On a wet stormy day in May a young unfledged bird was blown out of its
nest and was picked up in a paved yard where, somehow, it had fallen
unhurt.
There he was found by my kind-hearted butler, who appeared with the
little shivering thing in his hand to see if I would adopt it. The
butler pleaded for it, and it squawked its own petition piteously
enough, but I was far from strong, and I knew at what very early hours
these young feathered people required to be fed. I therefore felt I
ought hardly to give up the time which sometimes brought me the precious
boon of sleep after a wakeful night. Very reluctantly I refused the
gift, and felt wretchedly hard-hearted in doing so. I will confide to my
readers that in my secret heart I thought the poor orphan was a
blackbird or thrush, and they are birds I feel ought never to be caged;
they pine and look so sadly longing for liberty; even their song has a
minor key of plaintiveness when it comes through prison bars, and this
feeling helped my decision.
A few days after I heard that the birdie was adopted in the pantry, and
was being fed "in the intervals of business." When a few days later I
was definitely informed that the birdie waif was a starling, then I
confess I did begin to long for another little friend such as my former
"Dick" had been, and it ended in my receiving Richard the Second, as we
called him for distinction, into my own care and keeping, and month
after month I was his much-enduring mother. Most fledglings are much the
same at first; whenever I came in sight the gaping beak was ever ready
for food, and the capacity for receiving it was wonderful. Richard grew
very fast; little quills appeared and opened out into feathers; his
walking powers increased till he could make a tottering run upon the
carpet; and then he began to object to his basket and would have a perch
like a grown-up bird, practised going to sleep on one leg, which for a
long time was a downright failure and ended in constant tumbles.
He was always out of his cage whilst I was dressing, and was full of fun
and play, scheming to get his bath before I did, and running off with
anything he could carry. When he was about two months old I had to go to
Buxton for a month's visit and decided that I could not leave Richard
behind, as he needed constant feeding with little pieces of raw meat and
was just old enough to miss my training and care. He was therefore to
make his first start as a traveller, in a small cage, papered round the
sides, the top being left open for light and air. He was wonderfully
brave and good, very observant of everything, and if scared a word from
me would reassure him, until at last even an express train dashing past
did not make him start. It was very amusing to see the attention
bestowed upon him at the various stations where we had to get out. A
little crowd would gather round and stare at such a self-possessed small
bird. I was asked "if it was a very rare bird?" It seemed almost absurd
to have to reply, "No, only a common starling;" but people are so
accustomed to see a caged pet flutter in terror at its unusual
surroundings, that my kingly Richard rather puzzled his admirers.
When we began life in our apartments, one important consideration in the
day's proceedings was the starling's food. There was no home larder to
fall back upon, so a daily portion of tender rump-steak had to be
obtained, to the great amusement of the butcher with whom we dealt for
our own joints.
About this time the plain grey plumage began to be varied by two patches
of brilliant little purple feathers, tipped with greyish-white, which
appeared on each side of his breast. Some began to peep out of his back
and head. He moulted his tail, and had rich, dark feathers all over, in
time, till he arrived at being what he was often called, "a perfect
beauty"--glossy and brilliant, bronze gold and purple, with reflets of
rich green, and little specks of greyish-white all over his breast; this
richness of colour, combined with his beautiful sleek shape, made
Richard a very attractive bird.
When we returned from Buxton, I was so confident of the bird's tameness
I used to carry him in my hand out to the tulip tree, and there I often
sat and read, while Richard would pry into the moss and the bark of the
tree, searching for insects, and though he could fly well by this time,
he did not try to do so, but seemed content to keep near me.
One morning I heard his first articulate word, "Beauty," spoken so
clearly it quite startled me. I had been diligently teaching him, by
constant repetition, for many weeks, and by degrees he gained the power
of speaking one word after another, till at last he was able to say,
"Little beauty," "'Ow de doo?" "Pretty, pretty," "Beauty, dear," "Puss,
puss," "Miaow," and imitated kissing exactly. All this was intermingled
with his native whistle and sundry inarticulate sounds, intended, I
suppose, to result in words and sentences some day. Whilst talking and
singing, his head was held very upright, and his wings flapped
incessantly against his sides, after the manner of the wild birds.
