Amongst all the different birds which are kept in cages, either for
their beauty or song, there is one which to my mind far excels all
others, not only in its vocal powers, which are remarkable, but for its
very unusual intelligence. I refer to the Virginian nightingale. It is a
handsome, crimson plumaged bird, rather smaller than a starling, not
unfrequently seen in bird-sellers' collections, but seen there to the
worst possible advantage, for, being extremely shy and sensitive, and
taking keen notice of everything around, the slightest voice or movement
in the shop will make it flutter against the bars of its cage in an
agony of fright, and it therefore looks a most unlikely bird to become
an interesting pet; but I will try to show what may be done by gentle
kindness to overcome this natural timidity. This will be seen in the
history of Birdie, my first Virginian nightingale, my daily companion
for fourteen years.
He had belonged to a relative, and there was no way of tracing the age
of the bird when first obtained; I can therefore only speak of those
years in which he was in my possession. Birdie had been accustomed to
live in a cage on a high shelf in the kitchen, well cared for, no doubt,
but, untamed and unnoticed, he led a lonely life, and was one of the
wildest birds I ever met with. For many months his flutterings, when any
one came near his cage, could not be calmed, but by always speaking to
him when entering the room, and if possible giving him a few hemp-seeds
or any little dainty, he grew to endure one's presence; then, later on,
he would begin to greet one with a little clicking note, though still
retreating to the furthest corner of the cage, and a year or two passed
by before he would take anything out of my hand, but this was attained
by offering him his one irresistible temptation, _i.e._, a lively
spider; this he would seize and hold in his beak while he hopped about
the cage, clicking loudly with delight. After a time I began to let him
out for an hour or two, first releasing him when he was moulting and
could not fly very easily. He learned to go back to his cage of his own
accord, and was rewarded by always finding some favourite morsel there.
Thus, by slow degrees, he lost all fear, and attached himself to me with
a strength of affection that expressed itself in many endearing little
ways. When called by name he would always answer with a special chirp
and look up expectantly, either to receive something or to be let out.
His song was very similar to the English nightingale, extremely liquid
and melodious, with the same "jug-jug," but more powerful and sustained.
On my return to the room after a short absence he would greet me with
delight, fluttering his outspread wings and singing his sweetest song,
looking intently at me, swaying his head from side to side, and whilst
this ecstasy of song lasted he would even refuse to notice his most
favourite food, as if he must express his joy before appetite could be
gratified. After a few years he seemed to adopt me as a kind of mate!
for as spring came round he endeavoured to construct a nest by stealing
little twigs out of the grate and flying with them to a chosen retreat
behind an ornamental scroll at the top of the looking-glass. He spent a
great deal of time fussing about this nest, which never came to
anything, but he very obligingly attended to my supposed wants by
picking up an occasional fly, or piece of sugar, and, hovering before me
on the wing, would endeavour to put it into my mouth; or, if he was in
his cage, would mince up a spider or caterpillar with water, and then,
with his beak full of the delicious compound, would call and chirp
unceasingly until I came near and "made believe" to taste it, and not
till then would he be content to enjoy it himself.
During an absence from home, Birdie once escaped out of doors, and was
seen on the roof of the house singing in high glee; the servants called
him, the cage was put out, but all to no purpose, he evidently meant to
have "a real good time," and kept flying from one tree to another until
he was a quarter of a mile from home. A faithful servant kept him in
sight for three hours, by which time hunger made him return to our
garden, where he feasted on some raspberries, took a leisurely bath in a
tub of water, and at length flew in at a bedroom window, where he was
safely caged. I never knew a bird with so much intelligence, one might
almost say reasoning power. He was once very thirsty after being out of
his cage for many hours, and at luncheon he went to an empty silver
spoon and time after time pretended to drink, looking fixedly at me as
if he felt sure I should know what he meant, and waited quietly until I
put water into the spoon. Another curious trait was his sense of humour.
Whilst I was writing one day he went up to a rose, which was at the far
end of the table, and began pecking at the leaves. I told him not to do
it, when, to my surprise, he immediately ran the whole length of the
table and made a scolding noise up in my face, and then, just like a
naughty child, went back and did it again. He would sometimes try to
tease me away from my writing by taking hold of my pen and tugging at a
corner of the paper, and whenever the terrible operation of cutting his
claws had to be gone through, he quietly curled up his toes and held the
scissors with his beak, so that it needed two people to circumvent his
clever resistance. He had wonderfully acute vision, and would let me
know directly a hawk was in sight, though it might be but the merest
speck in the sky. He once had a narrow escape, for a sparrow-hawk made a
swoop at him in his cage just outside the drawing-room window, and had
no one been at hand would probably have dragged him through the bars.
Whenever he saw a jay or magpie, a jackdaw or cat, his clicking note
always told me of some enemy in sight. For many years Birdie was my
cherished pet, never was there a closer friendship. As I passed his cage
each night I put my hand in to stroke his feathers, and was always
greeted with a low, murmuring note of affection never heard in the
daytime.
It was with deep concern that I watched Birdie's declining strength;
there was no disease, only weakness, and at last appetite failed, but
even then he would take whatever I offered him and hold it in his beak
as if to show that even to the last he would try to please me as far as
he could, but he wanted nothing but the quiet rest which came at length,
and dear little Birdie is now only a cherished memory of true
friendship.
[Illustration: ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH.]