Of the different kinds of ducks we may name the Rouen of France as a

fine and beautiful bird and a good layer. In England the Aylesbury is

the best, as it grows fast, is very hardy and lays many eggs. The Pekin

duck is much like it and is highly thought of in this country, where

large numbers of white Pekins are raised for market. The duck of India

is new to us but has won its way among duck raisers. It is the best of

its kind as an egg layer, its harvest being over one hundred and fifty

eggs a year. Its flesh is very delicate so that it is much liked for

the table.

While the duck is not so widely kept as the hen, there are places where

it is raised in large numbers. In the United States there are duck

farms in which as many as twenty thousand birds a year are grown. There

are no farms like this in Europe, though in some countries ducks are

raised in great multitudes. These are not allowed to grow old, being

sent to market when eight to twelve months of age. They pay better when

sold at this age, for after that new feathers begin to grow and buyers

do not want them.

If we turn now to the Goose, we find it a swimmer like the duck, but

larger in size and with a much longer neck. It belongs to the duck

family, but does not eat animal food like the duck. It gets a good

living off of grass and this makes it cheap and easy to raise. In

Russia, where geese are kept in large numbers, the goose girl leads her

flock every morning to the fields, lets them feed during the day, and

brings them home at night to the village. The goslings are given some

ground grain for a few weeks, and then are left to feed themselves.

[Illustration: An Assault by Hungry Geese]

The goose, like the duck, has largely gone out of the business of egg

hatching, turkeys or large fowls being used to sit on the eggs. They

are neither good hatchers nor good layers, the best breeds rarely

giving more than thirty eggs a year. But they are hardy and healthy

and do not die off like young chickens. They can bear cold easily, and

though a shelter is made for them in winter, they always sleep in the

open air in the summer.

The goose is a strong bird and can strike a hard blow with its wing.

In trying to catch them the keeper must be careful, for they are able

to break his arm with a blow and have done so more than once. But

they are good watchers for the farm. They wake very easily, and if a

stranger comes upon the farm in the night they make noise enough to

arouse the whole household.

This habit has given the goose a place in history. The Romans of old

kept a number of geese in the temple of Juno on the hill where stood

the Capitol. The goose was sacred to that goddess and it was the custom

to keep a flock in her temples. One night a party of Gauls, who had

laid siege to the city of Rome, found a narrow path up the steep hill

and were almost at the top when the sacred geese heard them and made

so loud a cackling that the garrison woke up and rushed out. Here the

Gauls who had reached the top were flung down the steep hill, stones

were thrown down on those that followed, and the Capitol was saved.

One of the best known breeds of geese is that of the Giant goose of

Toulouse, usually about sixteen pounds but sometimes twenty-four pounds

in weight. The Embden goose is still larger. The Giant goose of Italy

is the only good layer, and yields about sixty eggs a year. In Germany

and some other countries geese are driven for days along the roads,

in flocks of several hundred. They are not easily tired and are good

travellers, so that this is the cheapest way to get them to market.

As for the uses to which the goose is put, these are simply for food

and for their feathers and quills, which are plucked several times a

year. The fine, soft feathers are of much value for pillows and beds,

and before the steel pen was invented goose quills were used all over

Europe and America to make into pens.

[Illustration: Gander Hissing at an Enemy]

In England the goose is often roasted for the Christmas dinner, as the

turkey is with us, and the gizzards, heads and legs are sold in sets,

under the name of "giblets," to be used for pies. Goose liver has long

been a dainty dish. It is made in Strasburg to grow very large by

keeping the geese in a room at high temperature. In this state it is

sold as a great delicacy under the French name of _pâté de foie gras_

("pasty of fat liver").

THE TURKEY AND THE GUINEA FOWL

So far we have had to do with birds and beasts of foreign birth. As

men from abroad have peopled our cities, so animals from abroad have

peopled our fields, and we have not as yet met with one true American

in the list.

It is lucky that I have a native American to offer you, and one that

is in some ways the finest of all our birds of the farm. This is the

Turkey, the largest of them all and the choicest when roasted and

served upon the table. We may well ask, what would a Christmas dinner

be like without this noble bird to fill the place of honor?

There are wild turkeys still in our woods, though the bullets of the

hunter have left few of those once found there. These wild birds have

certain odd habits well worth speaking of. Thus the male birds keep

away from the females during a great part of the year, going about in

flocks of from ten to a hundred, and feeding on grain, seeds, fruits,

insects, tadpoles, lizards and such small game. The females go about

singly or in flocks with their young. They take care to keep away from

the old males, which have a bad habit of killing and eating the young.

Turkeys roost in trees but make their nests on the ground, laying from

ten to twenty eggs before setting. These are much larger than the egg

of the hen. The wild turkeys have small wings and are poor flyers, so

that when they try to cross a river a mile wide many give out and fall

into the water. But they usually manage to swim ashore.

There are two species of wild turkey in America, one native to the

United States and Mexico and one found in Central America. The latter

is somewhat smaller than our home bird but is finer in color, its

feathers being of a beautiful metallic-green or bronze color, with hues

of black, gold and sky color. The male turkey has a habit much like

that of the peacock. He spreads his large tail upward like a fan, while

his wings are made to trail on the ground. In this way he struts round

and round with great dignity, giving vent at times to a loud "gobble,

gobble," an odd sound of his own.

The tame animal has the same habits, gobbling and strutting in the same

way. Cared for and fed for the market, it grows to be a large and fat

bird, with plenty of rich, juicy meat upon its bones. It is its size

and the sweetness and delicacy of its flesh which make it a feast-day

favorite.

The turkey is fond of roaming about and does not like to be confined

to the poultry yard. On a large farm, where there is plenty of room to

wander, the bird will do well and find most of its own food. But the

young birds are delicate and hard to raise and it takes great care to

bring them alive through babyhood. The hot sun hurts them and so do

rain-storms and it is bad for them to get wet by running through long

grass. If they are carefully attended to for their first few weeks of

life and fed on food fitted to their young tastes they can be trusted

afterwards to take good care of themselves.

While this bird has long been one of the prized tenants of our home

poultry yards, the same is the case in Europe. There is a Mexican

variety, with a whitish tail, which was taken to Europe by the early

Spaniards and has spread widely in that continent, where it is raised

with great care.

There are few large farms in America and Europe on which these birds

are not kept--not in large numbers like the hen, for they do not take

kindly to home life and need much room to wander, but enough for the

demand. They are first-class hatchers, and will sit on from twenty to

twenty-four eggs. They also take very good care of their flocks and

guard them from harm.

The turkey, as we all know, is a large bird. It may be had of many

sizes for the Christmas table, from ten or twelve pounds up to

twenty-five or thirty. While much attention is paid to it in this

country, it perhaps gets still more in Europe. In our cities it is a

sad case when a family cannot have a roast turkey for its Christmas

dinner, and in England it is taking the place of the roast goose,

once the favorite. But the goose still holds a pleasant corner in the

British mind. Any of you who have read Dickens's story of Tiny Tim and

Bob Cratchit's Christmas dinner will be sure of this.

It is a queer fact that, while the turkey is the only American bird

on our farms, it is at the same time the only one that has been given

an old world name. It was early named after the Turks, under a wrong

impression as to its origin, and the name has clung to it. It is quite

as strange that the same must be said of the natives of America, who

were given the name of Indians from the idea of Columbus that it was

the land of India he had found. This name has also clung.

France is a country well suited to the raising of turkeys, and for

hundreds of years the turkey has been a favorite bird in that land.

Splendid birds are grown there, chief among them being the Solonge

turkey. This is a bird of a brilliant black color, though now and

then it is of white or steel-blue. They grow to be very large, one

having been sent to the poultry shows of 1902 of the great weight of

forty-five pounds.

This was sent to Spain to be seen and was visited in Madrid by the king

and queen. On its return it took cold and when it got well of this it

was killed by a fellow who did not believe in fat turkeys. The turkey

was revenged, for the murderer spent five months in prison for his

crime.

In some of the villages of France a woman is paid at the public cost as

a care-keeper of the turkeys. Every morning she gathers her flock in

the village and leads them to the open fields like the goose girl of

Russia. When she comes home at night with her flock she does not need

to pick out those of the different owners. Every bird knows its home

and goes there, never making a mistake.

[Illustration: Driving Turkeys to Market]

That is all we need now say about the turkey. The rest may be left

unsaid till the Christmas dinner, when the noble bird lies brown and

steaming on his back in the great platter. Then the carver stands over

him knife in hand and we hear from him the customary question, "Which

will you have, white meat or dark?" To most of us it does not matter

which so that we get a bounteous share.

The Guinea-fowl, of which we shall speak in passing, must be dealt with

briefly, for it is not largely kept in our home poultry yards, though

much attention is paid to it in some parts of the world. It is one of

the few gifts which Africa has made to our home-life family.

This bird belongs in the pheasant tribe and is found in Guinea and

South Africa. It also occurs in the north and was much liked by the

ancient Romans. But it is better fitted to warm than to cold climates,

and as the young are apt to die of infant troubles it is not kept in

large numbers in our poultry yards. Yet the bird and its eggs bring

good prices in the market.

The climate of Jamaica is just right for the Guinea-fowl and in that

island it has made itself at home, taking to the woods and to a wild

life. There it has become fond of feeding on the growing crops and is

hunted and shot like a game bird.

The special fact about this bird rests in its color, it being prettily

speckled with round white spots on a dark gray color of plumage. There

are several species, the best known being the common guinea, which is

often called "come-back" from its call. In its wild state it gathers in

large flocks and is very shy and hard to get near, while it keeps up

most of the time a harsh cry which Latham compares to a door turning

on rusty hinges or a wheel on an ungreased axle. In the farm-yard it

perches at night in high places and if disturbed rouses up the whole

neighborhood by its ceaseless cry.