Nothing stirred my indignation more keenly than the question so often
asked, "Have you had your starling's tongue slit to make him talk so
well?" I beg emphatically to entreat all my readers to do their utmost
to put an end to this cruel and perfectly useless custom. My bird's
talking powers were remarkable, but they were the result of his
intelligence being drawn out and cultivated by constant, loving care,
attention to his little wants, and being talked to and played with, and
made into a little feathered friend of the family.
Now must be told an episode which cost me no little heartache. Richard
was out in my room one morning as usual, when the room door happening to
be open, away he flew into the next room, and out at an open window into
the garden. I saw him alight on a tree, but by the time I could reach
the garden he had gone. I saw a group of starlings in a beech tree near
by, and another set were chattering on the house roof, but there was no
telling if my Richard was one of them. I called till I was tired, and
continued to do so at intervals all day, but no wanderer appeared. His
cage had been put on the lawn, but to no purpose. I feared I should
never see my pet again, because I supposed he might be lured by the wild
birds till he got out of hearing of any familiar voice. I confess it was
hard to think of my bright young birdie starving under some hedge, for I
felt sure he was too much of a gentleman from his artificial bringing-up
to be able to earn his own living. All I could do was to resolve to be
up very early next day, and call again and again, on the chance of his
being within hearing. Before six o'clock next morning I was seeking the
truant. Plenty of wild birds were about, the bright sun glancing on
their sleek coats--all looking so like my pet it was impossible to
distinguish him. I little knew that he was then starving and miserable
under a bush in the upper part of the garden. I continued calling and
seeking him until breakfast-time, and fast losing all hope of ever
seeing him again. About eleven o'clock I was returning from the kitchen
garden, with my hands full of fruit and flowers, when, to my intense
delight, poor little Richard came slowly out from under a laurel, and
stood in the path before me, as veritable a type of a birdish prodigal
son as could well be imagined.
His feathers were ruffled, his wings drooping, his whole aspect
irresistibly reminded one of the Jackdaw of Rheims; and the way he
sidled up to me, with half-closed eyes and drooping head, was one of the
most pathetic things I ever experienced. He so plainly said, "I'm very
sorry--hope you'll forgive me; won't do it again"; and certainly his
mute appeal was not in vain, for down went my fruit and flowers, and
with loving words I took up my lost darling, and cooed over him all
sorts of affectionate rubbish until we reached home and he was restored
to his cage. There his one desire was water. Poor fellow! he was nearly
famished. I think another hour would have seen his end. There is no
water in the garden, except in the stone vase in front of the
dining-room window, and he would not have known how to find that, so he
must have been twenty-eight hours without drinking anything beyond a
possible drop of dew now and then. I had to feed him with great care--a
little food, and very often, until he recovered a measure of strength.
He was very drooping all day, and I quite feared he might not live after
all, he was so nearly starved to death. After some days, however,
"Richard was himself again," and as bright and amusing as ever. I have
not related the amusing characteristics of his "daily tub." His love of
water was a perfect passion, and water he would have. At first he was
treated to a large glass dish on the matting in the dining-room, but he
sent up such a perfect fountain of spray over curtains, couch, and
chairs, that the housemaid voted "that bird" a nuisance, and a better
plan was devised. In the conservatory is a pool of water, with rock-work
and ferns at the back, and there is a central tube where a fountain can
be turned on. I made a small island of green moss a little above the
water, and, placing Richard upon it, I turned the fountain on to play a
delicate shower of spray over him. He was perfectly enchanted, and
fluttered, turned about, and frisked, like a bird possessed. As he
became accustomed to it, I began to throw handfuls of water over him,
and that he did enjoy. He would cower down, and lie with his wings
expanded and beak open, receiving charge after charge of water till
quite out of breath; then he would run a few paces away on his island
till he recovered himself, and then would go back and place himself
ready for a renewed douche. I never saw such a plucky bird. If I had
been trying to drown him I could not have done more, for sometimes he
was knocked backwards into the pool; but no matter, he was up again, and
all ready in a minute. He generally tired me out, and when I turned off
the fountain, he would either fly or run after me into the drawing-room
and go into his cage, which always stood there; and there followed a
very careful toilette--a general oiling and pluming and fluttering,
until his bonnie little feathers were all in good order; and then would
follow endless chatter, and he would inform the world that he was a
"little beauty," "pretty little dear," &c.
