt to

gnaw their perches so incessantly, that they cut them in two, despite

the hardness of the material. Prevention, they say, is better than cure;

and if the young parrot-owner will take care to give his bird now and

then a stout piece of elm wood, with the bark not removed, he will find

that Polly will prefer to tear and rasp away at the elm board to biting

her hard perch, where there is no bark to be stripped off.

[Illustration: THE COCKATOO.]

The pretty Cockatoos are always great favourites, their form being very

elegant, their colour delicate, and their talkative powers very great.

These birds are natives of Australia and the Indian Islands, and derive

their name from the peculiar cry of some members of their kind, which

exactly resembles the word cockatoo.

The two species generally found in captivity are the great Wide-crested

Cockatoo, known by the crest of broad and slightly-hollowed feathers

which decorate the head, and which can be raised and even thrown forward

when the bird is excited with pleasure or anger. The colour of this bird

is white, and the under surface of the crest is tinged with red. It

comes from the Moluccas, and is deservedly in favour as a pet, being

docile, affectionate, and very quaint in its habits.

The other species is the Lesser, or Sulphur-crested, Cockatoo, also from

the Moluccas and Indian Islands. It is easily known by the pointed

sulphur-yellow crest, which is continually being raised and thrown

forward. Both kinds can learn to talk to some extent, though they are

not such admirable linguists as their kinsmen the parrots.

The pretty Ring Paroquet is a native of the East Indies, and is a very

familiar inhabitant of our aviaries and cages. It is a gentle creature,

and most affectionate to a kind owner. It is mightily fond of walnuts,

and the bird can be kept in a state of great good-humour for an hour or

more by giving it half a one, and telling it to pick out the contents

with its hooked bill. The bird seems perfectly happy, holding the nut in

one claw, shifting it with great dexterity, so as to get it into the

best position for extracting the kernel, and uttering the while a

little, low chuckle of gratification. The colloquial powers of this bird

are moderate; but it does not learn so readily, nor repeat so

accurately, as the grey or green parrot.