The eggs of the Guinea-fowl are smaller than those of the hen and

rounder in shape. They are of a reddish-white color, and are delicious

eating. Many are laid and the female has the habit of hiding her nest

until the young are hatched out. The flesh tastes like that of the

pheasant, but is rather dry. It was served up at the Roman feasts, and

is much liked now by many persons.

It may be further said about this bird that it is at times a nuisance

in the poultry yard, for the male guinea has the tendency to attack the

other poultry and act the tyrant over them. Another habit is to scrape

in the ground like a hen. It also loves to roll in the dust and thus

free itself from insects.

THE SWAN, AN IMAGE OF GRACE

Next on our list of home birds is the Swan, one of the most beautiful

and graceful of the whole bird race. When afloat, like a winged boat,

on the still surface of lake or pond, with its snow-white body and

wings and its long, curving neck, it is a thing of beauty which we are

all glad to see and enjoy.

The swan may still be found wild, but it has long been tamed and kept

as an ornament of lakes and rivers and the broad ponds of country

homes. Here it may be seen gliding softly along, with its white wings

partly lifted, as if to catch the wind, and its neck gracefully bending

as it moves.

In ancient times the swan was called the Bird of Apollo or of Orpheus,

and was held to have splendid musical powers, singing most sweetly when

it was dying. But this is a fancy of the poets, for the voice of the

tame swan has no music in it, being only a sort of hiss, like that of

the goose. There is a variety of the bird called the Trumpet Swan, but

it is so noisy that few care to keep it. Also in Australia there is a

bird called the Singing Swan, with a voice that might be spoken of as a

kind of song. Some of these have been brought to Europe, but the common

swan has no sort of song, living or dying.

There is an American species of the swan, which in winter may be seen

flying in flocks as far south as Texas, but this has not been tamed.

There is also a black swan found in Australia, and now to be seen in a

tame state. It is deep black in color, except the main feathers of the

wings, which are white. It is not nearly so pretty as the white swan,

but when black and white are kept in the same pond the contrast is very

fine.

The black-necked swan of South America is thought by many to be the

most handsome of them all. Its bright white body and black neck make a

pleasing contrast. When tamed this bird keeps to its own part of the

pond, as if too proud to mix with common folks, and will fight them off

if they come too near.

[Illustration: The Black Swan of Australia]

In fact, the swan is always ready to fight if it is meddled with. Quiet

and docile with its friends, it does not like strangers and will make

furious attacks on its enemies. When the mother bird is going about

with her flock it is best to keep out of her way, for she is jealous of

her brood, and if the male bird is near he will not bear meddling with

his family party. He will attack men and dogs alike if they come too

close and drives away the other birds of the pond. His weapons are his

strong wings, with which he can deal powerful blows.

Under the law of England the swan is a bird royal. All swans found on

sea or river in a partly wild state are claimed as birds of the crown.

These royal birds are marked in a special way and whoever steals one

of the king's marked birds may be punished as a thief. The same is the

case with tame swans and with swan's eggs. He who steals or destroys

the latter is liable to a fine of five shillings for each egg.

The mother swan lays from six to twelve eggs, on which she broods for

thirty-six days, while the father bird keeps at hand with a sharp

lookout for meddlers. They make their own nests and take care of

themselves, though a little island is often built up in the middle of

the pond with a straw-lined shelter in which the nest may be made.

After they are hatched, the little swans take boldly to the water and

swim about in search of food. They are gray when born and do not gain

their dazzling white color until they are two years old.

Swans live chiefly on plant food, but they are also fond of fish spawn

and will destroy this in great quantities, thus helping to keep down

the crop of fish. In the tame state they are fed by throwing food upon

the water, though they may be taught to come ashore and seek their food

in a fixed place.

In Belgium there is a flock which has been taught to come to the casino

of the military officers for its meals. The casino stands close to the

canal and steps go down to the water. Every afternoon at feeding time

the swans may be seen coming up the steps from the canal and crossing

the street to the kitchen of the casino, where they make a signal by

knocking on the floor with their beaks. The cooks then throw them

food. After this is eaten they make their way, at the command of the

head-cook, in a straight line back to the canal, heedless of men, dogs,

or wagons which may be in their way.

[Illustration: The Graceful White Swan Swimming]

In former times swans were used for food, and it was common at every

great feast in England to serve up roast swan, there being special

rules how it was to be cooked and the proper gravy made. Swan's quills

were also used for pens. In our days it is seldom eaten and quill pens

rarely used, and the only value to be had from the swan comes from its

downy feathers and its large and beautiful wings, which often bring

good prices.

THE PROUD AND GAUDY PEACOCK

Among all the birds of the poultry yard first in display stands the

peacock, one of the most splendid in show of all birds. This fine

fellow, with his glowing colors and royal tail, has some claim to be

proud of his looks. Any of you who have seen him will agree with me in

this. For those who have not seen him I must try and tell what he is

like.

Rising from the head of the peacock is a crest of feathers of the most

brilliant green and gold, while all its plumage is richly colored. But

its finest feature is its splendid train, a great circle of feathers

which rise above the tail and which it can lift into a glowing circle

of wonderful beauty.

Of these feathers the middle ones are sometimes more than four feet

long. They grow shorter on each side till they form a complete fan.

All of these are spangled with eye-like richly-colored spots, so that

a peacock with its tail spread is one of the most brilliant objects in

nature.

Well he knows how royal is his dress, and dearly he loves to show

himself to the plainly-dressed ladies of his flock, strutting about

with full spread train and turning slowly round that they all may see

how lovely an object he is.

Once each year this proud fellow loses his fine feathers, and at this

time he tries to keep out of sight, as if ashamed of his plain attire.

But they soon grow again and once more he comes forward to show himself

to the world.

[Illustration:

Lippincott's Primer

The Peacock, the Most Gorgeous of Home Birds]

This bird comes from India and Ceylon. There is another species in Java

which is said to be still finer in its display. We are told that "its

crest, head and neck are rich green, the breast bluish-green margined

with gold, the back bright copper-color barred with green and light

brown, and the upper tail coverts rich green with gold and copper-color

reflections." Nature seems to have done her best to lay splendor on

this royal son of the tropics.

What else shall be said about this bird, aside from the beauty of its

colors? In its younger days this does not appear, the sexes being alike

in plumage when they are young. The male is three years old before its

days of show begin. The cry of the bird is a shrill sound like _Pao_,

and it also makes an odd noise by rattling its quills. It is given to

quarrels and keeps to itself at night, roosting high in the trees. Its

chief food is grain, though it also eats insects and worms, and if it

can get into a garden it is sure to make mischief before it is found

out.

In the woods of India the peacock is said to be often seen in company

with the tiger, though why no one knows. It is not easy to learn in

what way these two can help each other or what tastes they have in

common. If the taste of the tiger is for the meat of the peacock, the

bird would be likely to keep out of its way.

How long it has been since the peafowl was first tamed we cannot

tell, but the Bible speaks of it as being known in Palestine in King

Solomon's time. Alexander the Great seems to have brought it from India

to Greece and after that time it was well known in the west. The Greeks

and Romans called it the bird of Juno, and the rich Romans, who would

go to any expense to make a new dish for their tables, are said to have

eaten the tongues and brains of the peafowl. How many of the birds must

have been killed to serve for one foolish dinner!

In our days the eggs and young are said to make good eating, but the

birds are kept usually for their beauty alone, though their splendid

tails are used at times as an ornament.

THE DOVE-LIKE PIGEON

Is there not something very soft and tender in the word dove and in the

loving ways of this fine bird? When we speak of the Turtle-dove there

rises in our mind an image of tenderness and love which never comes to

us when the Pigeon is named. Yet these two are the same. Pigeon and

dove are two names for one family of birds.

Long ago the species known as the rock-pigeon was tamed, and this is

the one that lives with us in such numbers as one of our chief home

birds. The place we keep him in is often called the dove-cot, and in

this way the two names are still kept together. The wild rock-pigeon,

the ancestor of our tame pigeon, is also known as the ring-dove, so

that the term dove-cot fits very well.

The pigeon is our one bird of the air. The other tenants of the poultry

yard have long given up the art of flying, except for a very short

distance, but the pigeon is a great flyer still and spends much of its

time on the wing. It is indeed one of the fastest of flyers and thinks

little of a journey of a hundred miles through the air. But it never

forgets its home and if taken away will wing its way straight back

again.

The pigeon has been a companion of man for ages past. It is spoken of

in the annals of Egypt at a date five thousand years ago and has been

at home in city and village ever since. With its wonderful power of

flight it seems strange that it does not leave us never to return, but

as it has nothing to escape from and much to come back to, the pigeon

can be trusted with the fullest liberty.

It is, in truth, a trusty bird, gentle and lively in nature, fond

of society and faithful to its own. It loves its home, and tenderly

caresses its mate, with a graceful show of affection. Under its name of

the dove it has long been held as the emblem of peace and innocence,

and the phrase "billing and cooing," so often applied to lovers, is

taken from its love-making methods.

In the old countries of Asia the pigeon was held to be a sacred bird.

In Greece it was the bird of Venus and was kept in great flocks around

the temples of this goddess. From Greece it spread to Rome and thence

to all Europe, and in time became the Christian symbol of immortal

life, the white dove being looked upon as the bearer of souls to

heaven. This idea still survives and less than two weeks ago I saw a

beautiful white pigeon set free over a grave and fly upward as one on a

heavenly errand.

In the city of Venice the pigeon is a favorite bird that has won the

affection of the people. Clouds of them circle around the cupola of

St. Mark's church and the roof of the Doge's palace, and the man who

sought to catch or harm them would do so at peril of death from the

people.

Birds build all sorts of nests, some good, some bad, some very bad.

Those of the wild pigeon belong among the very bad, and there is a

reason for this, if we can believe a story that is told about our

feathered friend.