Starlings seem to have an abundant supply of natural oil in the gland
where it is stored, for his feathers were never really much wetted by
his tremendous baths, and he was a slippery fellow to hold, his plumage
was so glossy and sleek.
A word must be said about his temper; it was decidedly not meek by any
means, and his will was strong, so the least thing would bring a shower
of pecks in token of disapproval, and if scolded his attitude was most
absurd; he would draw himself up to a wonderful height, set up his crest
feathers, and stand ready to meet all comers, like a little fighting
cock; and when a finger was pointed at him he would scold and peck, and
flap with his wings with the utmost fury; and yet if a kind word was
said all his wrath vanished, and he would come on your hand and prize
your fingers apart, looking for grubs as usual. It seemed strange that
his habit of thus searching for insects everywhere should continue,
though he was never by any chance rewarded by finding one. A starling's
range of ideas may be summed up in the word "Grubs." It was always
immensely amusing to strangers to see Richard, when out in the room,
searching with his inquisitive beak in the most hopeless places with a
cheerful happy activity, as if he always felt sure that long-looked-for
grub, for which he had searched all the years of his life, must be close
by, round the corners somewhere, under the penwiper, behind that book,
amongst these coloured silks; and if interfered with he would give a
peck and a chirp, as much as to say, "Do let me alone, I'm busy; I've
got my living to get, and grubs seem scarce." Richard was the only bird
I have ever had who learnt the nature of windows, he never flew against
them; he had one or two severe concussions, and being a very sensible
bird he "concluded" he wouldn't do it again; he would fly backwards and
forwards in the drawing-room in swift flight, but I never feared either
the windows or the fire, as he avoided both.
Several times Master Richard was found flying about in the drawing-room,
and yet no one had let him out; we could only suppose that by some
mischance the door must have been left open; yet we all felt morally
certain it had been fastened properly, and there was much puzzlement
about the matter.
However, the mystery was soon solved by my watching Richard's
proceedings. I heard a prolonged hammering and found he was at work upon
the hasp of his cage door. He managed to raise it up higher and higher,
till by a well-directed peck he sent it clear out of the loop of wire
which held it in its place. Still the door was shut, and it required a
good many more pecks to force it open, but he succeeded in time, and out
he flew--delighted to find himself entirely master of the situation.
Then I watched with much amusement his deliberate survey of the room.
I was ill at the time, and he first flew to greet me and talk a little;
he hopped upon my hand, and holding firmly on my forefinger he went
through his usual morning toilette, first an application to his oil
gland, then he touched up all his plumage, drew out his wing and tail
feathers, fluttered himself into shape, and when quite in order he began
to examine the contents of my breakfast tray; took a little sugar,
looked to see if there were any grubs under the tray cloth, peered into
the cream jug, decided that he didn't like the salt, gave me two or
three hard pecks to express his profound affection, and then went off on
a voyage of discovery, _autour de ma chambre_. He squeezed himself
between every ornament on the mantlepiece, flew to the drawers, and
found there some grapes which were very much to his taste; so he was
busy for some time helping himself. He visited every piece of furniture,
threw down all the little items that he could lift, and, as I was
reading, I did not particularly notice what he was about, until he came
on a small table near my bed, and then I heard a suspicious noise, and
turned to find the indefatigable bird with his beak in my ink bottle,
and the sheet already plentifully bespattered with black splashes and
little streams of ink trickling over the table cover; such misplaced
zeal was not to be borne, so Richard had to be caged. When he was seven
months old, his beak began to turn from black to yellow. The colour
began to show first at the base of the beak, and it went on gradually,
until in a month's time it was nearly all yellow, though it was black at
the tip for some time longer. As time went on, Richard's talking powers
increased; he quite upset any grave conversation that might be going on;
his voice dropped at times to a sort of stage whisper, as if he wished
to convey some profound secrets. "Oh, you little beauty, pretty little
dear, 'ow de doo?" used to mingle most absurdly with the conversation of
his elders and betters. When he could not have his bath in the
conservatory, I used still to give him his glass dish, which we used
together, for he would never enjoy his ablutions without me, and I
became considerably sprinkled in the process. His delight was to have a
water fight, pecking at my fingers, scolding, as if in a great rage,
using his claws, and all the while calling me "Dear little Dicky;
beauty; pretty little dear," &c., for he had no harder words to scold
with; certainly the effect was most comical. When he supposed he had
gained the victory, he would settle down to a regular bathe, fluttering
and taking headers until he was dripping wet and delightfully happy, and
the next thing would be to perch on one's chair, and shake a regular
shower of drops over one's books or work.