This story says that the father of all the pigeons tried his best to

make a good nest but kept making bad ones. In the end he asked the

magpie, who made fine nests, to show him how it was done. He agreed to

give the magpie a cow in return for a lesson. After watching the magpie

for a few minutes he said that he knew all he wanted to and would not

give the cow.

A judge was called to settle this case, the verdict being that the

pigeon had broken his contract and could not claim any further lessons.

So ever since that time the pigeon has built the worst kind of nests.

The pigeon nest-builder is here spoken of as "he," for it is the male

bird that builds the nest, the duty of the female being to supply the

eggs. And he also takes part in sitting on the two eggs with which the

female begins her brood. The young pigeon is a blind and helpless bird

when it comes from the egg. It is at first fed with a sort of broth

made in the crop of its parents, and all through its bird babyhood it

needs close care, both from its father and mother and from its owners.

A dainty and pretty bird it grows to be, one that charms us by its

fine shape and its rich colors,--blue, gray, red, yellow, white or

brown,--also by its swift and graceful flight. It needs to trust to its

wings to escape its enemies, for neither its claws nor its beak are

made for fighting. But its eyes are sharp and its great swiftness saves

it from harm. So keen is its sight that it can see a morsel of food,

such as a pea or seed, at a long distance. A quick swoop, and it has

the food in its beak.

Much might be said about the care of the dove-cot or pigeon-house, but

it is too long a story to be given here. We can only say that much

needs to be done in keeping the house clean and fit for its purpose

and in caring for the birds. Its diet is made up of peas, beans, corn,

oats, barley and potato, with hemp seed for a special delicacy, while

it picks up many other bits of food in its daily flights.

It is wonderful how many kinds of tame pigeons have come from their

wild ancestor, the rock-pigeon. Of no other animal except the dog are

there so many and it is hard to believe that they all came from one

source. A few of them may be named, for the whole list is far too large

for our space.

Among the various kinds may first be named the Tumbler pigeon. This

bird flies to a great height, then sinks and soars in circles and

curves, turning somersaults in the air. All at once it drops down

in nearly a straight line; then stops short, hovers on its spread

wings, and flies upward to begin the play again. A flock of these

tumblers will keep in the air for hours at a time, enjoying themselves

and pleasing their friends below. Of these tumblers there are many

varieties, different in color, shape and size.

A very odd kind of pigeon is the Pouter, in which the breast stands out

until it is like a great food chest, for the swelling is due to the

great size of the upper stomach. As a result the head is thrown back

almost out of sight behind this swollen chest. This gives the bird a

sulky, pouting air, from which comes its name of pouter.

Of the other kinds we may speak of the Frilled pigeons, with the breast

feathers frizzed like a shirt frill; the Fan-tails, the tails of

which spread out in the fashion of those of the peacock; the Russian

Drum-pigeons, which do not coo, but make a sound like the roll of a

drum; the Capuchin, with a white hood and tail and a dark tuft on its

forehead; and the Lark, Magpie, Swallow, and Starling-necked pigeons,

all with something to suggest these titles.

So far we have said nothing of the Carrier pigeon, for that claims a

place for itself. It is a bird of noble bearing, with no show of fine

feathers, since it looks more like a wild than a tame bird, but with

a splendid power of flight, one which no other pigeon can match. Its

great value is that when taken to a long distance it has a wonderful

power of finding its way home. This makes it of much use as a messenger

bird, a kind of natural telegraph which was used centuries before any

other telegraph was thought of.

[Illustration: Pigeon Types. Carrier and Short Faced Tumbler]

No one knows how the carrier pigeon finds its way home. Most likely its

keen power of sight has much to do with this. When set free, it flies

upward into the air in widening circles to a great height, as if trying

to see something known to it in the far distance. In the end it darts

off in a straight line, which ends only when it has reached its mate in

the home dove-cot. Of course it needs to be trained to this by shorter

flights, but a well-trained pigeon will find its home when a hundred

miles or more away. The message is written on a piece of very thin,

light paper, tied under the bird's wing or to its leg.

The history of the carrier pigeon goes far back in time. In the days

of ancient Greece winners in the public games sent word of their

victory to their friends by pigeon post. A real pigeon postal-system

was founded in the Arabian empire by the Sultan Noureddin, who died in

1174, and this was kept up until 1258, when Bagdad, the capital, was

taken and destroyed by the Mongols.

In later years, during the wars of Napoleon, large gains are said to

have been made by the Rothschilds, the famous bankers, who received

news of great events by pigeon post and used those news for stock

buying and selling. The newspaper press has also made much use of

messenger pigeons. The greatest case of this was in 1870, when the city

of Paris was besieged by the German army and all the telegraph wires

were down. News was sent out from Paris, in microscopical writing so

fine that a single bird could carry thousands of messages at once.

Military pigeons are still trained for use in case any war should

arise. In the German city of Cologne there is a station with five or

six hundred pigeons, trained to fly to the fortified places of the

empire.

THE OSTRICH AND ITS SPLENDID PLUMES

After our talk about the pigeon, with its swift powers of flight, we

now come to a bird which has no power of flight at all, yet which

is of much value to us from the splendid feathers of its wings. It

would take strong wings indeed to lift from the ground the ostrich,

the largest of all birds, standing six to eight feet high. But what it

lacks in wings it makes up in legs, for it is a wonderful runner, being

able to outrun the fastest horse. As it runs it spreads its wings,

which seem to act as sails.

The ostrich has often been tamed and thus it may be classed with birds

of the home, though much too large for the poultry yard. It grows quite

friendly to those who have it in charge, but does not like strangers

and is apt to attack them in a violent manner. As these birds are

plentiful in the great Sahara desert, they were often kept by the

Romans and used in their public shows. They were also used as food, and

a glutton among the Roman emperors is said to have had the brains of a

large number of ostriches served up to him in a single dish.

The people of Africa are very fond of ostrich eggs and travellers in

that land also speak well of them. Each egg weighs about three pounds,

so that one of them is equal to about two dozen hen's eggs. The egg is

cooked by being set on end in a fire and its contents stirred about

with a stick thrust into a hole in the upper end. The shell is so thick

and strong that it is used in Africa as a water vessel.

It is not for its brain or its eggs that the ostrich is kept in our

days, but for its fine plumes. These bring such high prices that the

birds are tamed and kept on what are called ostrich farms in order to

get a good supply of those rare feathers. The first farms were started

in South Africa in 1869, and they have since spread to other countries.

The birds need warm regions, the only states fitted for them in this

country being California and Florida.

[Illustration: On a California Ostrich Farm]

The long, white, beautiful ostrich plumes so highly prized by ladies

all over the world grow in the ends of the wings of the male birds. A

good bird, in the prime of its life, will yield from twenty to forty of

these, and also a few black feathers from the wings. The tail feathers

are of much less beauty and value.

In the early days of the industry the feathers were worth $500 a pound

and the plumes of one bird would sometimes bring $125. But they have

now become so plentiful that the price has gone down to less than

one-tenth of these figures.

To pluck the feathers, the bird is put in a box of such small size

that it cannot kick. It does not enjoy the plucking, and a kick from

its great leg is enough to break a man's bones. We can understand its

feelings, for the feathers used to be cruelly pulled out by the roots.

Now they are cut, leaving the roots of the quills, which can be pulled

out easily in a month or two. As for the use and beauty of these superb

plumes we need only to view the hat of a lady which is adorned by one

or more of them. The whole bird kingdom yields nothing more beautiful.

[Illustration]

VI

WINGED AND TUNEFUL HOME PETS

If you look back over the earlier pages of this book, you will find

that it deals with animals in some way of use to man, creatures that

guard his houses, help him in his sports, serve him as food, carry him

on their backs, haul his carts and wagons, and in other ways help him

to live and thrive.

But our home friends are not all of this useful kind. There are some

that we keep just because we like to have them with us, and make

friends of for their sweet songs, their beauty of form or color, and

the love they give us for the love we give them. These are the song

birds of the home, the pretty little winged warblers which we keep in

cages to save them from the prowling cat and to hinder them from flying

away, but which we do all we can to make happy and joyous, and which

pay us back in their own charming way.

There are many of these cage-pets. The one that we see most of is the

canary, but there are many others for which we find room in our homes

and are as glad to keep as they seem glad to be kept. Among these

birds of the cage and the aviary are the linnet and the bullfinch,

admired for their beauty of color; the mocking bird, with its wonderful

power of imitating the songs of all the feathered brood; the thrush, a

singer of fine powers; the finch, with its cheerful whistle, especially

the bullfinch, splendid in color and varied in song; the bunting, the

lark, the wagtail, and various others admired for beauty or sweetness

of song; and to these we must add the strange and amusing bird talkers,

such as the parrot, which has wonderful powers of learning words and

fitting them into the right place, a bird that fairly makes us jump at

times by the neat way in which it says the right thing at the right

time. Then there are the magpie, the jackdaw, and the starling, ready

talkers and good company for the lonely.

THE CANARY AND ITS SONG

Of the home birds the gold-hued Canary comes first, as the chief

favorite among them all. From its native home on the Canary Islands it

has been taken to Europe and America and kept so long in cages that it

has quite forgotten its old-time liberty, so that a canary-bird escaped

from its cage is the most helpless creature in the feathered flock, and

is likely to become the prey of the cat if not captured and brought

back to its cage-home.

The wild canary is not noted for its beauty and not greatly for its

song. It is found in large numbers in the Canary, Madeira, and Cape

Verde Islands, and is of a greenish-yellow color, with gray tail and

wings. It is the art of man which has made the home bird what it is

and has given it its color and its fine vocal powers. When the Canary

Islands were occupied by the Spaniard in 1478 these birds were taken in

large numbers to Spain, from which they spread over Europe, becoming

the pets of many a cottage and castle home. In many of the old pictures

we see their little forms, now perched in a corner, now sitting on a

lady's finger.

The canary belongs to the family of finches, its place being between

the linnet and the goldfinch. In its native islands it dwells near

man, building its nest--of moss, feathers, hair, etc.--in thick, bushy

places. The hen-bird lays an egg every day until from four to six are

in the nest, on which she begins to sit. In thirteen days the young

birds appear and in thirteen more they are able to fly, but their

parents feed them for some time longer, on grass seeds or other plant

food.

We must say that this bird enjoys cage-life, for it seems very happy

in its narrow home. It becomes quite tame and fearless, grows to love

its mistress, and sings with a freedom that speaks of a joyful heart.

In its wild state it is fond of bathing, and it is needful to give it a

frequent bath in its cage, if it is to be kept well and tuneful.

The cage-canary is a home bird, unlike the bird of the free air. It

has been made over by man and fitted for its new life. Early in its

cage career the country people around Innsbruck, in the Tyrol, became

active in raising these little vocalists, and from there they spread to

Germany and the Netherlands. To-day they are raised in large numbers

in the Hartz Mountain region of Germany, where great care is taken

in teaching them to sing. They are also raised and taught in other

countries.

The canary is very ready to take on new songs and its trainer is

careful to keep it from falling into bad habits. If a bird happens to

hear a bad note it is apt to take it up and it is hard to break it of

the fault. So the good singers are kept where they cannot hear those of

poor voice, and a number of the finest singers are kept as models to

teach the young birds how to sing.

Bird lovers have their tastes. Some like a loud song, with high notes

and long trills. Others prefer a soft, warbling, flute-like note, with

clear flourishes of song, and no one likes these to be broken by a

sharp "Chap-chap" or "tsi-tsi" or other vocal fault.

It takes nearly a year for a canary to gain its education. In that time

it will learn several airs. Some of these may be forgotten, and then

the model songster is brought near so that they may be learned again.

It is said that some canaries have even been taught to speak a few

words.

Sometimes a bird that has a shrill or too sharp note is kept in the

shade until this is corrected. And the canary often sings better in

the little cages of the dealers than in the large, fine cages of its

final home. Thus singing birds as well as singing people have their own

fancies.

Rape and hemp seeds are the principal food of these birds. A little

flax-seed is also good for them, as it helps to fatten them. They are

fond of flowering groundsel and chickweed and a very small supply of

these is good for their health. They also have a sweet tooth and are

very fond of sugar.

Shall we say something about the different breeds of canaries? There

are numbers of them and each country has its own. We can tell the

breeds apart by their shape and song. Thus the English canaries are

very tall, with a tuft or top-knot on the head. The French breed is

noted for its slender form. In Germany more heed is paid to song than

to shape. Holland was long known for a fine, strong race which is still

called the Dutch canary, though it is no longer to be found in that

country. In the United States shape and color are the points looked

after, birds of elegant form being preferred.

The Belgian canaries have been called the "nobles" of the canary race.

They are large, with narrow, flattish head and very gentle eyes. The

neck is flexible, the head is carried straight forward and the back

and tail bend almost straight downward, this giving the bird an odd

appearance. Its little form and the way it carries its head, with the

mild look in its eyes, are notable points. The Scotch Fancy canary, now

common in England and the United States, is like the Belgian but has a

much flatter head.

THE MARVELLOUS MOCKING BIRD

We have said much about the canary because it is far the most common of

cage-birds, but we have at home a bird of our own, not so often kept in

cages, but in its way one of the most marvellous of birds. This is the

Mocking-bird, a native American with so rich and tender a voice that in

the West Indies, where it is very common, it is called the nightingale.

This is due both to the melody of its song and its habit of singing at

night.

It is not quiet in the day-time, but then shows its powers in a

different way. It is this that gives it the name of mocking bird,

for it has a wonderful power of taking up the songs of other birds,

imitating them so exactly as to cheat the ears of all that listen.

Now it takes up the song of one bird, now of another, and fills the

air with its fine mockery. By night, when other birds are apt to be

still, it keeps to its sweet native song, but by day takes delight

in its strange faculty of imitation. Not only does it repeat musical

tones, but also the harshest tones it hears, making of it all a strange

medley.

[Illustration: The Mocking Bird. No other Bird has such Versatile

Vocal Powers]

This is seen in a striking way when the mocking bird is caged. Then it

mocks the many sounds around it. It will bark like a dog, mew like a

cat, crow like a cock, cackle like a hen, creak like a wheelbarrow, and

take up a host of varied sounds. And while doing this it spreads its

wings, expands its tail, and throws itself about the cage as if it was

having the best time of its life. It can be easily taught to whistle a

tune of some length, but never seems to imitate the voice of man.

It rarely, however, sings as well in the cage as in its free state.

The wild bird seems to like to be near man and often builds its nest

in a tree or bush close to a house. While the female bird is sitting

the male is very wide-awake and shows the greatest courage in driving

enemies away from the nest. In the brooding season they will often

gather in flocks and fight off birds of prey of much larger size. A

snake that comes too near is killed by a quick series of blows on the

head, and the cat soon finds that it is best to keep away from the

mocking bird's nest.

There is another bird of the same family that dwells much farther

north, being common as far north as Massachusetts. It has powers of

imitation like those of the mocking bird and a sweet song of its own,

but when disturbed gives vent to a sharp, mew-like cry from which it

has got the name of Cat-bird. Like the Mocking bird, it builds its nest

near man and makes no attempt to hide it, but fights off enemies with

a like boldness. No one thinks of caging this bird, for its cat-call

is not at all pleasant and has given it a bad name, but its song is

pleasing to our ears.

OTHER CAGED SONGSTERS

The smaller birds are often so bright and beautiful and have such

musical voices, that many of them are made tenants of the cage. Here

they do not seem sad or mournful, but are likely to make themselves

much at home.

There is the Bullfinch, a nervous, uneasy fellow, always in a flutter,

yet easy to keep in cage life and ready to raise a family in captivity.

These birds are at once beautiful and tuneful. In color they are as

handsome as many of the birds of the tropics, while they can be taught

a variety of bird airs. They need to be coaxed, and their tutor must

use the same coaxing words and gestures and even wear the same coat

when he gives his bird its lessons. But a well-taught bird brings a

high price and it pays the poor folks of parts of Europe to spend much

time in teaching them.

It takes time and trouble to teach a bullfinch to whistle a tune, but

it pays for the labor. A young bird must be taken from the nest before

it has begun to twitter and kept where it can hear no sounds except

those made by its teacher. In this way it fails to learn its native

tones and may be taught to do wonderful things, whistling a whole tune

as well as any boy could do it. I can prove this best by telling a

little story.

There was a flute-player at a London theatre who had an ebony flute

with silver keys. But he did not often use it, for one of its upper

notes was not good. He lived with a tailor and the two were great

friends.

One night, while he was at the theatre, some one stole his silver

flute. He could not think who had done it, except it was an old woman

who did the work of the house. But nothing could be found out and in

time the loss was forgotten. A few months later the tailor moved to a

town some miles away, but the two were still friends and at times paid

each other visits.

Once, after a year had gone by, the flute-player went to see the

tailor, and was pleased to find that his friend had a splendid

bullfinch, which could whistle three tunes. But there was something

curious about these tunes. Whenever the bird came to a certain high

note it would skip this and go on to the next. The musician was quick

to notice that this missing note was the very one that was wanting in

his flute. He sharply questioned the tailor, who was forced to admit

that he had stolen the flute and had used it in teaching the bird its

tunes.

There are many other birds that can be taught to whistle tunes. The

English blackbird is one of these. A writer tells us a pretty story of

this bird. He says:--

"I once knew a bird that could whistle 'Polly Hopkins' with wonderful

accuracy. His owner sold him, at the same time making the purchaser

acquainted with the bird's favorite tune. As soon as the gentleman got

home he at once hung up the blackbird, and, going to the piano, struck

up 'Polly Hopkins.' But he introduced parts into the tune that the bird

had never heard before; so, after listening awhile, the little critic

began hissing, fluttering his wings and thus showing his distaste.

Much surprised, the gentleman left off playing, and then the blackbird

opened his throat and favored his new master with _his_ version of

'Polly Hopkins,' nor would he ever listen with any patience to any

other version."

I must also tell the story of the wood-chopper's ghost. Once there

was a lively wood-chopper who was always whistling and singing while

at work. But in spite of his jolly temper something went wrong and one

day he hung himself in his shop. Some days later other men at work in

the wood-shed were dreadfully scared by hearing the dead man's favorite

tune, "William at the Garden Gate," whistled in his old way. There was

a rush from the shop, which they thought haunted, and as the tune was

kept up day after day, no one would go near the place. Finally the

mystery was made clear. A thrush was seen to fly from a near by grove

to the roof of the wood-shed and pipe up the ghostly tune. It had

learned it from the wood-chopper's lips and came back every day to the

same spot to whistle the tune.

The Skylark, a very common bird of Britain and Europe, is so famous for

the charm of its song that many of the poets have sung its praises in

rare verse. It does not, like many birds, sing when sitting, but pours

out its voice when on the wing and when far up in the sky. From this it

gets its name. From the upper air its sweet notes come tumbling down

in pearly music, "the notes nearly all alike and in the same key, but

rapid, swarming, prodigal, showering down as thick and fast as drops of

rain in a summer shower."

This is a favorite cage-bird, one that lives many years in its narrow

home. It sings in the cage as sweetly as when in the air, pouring forth

its song many times in an hour and for weeks and months together. It

is also a loving little pet and grows very fond of those who care for

it.