Richard was not, as a rule, at all frightened by noises, or by being
carried about in his cage in strange places, but early one morning, when
he was out in my room, he flew away from the window with a piercing
scream of terror, and hid himself quite in the dark, behind my pillow,
shivering with fright, as if he felt his last hour had come. We found
out, when this had occurred several times, that his _bête noire_ was a
great heron, which used occasionally to leave the lake, and circle round
the house, high up in the air. It could only have been by pure instinct
that Richard was inspired with such terror whenever he saw the great
winged bird, and it showed that artificial training, though it develops
additional powers and habits, in no way interferes with natural
instinct.
The starling has a remarkably active brain; its quickness of movement,
swift flight, and never-tiring activity, all show the working of its
inner mind; but more than that, it seems to be capable of something akin
to reasoning. Richard sometimes dropped a piece of meat on his sanded
floor, and I have often seen him take it up and well rinse it in his
water, till the sand was cleansed away, and then he would swallow it;
and a dry piece of meat he would moisten in the same way. Now this
involved a good deal of mental intuition, and I often wondered whether
he found out that water would remove the sand by accident, or by a
process of thought; in either case, it showed cleverness and
adaptability. So also with the processes of opening the door of his
cage. He had first to prize up the latch with his beak to a certain
height, and then by sudden sharp pecks send it clear of the hasp; then
descend to the floor, and by straight pecks send the door open. If he
could not get the door to open thus, he understood at once that the
latch was not clear of the hasp, so he went back to his perch and pecked
at it until he saw it fall down, and then he knew all was right.
When the second summer of Richard's life came round, some young
starlings were obtained, as we much wished to rear a hen as a mate for
Richard in the following year. These birds were placed in a cage in the
same room with him, as we hoped he would prove their tutor, and save us
the trouble of teaching them. But no; Richard evidently felt profoundly
jealous of these intruders, and day after day remained perfectly dumb
and out of temper. This went on for a week, and then fearing he might
lose his talking powers, I was obliged to remove them and pay special
attention to him, to soothe his ruffled feelings. He did not begin to
talk until more than a week had passed by, evidently resolving to mark
in this way his extreme displeasure at others being admitted to share
our friendship--a curious instance of innate jealousy in a bird's mind.
For more than five years Richard was a source of constant pleasure and
amusement, and was so much a part of my home-life that when anything
unusual happened, in the way of a garden-party or a change in daily
events from any cause, one's first thought was to provide for his
comfort being undisturbed. I confess I dreaded the thought of his
growing old, and could not bear to look on to the time when I must learn
to do without his sweet, cheering little voice and pleasant
companionship. Alas! that time has come, and I must now tell how the
little life was quenched.
In a room to which he had access, there was a small aquarium half-full
of water thickly covered with pond-weed. I had left Richard to have his
usual bath whilst I went down to breakfast, and when I returned I could
nowhere find my pet. His usual bath was unused; I called and searched,
and at last in the adjoining room I saw the little motionless body
floating in the aquarium. The temptation had been too strong; Richard
thought to have a lovely bathe, had flown down into the water, no doubt
his claws were hopelessly entangled in the weed and thus, as was the
case with my former starling Dick, the intense love of bathing led to a
fatal end.
The sorrow one feels for the loss of a pet so interwoven with one's life
is very real; many may smile at it and call it weakness, but true lovers
of animals and birds will know what a blank is felt and how intensely I
shall ever regret the untimely fate of my much-loved little Richard.
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