Of course all of you have read of the Nightingale, the Bulbul of the

Persian poets, a bird whose very name seems to sing. This little

songster has for ages been famous for its loud, rich and varied tones,

its song being full of long, plaintive, quivering strains. Singing all

night long, when most of the birds are still, it has been a favorite

among bird lovers and poets in all lands, the Persian poets making the

loves of the bulbul and the rose a theme of many of their verses. Its

song has a mournful tone, but as it is sung to its mate in the nesting

season, the sadness in its voice must keep company with gladness in its

heart.

The nightingale is often kept as a cage-bird, and if taken before the

nesting season soon grows to like its prison life, but if taken after

it has joined its mate it will pine away and die. It is best to take

it from the nest when young and bring it up by hand. In its wild state

its song ends with the end of the nesting season, but in the cage it is

kept up for a much longer time and is very pleasing.

For an American nightingale we have the mocking-bird, a sweet night

singer which, as I have said, is given that name in the West Indies.

Another is a variety of the Grosbeak, called the Cardinal Bird from

its red color. This is called the Virginia Nightingale in England and

is one of the finest American song-birds. Its loud, clear, sweet song

is heard chiefly in the mornings and evenings and the beauty of its

plumage adds to its attraction.

The thrushes are also fine cage-birds, the black thrush having a lively

whistle and the art of taking up the songs of other birds. In this it

is far from equal to the mocking bird, but with care can be taught to

sing a number of bird airs.

The Song-thrush or Mavis of England is well-known through Europe as a

singer of fine powers, one of the best of the songful train and a rival

of the nightingale in its power of song. Another of the same tribe is

the Missel-thrush, with a good voice but not the equal of that of the

Mavis.

One of the sweetest of American bird singers is the Wood-thrush or

Hermit-thrush, not as a cage-bird but as a haunter of secret places,

from which its voice comes rich and full, sweet and placid, like the

notes of a flute sounded in the morning air.

So far I have spoken only of the singing and whistling of birds,

but there are other things they can be taught. Many have seen trick

birds--the goldfinch, the canary, and other birds--that could do

wonderful feats. They have been taught to fire little cannons, to

pretend to be dead, to climb a ladder, to stand unmoved when fireworks

were set off, and many other things of strange kind.

But if those who have seen these tricks knew how the birds were taught

they would never go again to see them, for it is said to be done by

cruelty. But there are bird tricks in which no cruelty is needed. Thus

a bird may be taught to draw up water to his cage by means of a tiny

chain and pail, pulling at the chain with his beak and holding every

link drawn up with his feet. He may also be taught to ring for his

food. A little bell is hung in a corner of his cage and he is kept a

few hours without seed. Then, by a thread fastened to the bell, it is

rung and at once a few seeds are put in the bird's seed cup. The little

chap soon learns that he is fed when the bell rings and it will not be

long before he will pull the thread and ring the bell himself.

THE PARROT AS A TALKER

Chief among the talking birds are the parrots. These quaint and curious

winged chatterers have long been kept in the home of man, for we have

tales of them more than two thousand years old. It was 1504 when the

first parrot reached England, but now they are to be seen in all parts

of the world, some kept for their brilliant colors, some for their

wonderful power of speech.

Best known among them as a cage-bird is the Gray-parrot, the ablest

talker of the family, the amusing Poll-parrot seen in so many homes.

Though a cage is provided, they become such home-bodies as to be given

all the liberty they want, being often free to go about the house,

though they look upon the cage as their special dwelling place.

[Illustration: The White Faced Parrot]

Poll-parrot has a great deal of human nature in his little body. He

thinks, he remembers, he imitates, he enjoys a joke, loves his friends

and hates his enemies, and when he learns words he often knows just

what they mean and when and how to use them. When our parrot says

"Polly wants a cracker!" it may not be a cracker that she expects but

it is something to eat, and she is apt to keep up the call until she

gets it.

There is no end to the tales about parrots and their odd speeches,

often strangely fitted to the time and place. They can be taught to say

a great many things, and often know just how to bring them in. Here is

one told by Mr. Romanes, showing a parrot's wit in a tricky way no man

could surpass.

"One day the cat and parrot had a quarrel. I think the cat had upset

polly's food, or something of the kind; however, they seemed all right

again. An hour or so after polly was standing on the edge of the table;

she called out in a tone of extreme affection,

"'Puss, puss, come then--come then, pussy.'

"Pussy went and looked up innocently enough. Polly with her beak seized

a basin of milk standing by and tipped the basin and all its contents

over the cat; then chuckled diabolically, of course broke the basin,

and half drowned the cat."

Here is another story of parrot wit. The bird was making a variety of

squeals and cries. One of the men who heard began to imitate her. This

roused the parrot to try new cries, and at last she made one so odd

that he could not repeat it, try as he would.

Proud of her triumph, the parrot gave a loud "Ha! ha! ha!" swung on her

perch with her head downward, sprang about the cage, tossed a piece of

wood over her head, and kept repeating the cry, followed by peals of

"Ha! ha! ha!" till everybody joined in her wild laugh.

The parrot has a good memory and will pick up a good many words and

phrases, even the verses of a song taught to her. Many she gets by

listening to words often said and at times will come out with a new bit

of apt language to the surprise of every one who hears it. If a word

she has once learned comes into her head, she often follows this word

with all the other words and sayings learned at the same time.

Here is a parrot story going back as far as 1672, one which was much

talked of at the time. It is of an old parrot of Brazil when Prince

Maurice was governor there. The Prince was told of the strange talking

powers of this bird and sent for it. When it was brought into the room,

where were many men with the Prince, it began,

"What a company of white men are here."

"What is this man?" asked one, pointing to the Prince.

"Some general or other," said the parrot.

"Where did you come from?" asked the Prince.

"From Marinnan."

"To whom do you belong?"

"To a Portuguese."

"What do you do here?" asked the Prince.

"I look after the chickens."

"You look after the chickens," said the Prince, with a laugh.

"Yes, and I know well enough how to do it," and the parrot began to

cluck like a hen calling chickens.

It is hard to believe that a parrot could keep up a conversation in

this correct way, but the story comes from Sir William Temple, who is

very good authority, and who was told it by the Prince himself.

We are told of a French parrot which could laugh like a man, and would

break out into a hearty chuckle when some one said (of course in

French), "Laugh, parrot, laugh."

The odd thing was that it would follow the laugh with the words,

"Oh, what a fool to make me laugh!" and repeat this two or three times.

A lady had a gray parrot four years old which was very quick in taking

up new words and very correct in using them. When he did some bit of

mischief his mistress would scold him, to which he would reply angrily,

"Not a naughty Poll!" "Not a bold, bad bird!" and would stamp his foot,

crying "I am not--I am not."

If she praised him he would tell her she was a darling and that he

loved her. He was jealous when children were present and were made much

of, and would cry,

"Go away, bold boy!" "Go away, bold girl," never mistaking between boy

and girl.

When a visitor took off coat or shawl the bird would act as if trying

to take off his wings, and laugh heartily at his performance if any one

else laughed. He would play with the cats till he was tired of them and

then whistle for the dog to chase them away.

[Illustration: A Gray Parrot on His Perch. Waiting to Speak His Piece]

We might go on and on with parrot stories, for they are endless. Very

likely many of you could tell me as good ones as I can tell you. One

thing of note about these birds is their love of a joke. Here is a tale

of one of these jokers that loved to make fun of Carlo, the dog. Carlo

would be snoozing in a corner of the room when polly would cry out in a

voice exactly like his master's,

"Hi, Carlo! Cats!"

Up would jump the dog, rush into the garden, look fiercely round, then,

hearing a fresh cry of "Cats! Cats! Seize them, Carlo!" would bound

over the wall into the next garden. The next moment the bird, with a

wonderful change of tone, would call out in the master's sternest tones,

"Come back, Carlo! Come back, you naughty dog!"

Back would come Carlo in a slinking way, as if expecting to feel his

master's cane.

Another bird was fond of playing jokes of a different kind on the house

dog. It would whistle and call out in a soft tone,

"Gyp, poor old Gyp! Does Gyp want to go out?"

The dog, delighted at the prospect of a run with its master, would

begin to frisk and dance about, looking around to see where he was.

This got to be a common trick with the bird, for the dog never found

out that it was being tricked by the parrot.

OTHER TALKING BIRDS

Many of my readers must know that there are other birds that can talk,

some of them as well as the parrot. Those who may have read the novel

of "Barnaby Rudge," by Charles Dickens, are likely to remember the

Raven of that story, with its "Never say die."

A very famous bird of this kind is Poe's raven, told of in the poem of

that name, whose one word was "Nevermore."

These are birds of fiction and poetry but there are talking ravens in

the annals of fact. There was one, some years ago, at home in a tavern

at Stoke Newington, England, who could not bear gray or white horses,

though it did not mind any other color. No sooner would a horse of the

hated color come up to the water-trough for a drink than Peg would

perch on the edge of the trough and swear lustily at the poor animal.

Or else it would start it off with a loud "Gee, whoa," in the exact

tones of a carter.

One day Peg saw a sailor take some tobacco from a box at his elbow,

put it in his mouth, and begin to chew. The bird watched him closely

and seemed to fancy that this must be something good to eat, for the

instant the man's back was turned she hopped up and took a mouthful of

the weed. For the rest of that day Peg was a very sick bird, and even

the next day was far from well.

She had learned a lesson which she did not forget. Some days later a

white horse, drawing a hay cart, was driven up to the trough for a

drink. Peg at once hopped up and began her abuse, but the horse had

met the bird before and paid no attention to her impudence. At this

she flew into the house where some men were smoking, caught up a paper

of tobacco from the table, and flew back with it, dropping it into the

horse's nose bag.

If a strange dog happened to stray up to the inn Peg was at once wide

awake. Up she would skip, and when close to the dog's ear would shout

in her loud, harsh voice, "Halloa, whose dog are you?" Before the cur

could turn she would break out in a great show of rage and loud cries

of "Hi! ho! go home!" which usually sent the intruder off up the street

at a frantic rate.

The raven belongs to the family of the crows, in which are some other

birds, as the Jackdaw and the Magpie, that can be taught to speak. They

are not to be compared with the parrot, yet they must be classed with

the talking birds. The magpie has the tendency of picking up words

here and there of a sort not suited to polite society, and is not well

fitted for a house pet. He is quite ready to try his sharp beak on his

master and is like the crow in stealing every bright thing he sees.

The Magpie has a cousin, the Jackdaw, who is not quite his equal as a

thief, but is not as honest as a parson. He also has the gift of speech

and at times can use it with fine effect. The bird is easily tamed and

taught to talk and there are some good stories told of him. One or two

of these you may enjoy reading.

There is a small shell-fish called the cockle which is often pickled in

England, and in a house where the folks were fond of pickled cockles

was a jackdaw, who was quite as fond of them. The cook had pickled

some of these and put them in a jar, covering it with parchment. But

the next morning she found the cover partly ripped off and some of the

cockles missing.

At a loss to know who had done this mischief, she tied on the cover

again and went about her work. At midday, when she was busy over the

stove, basting a roast joint, she heard a sound of tearing parchment

and looked round to see the jackdaw with his head hidden in the jar,

feasting away greedily.

The cook at that moment had a ladle full of hot fat in her hand, and in

a rage threw it over the thief, crying out "You rogue! you go to the

cockles, do you!"

All the feathers were scalded off of Jack's head and he went about the

house, bald and ashamed. Some days later his master gave a party, among

his guests being one who was quite bald. In the afternoon the bird was

brought up stairs to amuse the party, and he did so very neatly.

Flying to the mantel, he saw the man with the bald head. At once he

flew to his shoulder, and cocking his eye at the bare poll in a funny

fashion, cried out, "You rogue! you go to the cockles, do you!"

Another jackdaw belonged to a retired innkeeper, who, while in

business, had taught the bird to say, "Mind the reckoning," and also to

call out "No trust." His cage hung in the public room, where, no doubt,

he helped his master in making a fortune on which to retire.

Long after he had gone out of business some burglars broke into the

house to rob him, getting in through the window of the room where the

jackdaw was kept. As the thieves talked in low tones about the job

before them and what part of the house they should visit first, the

words, "Mind the reckoning," came in loud tones to their guilty ears.

"Good Lord!" cried one of the scared thieves, "I trust we----"

"No trust! no trust!" came in the same hoarse voice, "Mind the

reckoning! Mind the reckoning!"

Away went the scared thieves, through the window and over the garden

wall, leaving their tools behind them, while the daw roused the house

with its screams of delight over their flight.

The fashion of stealing of the crow tribe makes a pet crow not very

safe to keep about. Any bright or shining thing, like a pair of

scissors, a silver spoon, or a gold stud, is sure to take his fancy and

when once in his beak the chance is that it will never be seen again,

for he is a cute chap at hiding his spoils.

The crow indeed is a sharp fellow in more ways than one. He is an

expert at tricks. Here is one told of the Indian crow.

A dog--a fox-terrier of good training--was one day gnawing a chicken

bone on the veranda when two crows saw him at his meal and lighted on

the veranda railing, where they began to croak. The very sight of a

crow is usually enough to make a dog forget his breakfast and fly at

the bird; but this time Jack merely growled and kept on gnawing.

As this did not work, one of the birds dropped down to the veranda

floor and croaked again. Again Jack growled, but he went on gnawing.

The crow now strolled round the veranda for a minute till the dog was

intent on his bone, then hopped up and gave his tail a sharp nip.

This was too much for the fox-terrier. With a howl of pain he turned

upon the bird, when the other crow, which had been quietly waiting its

chance, swooped down, snatched up the bone, and flew away, its comrade

in mischief quickly joining it.

Jack's look of disgust, when he found how neatly he had been fooled by

a pair of crows, was a sight worth seeing.

Have you ever seen a Starling and heard one talk? If not you have

missed a treat, for this bird has fine powers of speech. He can

whistle, croak and talk and is one of the choice delights of many a

cottage home in Europe. He has lately been imported into this country.

The common starling is a very pretty creature, clad in brown, with

purple and green hues, and a buff-colored tip to each feather which

gives the bird a fine speckled appearance. In its wild state it has a

soft and sweet song, and in a cage is a pert and friendly house pet,

one that mocks the songs of others, learns to whistle tunes, and can

talk as clearly as many of its keepers. I must tell the story of a pair

of very cute and lively starlings, as it is told us by the gentleman in

whose house these birds were born and brought up.

Dick and his wife lived in a large cage, with all the things needed to

make than enjoy life. Once a day the cage door was opened and they took

a bath on the kitchen floor, Dick first and his wife afterwards, for he

was a little household tyrant, cuffing his mate soundly when she tried

to be first in anything.

[Illustration: The Starling. One of the Talking Birds]

Dick's first lesson was in imitating the rumble of carts in the street.

Of this he was very proud and soon learned to speak his own name,

always with the prefix "Pretty." He was always "Pretty Dick." As for

his wife, he gave her the strange name of "Hezekiah." How he learned

this no one knew, but he always used it.

Thus if his wife tried to join him in a song, he would stop and call

out angrily, "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" Then he would start again, and if

she forgot his scolding and joined in again he was apt to chase her

around the cage and give her a sound thrashing. At their meals Dick

showed the same spirit. His wife was not allowed to touch a morsel till

his lordship was done. If she dared to hop down and snatch a meal while

he was singing it was a sad time for her if he caught her at it.

But though Dick was a tyrant to his wife, to those who cared for him he

was a loving little pet. He was very quick at learning new words, and

soon knew a large number, which he never grew tired of using. He grew

so tame that he was given full freedom of the house and garden, and

would spend hours in the grounds, catching flies, singing, and talking

to himself as if repeating his lessons. He and the cat and kittens were

the warmest friends, but he would play with the dogs also and often

went to sleep on their backs.

"Doctor" was his name for his teacher, and if in singing an air he

forgot part of it he would cry "Doctor, doctor," and repeat the last

note once or twice, as if to say, "What comes next?" In this way

he learned to pipe the tunes of--_Duncan Grey_ and _The Sprig of

Shillelah_, without a single wrong note. When a tune was played on

the fiddle, he would listen with close attention, and when it was

done would say "Bravo" in three distinct tones, thus: "Bravo! doctor;

br-r-ravo! bravo!"

He got somehow into the fashion of starting a sentence with the verb

"Is," spoken loudly.

"Is?" he would say.

"Is what, Dick?"

"Is the darling starling a pretty pet?"

"No doubt about that."

He had the habit of combining his words in various ways, and one day

asked:

"Is the darling doctor a rascal?"

"Just as you think," was the reply.

"Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!" sang Dick, finishing with _Duncan

Grey_ and part of _The Sprig of Shillelah_.

He had been taught to say, "Love is the soul of a nate Irishman," but

was often heard to vary it in such ways as "Love is the soul of a nate

Irish starling," or "Is love the soul of a darling pretty Dick," and so

on.

Here is a sample of a chat between Dick and his master.

"Doctor," the bird would begin, "_is_ it, _is_ it a nate Irish pet?"

"Silence and go to sleep. I want to write," said the doctor.

"Eh?" Dick would say; "_What_ is it? _What_ d'ye say?"

If no answer came the bird would break out:

"_Is_ it sugar,--snails--sugar, snails, and brandy?" Then, "Doctor,

doctor!"

"Well, Dickie, what is it now?"

"Doctor--whew." That meant the doctor was to whistle.

"I shant."

"Tse! tse! tse!" Dick would chirp, and then say, "Doctor, will you go a

clinking?"

To Dick a fly was always a clink, and clinking meant fly-hunting.

Perched on his master's finger he would be carried around the room and

held up to every resting fly. He never missed one.

As Dick grew older he became more of a tyrant to his wife. She could do

nothing to please him, he attacked her every morning and the last thing

at night and half-starved her besides.

Sometimes she used to peck him back, driven to it by his ill temper,

and this led Dick's master to play him a trick. One day when Dick had

bullied her worse than ever, he took Hezekiah out of the cage and

fastened a small pin to her bill, the point sticking out a little.

When she was put back Dick accused her of "going on shore without

leave," and pecked her so viciously that she gave him a sharp peck in

return. That Dick jumped when he felt the pin may well be said, and

his look was comical as he cried out, "Eh! _What_ d'ye say? Hezekiah!

Hezekiah!"

Hezekiah, pleased with her success, now chased him round and round the

cage, punishing him until the doctor opened the door and let the victim

out.

But the bird could not spend her life with a pin tied to her bill, and

in the end, to stop the family quarrels, the doctor gave her away to a

friend and Dick was left alone.

For this strange story of a talking starling we are indebted to Robert

Cochrane, who gives it in his book "Four Hundred Animal Stories."

That any bird could talk with so much sense and reason seems hard to

believe, though the writer is good authority. Here is his wind up of

Dick's story:

"Poor Dickie! One day he was shelling peas to himself in the garden,

when some boys startled him and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself

and could not find his way back. At all events I only saw him once

again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from

the house, when a voice in a tree above hailed me: 'Doctor! doctor!

What _is_ it?' That was Dick; but a crow flew past and scared him

again, and away he flew--for ever."

[Illustration]

VII

OUR COUSIN THE MONKEY

The organ-grinder and his monkey are two animals well known to us all,

and we may have looked at them now and then and asked ourselves which

of the two had the best brain. The one spends his time turning a crank

and grinding out something that passes for music. His little brother

dances about on his nimble legs, holds out his hat for pennies, and

chatters away in a language of his own.

We do not understand what he has to say; but neither do we understand

a Chinaman or a Frenchman. We say to ourselves that he has been taught

his tricks; but so has his master been taught how to use his music-box.

No doubt the master learns his art more quickly than the monkey, but

then he understands what is told him while his poor little comrade does

not, but has to be shown everything he is to do, so this gives the man

a great advantage.

Now do not think that I am trying to say that the monkey has as good a

brain as the man. All I want to say is that he has a brain that acts

in the same way. But it gets to its upper level of thought before it

reaches what is a low level in man. The monkey can think as we can, and

often shows that he is thinking. So can many other animals, such as the

dog and the parrot; but while the monkey looks more like a man than

these animals, it also seems to think more like a man.

Have you ever been to the zoo and seen a cage full of monkeys, or seen

a cage of them in a travelling menagerie? Lively, cunning, jolly little

fellows they are, playing tricks on one another, leaping and climbing,

never still for two minutes together, and the most curious of all

the animals we know. What does this curiosity mean? Does it not mean

that the monkey wants to know, just as we want to know when we show

curiosity? And wanting to know is the first step towards getting to

know.

THE MONKEY AS A PET

Among the many pets kept by man the monkey must be included. We take

a fancy to it as if it were a far-off cousin of our own. With its

power of walking on its hind legs and using its front legs as arms and

its paws as hands, and also often in the shape of its face, it has

something very human about it, and there is no animal in which young

folks take more delight--and many older folks also.

What many enjoy in it is its love of mischief. There is no trick that

it is not up to. At any rate when we hear of boys playing "monkey

tricks" they seem to us, in this way, on the same level as the monkey.

They would likely play more of them if they had the monkey's nimble

ways, for the monkey has the best of the boy in getting out of reach.

Many of them can even use their tails to swing on, leaving all their

legs free for acts of mischief.

All this is very well in its way, but it stands in the way of keeping

the monkey as a pet, for it is apt in the end to become a nuisance.

No one knows what it is going to do next. It is as full of tricks as

a watermelon is of seeds. As we do not enjoy a boy who is too fond of

mischief, so we do not enjoy a monkey. He makes too much trouble. And

then he is of no use except as a pet. We can not often put him to work,

except in such ways as taking up pennies for an organ-grinder.

It is said that some people in the South are talking of using the

monkey to pick cotton. This sounds very nice. No doubt the monkey

can be taught to pick cotton, as it has been taught to do many other

things. But it is not to be trusted. Any fancy, a bird flying over, a

mouse stealing through the cotton field, will be likely to draw it from

its task, and if any one tries to punish it for not keeping to its work

he cannot be sure but that the little rascal will have revenge in some

costly way.

HOW MONKEYS TAKE REVENGE

Many stories might be told of monkeys that take revenge on those who

treat them badly. One or two of these may be worth telling. There is

one story of a gentleman who kept a pet monkey and lived next door to a

widow lady who had three boys, all fond of mischief.

These boys were at home from school for the holidays and spent much

of their time in teasing the monkey, in such ways as throwing lighted

fire-crackers at him and giving him nuts filled with pepper and mustard.

The little sufferer did not forget. When the boys set out on their

return to school the monkey watched them from a hiding place till they

were well out of the way. Then he crept slyly along the balcony till

he came to a window of the widow's house, looked in to see that there

was no one about, then went in, found a bottle of ink on the table, and

sprinkled the ink widely over the carpet and furniture. He was caught

at the trick, handed over to his master, and soundly whipped. But he

had his revenge for the nuts and crackers.

Here is a tale of a jealous monkey. His master, who made a great pet of

him, belonged to a yacht club and used to take him along when out on

a cruise. Every one on board petted him and he felt that he was folks

like all the rest and a gentleman of importance.

But the time came when the monkey found his nose out of joint. This

time there was a pretty girl on board and the attention that had been

given to Master Pug was given to her. She said that she did not like

monkeys, so our little friend had to keep in the background, a thing

which he did not like at all.

Master Pug waited his chance for revenge on the girl who did not like

monkeys. The party on the yacht went ashore to see some caves and he

managed to slip into the boat unseen and go with them. Keeping his

eye open for chances, he spied a large crab, which he picked up and

put against the young lady's heel. In an instant it gripped her with

its strong claw and she gave a loud scream of pain. The monkey got a

whipping, for some one had seen him in the act, but very likely he felt

that he had got even.

Monkeys do not forget easily and will often bear malice for a long

time. A lady named Mrs. Lee, when at the zoölogical garden in Paris,

saw a big ape in a cage ill treating one of his fellows. To stop him

she tapped him smartly on the hands. This the savage creature did not

forget nor forgive. Whenever he saw her at later times in the monkey

house, or even heard her voice, he would fly into a passion, roll about

his cage in rage, and once when she came within reach he seized her

gown through the bars of his cage and tore out a piece of it, though it

was of strong material.

Shall we tell the story of one that acted in a cruel manner? He was

kept tied to a stake in the grounds and the crows of the neighborhood

often robbed him of his food. He got the best of the robbers in a way

very artful, even for a monkey.

[Illustration: Feeding Monkeys at the Zoölogical Garden]

One day he lay on the ground quite still, as if he was dead. The birds

came near and picked at his food but the cunning little rascal never

stirred. Growing bolder, the crows approached until one of them was

within reach. In an instant the monkey made a quick grab and caught

the culprit. Holding his prisoner firmly, he pulled out its feathers

until not one was left in its naked body. Then he flung it towards its

companions, who were screaming with rage and fear. At once, for reasons

best known to the crow community, they made a fierce attack on their

featherless comrade and pecked it to death. Those who saw this affair

say that the delight on the monkey's face, as he saw this, was too

great to be described.

IMITATION A MONKEY TRAIT

The monkey is an animal easy to teach, for it is very ready to do what

it sees those around it do. It thus has two qualities very useful in

teaching, curiosity and imitation. When it sees anything being done

it is apt to watch closely and then try to do the same thing. These

qualities we all have. Many of us are curious to see and prompt to do

what our teacher does, and in this way the monkey is like man in his

thinking powers. It does not wait to be told to do things, but will try

to do them itself. This faculty has led to some comical results, as you

will think when you read the following stories.

We are told of a retired admiral and his wife who had a monkey as one

of their home pets. The admiral had a habit of reading the paper aloud

to his wife and would strike it in a testy way when he read something

that made him angry. One day his wife, hearing a strange noise in the

dining-room, looked in to see what caused it. What she saw was very

amusing.

In the arm chair sat master monkey, with the admiral's smoking-cap on

his head and the admiral's spectacles on his nose. In his hand was an

open newspaper, and this he shook and patted, just as he had seen his

master do, jabbering away in a very funny manner to the cat that lay

blinking on the hearth. So close was the imitation to the tone and

manner of the testy old sea-dog that the lady broke up the performance

with a shout of laughter.

A Mrs. Loudan tells us of a case of the same kind, but with a different

audience from the cat. It is told of Father Casaubon, a priest, who had

a favorite Barbary ape that grew very fond of him and tried to follow

him wherever he went. One day, when he set out for church, the ape in

some way got loose and followed him unseen. When the church was reached

the ape slipped in and climbed up to the sounding-board, where he lay

quiet till the sermon began.

While the reverend father spoke, the ape perched itself just above his

head and watched his actions, and soon began to imitate the gestures

made by him. The congregation could not help smiling and tittering at

this. Casaubon scolded them severely for their behavior, suiting his

actions to his words, while the monkey imitated all his movements in a

very amusing manner.

At this the congregation could not keep still, but broke into a roar of

laughter, in which the angry priest joined when its cause was pointed

out to him. He took good care that his ape should not attend church

again.

These are perhaps enough of this sort of stories, though there are one

or two others which you may care to read. One is of a painter who, on

going into his studio, saw his pet monkey seated before his nearly

finished picture, with brush and painting implements in hand, laying

on the colors with a free touch that made bad work of the artist's

masterpiece.

A second has to do with an English vicar and his family, who came home

to dinner one Sunday after the morning service. On entering the dining

room they saw the table-cloth, which had been laid for dinner, spread

out smoothly on the floor, with all the plates and dishes, knives and

forks, laid upon it in a way that showed how well the lesson had been

learned. Beside it sat the pet monkey, with a look of satisfaction that

showed it was very proud of its work.

A monkey, in fact, knows very well when it has done a thing as it

should be done, and likes to be praised for it. I cannot say that they

always get praise, certainly not for jobs like those just told, in

which the element of mischief is mixed with that of good work.

But when we talk of the intelligence of animals we must admit that the

monkey goes ahead of the dog, cat, or other household pet. Certainly

none of these would think of a piece of work like that, laying the

table-cloth on the floor and properly placing on it all the table ware.

Many monkeys have such a grave and quiet way of doing things, and look

at us with such bright and meaning eyes, that we are brought to think

that if they could talk they would have something to say worth hearing.

In fact, there are people who think they could talk if they chose.

There is the story of the Southern slaves who thought they showed their

wit in not talking, since if they did they would have a hoe put in

their hands and be set at hoeing.

A traveller, writing about Java, tells us something of the same sort.

He speaks of a sultan who had a well trained corps of monkeys and

apes. "The orang-outangs and long-armed apes," he says, "had been

trained to go through a variety of military exercises; and when one of

us expressed surprise at their seeming intelligence the Sultan said

gravely: 'They are as really _men_ as you and I, and have the power of

speech if they chose to use it. They do not talk because they do not

wish to work and be made slaves of.'"

The Malays in all the islands believe this and in their language

orang-outang means "man of the woods."

Certainly monkeys can be trained to act very much like men. Mrs. Lee

tells us of one that has been taught by a Frenchman to act in a very

polite fashion. One day she met this monkey as he was on his way up

stairs. He made way for her very politely and stood on one side to let

her pass.

"Good morning," she said, and he took off his cap and made a low bow.

"Are you going away? Where is your passport?"

At this question he took a square piece of paper out of his cap and

showed it to her.

His master, who was following Mrs. Lee, now told him that the lady's

dress was dusty. He at once went to the man, took a brush out of his

pocket, and raising the hem of Mrs. Lee's dress, brushed it and did the

same with her shoes.

But while monkeys can be trained to do some surprising things, they are

not all alike. Some can be taught easily and some not at all. Darwin

tells us of a man whose work it was to train monkeys to act, and who

bought them from the Zoölogical Society for twenty dollars apiece. He

offered double the price if he might keep them for three or four days

so as to pick out a good one.

When asked how he could tell this in so short a time he said that what

he wanted was a monkey that would pay attention. If when he was talking

to one he could not keep its attention, but it turned aside to look at

a fly on the wall or other trifle, it was of no use. To force such a

monkey to act by whipping would only make it sulky. But a monkey that

gave him close attention when he was talking or showing it something

could always be trained.

[Illustration: A Pair of Midget Donkeys Driven by a Baboon and Groomed

by a Monkey]

Any one who pays attention can be taught, whether boy, monkey, or dog.

As long ago as 1753 this was shown in London in the case of the monkey

and the dog. In that year everybody in London was going to see and was

talking about "Mrs. Midnight's Animal Comedians." This was a troupe of

trained dogs and monkeys who were taught to dance a ballet, dressed as

ladies and gentlemen. This they did very neatly and cleverly.

But their great act was when, dressed as soldiers, they took part in a

mock battle. A fort was built on the stage which was defended by the

monkeys and attacked by the dogs. Everything was done as in regular

battle. The dogs carried ladders and tried to climb them and capture

the fort. The monkeys, armed with muskets, fired on them and the air

was full of smoke and the smell of powder.

After a hard fight the dogs took the fort. Then the monkeys dropped

their muskets, the smoke cleared away, and both parties were seen drawn

up side by side, waving their hats, while the band played "God save the

king."

THE KINDS OF MONKEYS

The stories we have given about monkeys are only a few of the many that

might be told, and it is well to give some more to show that monkeys

think and act, up to a certain limit, very much as we do ourselves.

But you must bear in mind that there are many kinds of monkeys, some

with good and some with bad tempers and some with much better brains

than others. When we talk of the house dog and cat, the horse and

cow, it must be remembered that each of these is a single species

of animal. But when we talk of the monkey we have to do with a whole

family of animals, of a great many different species.

Thus there are New World monkeys and Old World monkeys which differ so

that we can always tell them apart. One curious thing about the New

World monkeys is that they all live in trees and have long tails, which

they can use in such a way that they seem to have five legs. They twist

their tails firmly around the limbs of trees and swing about, leaving

their legs, or arms, free to help them in other ways. There is nothing

like this in the Old World monkeys. Some of these have no tails. Others

have long tails, but none of them have learned how to use these as

ropes to swing on from tree limbs.

All monkeys have thinking powers, which they show in various ways, but

the best thinkers among them are those known as man-like monkeys. This

is the meaning of the name we give them, that of Anthropoid Apes. They

are the highest members of the monkey family, and are like men in a

good many ways. They have no tails, are of large size, and can stand

and walk upright if they want to--though they do not often want to.

Their arms are longer and their legs shorter than ours are, and they

live much in trees, where they have to use both feet and hands in

getting about. So, when they come down to the ground they also use

their arms to help them get about. They do not walk on four legs in the

way of most other animals, nor on two legs in the way of men, but move

in a jumping fashion, putting their hands to the ground and jumping

through them. This looks like an awkward way of travelling, but they

can get over the ground pretty fast, for all that.

A fact of much interest is that the bones, the muscles, and the

blood-vessels of these animals are exactly like those of man, except in

size. And the same may be said of their brains. These are smaller than

a man's brain, but they are very much like it in all other ways. The

weak point of these brains lies in their small size. They seem to think

in the same way as we do, but they come to the end of their thinking

powers when we are just past the beginning.

There are four different kinds of man-like apes, known as the Gorilla,

the Orang Outang, the Chimpanzee, and the Gibbon. Of these the first

two are large animals, the gorilla being larger and stronger than a

man. It is a savage brute, too wild and fierce to be tamed, but this

is not the case with the orang, which can easily be tamed and is very

teachable.

These two are solitary creatures, living by themselves, but the

chimpanzee, which is smaller, is very fond of company, and lives with

its fellows in the woods, leaping about among the trees in a very

sportive fashion. The gibbons are much smaller than the others, but

have very long arms. When they stand erect their hands nearly reach the

ground and they may be seen at times walking in the same way as we do,

but holding their arms above their heads. If disturbed in any way down

come their arms and they run away in the same manner as the other apes.

The gibbons are gentle and easily tamed and have often been kept

as pets. They are less intelligent than the others, and it is the

chimpanzee and the orang which can best be taught man's ways when kept

as man's companions. Many tales could be told of the smart doings of

those tamed apes and it will be well to give a few of them.

Buffon, a famous French naturalist, tells us of a tame chimpanzee which

always walked on its hind-legs, even when it had a heavy weight to

carry. The chimpanzee does not do this in the woods, but this one was

in company with man and learned to walk in the same way as man. Buffon

goes on to say:

"I have seen this animal present its hand to conduct the company to the

door or walk about with them through the room; I have seen it sit at

table, unfold its napkin, wipe its lips, make use of a spoon or fork

to carry its victuals to its mouth, pour out its drink into a glass,

touch glasses when invited, go for its cup and saucer, carry them to

the table, pour out its tea, sweeten and leave it to cool, and all this

without any other instigation than the signs or commands of its keeper

and sometimes even of its own accord. It was gentle and inoffensive; it

even approached you with a kind of respect and as if only seeking for

caresses."

Captain Brown, the writer of a book on the habits of animals, tells us

this interesting story of a trained chimpanzee:

"Madame Grandpré saw on board a vessel a female chimpanzee which showed

wonderful proofs of intelligence. She had learned to heat the oven; she

took great care not to let any of the coals fall out, which might have

done mischief in the ship; and she was very accurate in observing when

the oven was heated to the proper degree, of which she apprised the

baker. With perfect confidence in her information, he carried his dough

to the oven as soon as the chimpanzee came to fetch him.

"The animal performed all the duties of a sailor, spliced ropes,

handled the sails, and assisted at unfurling them, and she was, in

fact, looked upon by the sailors as one of themselves."

In the end of her life this animal showed what seemed a human feeling

and sense of injustice. The first mate beat her cruelly for something

in which she was not in fault and the ill-treatment seemed to break her

tender heart. She bore the blows with patience, merely holding up her

hands as if praying for mercy, but from that moment she refused to

take any food and on the fifth day she died from grief and hunger. The

sailors would have liked, if they dared, to treat the mate in the same

way he had treated the monkey.

WHAT MONKEYS TEACH THEMSELVES

It may be said that much of what has been told is the result of

training and only shows that the monkey is easily taught. It does

things, it is true, which no dog could be taught to do, but it has the

advantage of having fingers and thumbs in place of the dog's paws, and

also of having learned how to use these in its forest life in much the

same way as we use them. A monkey, for instance, can use a stone as a

hammer and some of them can throw stones with a very good aim. They can

use other tools, as we shall show.

But there is one great difference between the monkeys and the other

animals we have spoken of. Many of these can be taught to do things

we would not expect of them, but they do not often teach themselves.

Now the monkey does not wait to be taught but is constantly trying

new tricks and working them out for itself. It is the most curious of

animals, always wanting to know how things should be done, and thinking

out for itself the right way to do them. We look with wonder on a dog

when it does something that it has been taught. Should we not look with

more wonder on the monkey when it does things which it has taught

itself? I am sure you will enjoy reading some stories in this line.

[Illustration:

Reproduced by Permission of the Philadelphia Museums

The Orang Outang in the Hands of His Keeper]

Here is one of a tame orang outang told by the French scientist Cuvier.

This animal, he says, when it wanted to open the door of a room, used

to draw a chair from one end of the room to the other, and stand on it

to lift the latch. Another writer speaks of a monkey which, when it

wanted to lift the lid of a chest too heavy for it, used a stick as a

lever to raise it. That monkeys use stones to break open oyster-shells

has often been seen.

Mr. Romanes tells the following story. A large monkey was kept in a

wide cage, in the centre of which was a kind of hut in which he slept.

Near this hut was an artificial tree, with a branch leading away from

the hut. If he wanted to get on this branch he could do so by climbing

to the top edge of the hut door. But this door had a bad fashion of

swinging shut whenever he pushed it open to climb up. He was seen to

try this two or three times, and then to pick up a thick blanket which

lay in his cage and throw it over the top of the door so that it could

not swing to.

In all these cases the animal thought out for itself the best way of

gaining its end. These things were done by chimpanzees and orangs, apes

of high class, but Mr. Romanes, in his book on "Animal Intelligence,"

tells of quite as strange things done by a South American monkey of

which such doings could not be expected. This he kept as a pet and

watched for many days.

One thing his monkey never liked; that was to be laughed at; any one

that did so would be apt to be repaid for his mirth. Mr. Romanes gave

him a hammer to break his nuts with, and from the start he knew just

how to use it.

"To-day," says Romanes, "a strange person (a dressmaker) came into the

room where he is tied up and I gave him a walnut that she might see him

break it with his hammer. The nut was a bad one and the woman laughed

at his disappointed face. He then became very angry and threw at her

everything he could lay hands on; first the nut, then the hammer, then

a coffee pot which he seized out of the grate, and lastly all his own

shawls. He throws things with great precision by holding them in both

hands, and extending his long arms well back over his head before

projecting the missile, standing erect the while."

Every day this little fellow did something new and unlooked for,

something worked out in his own little brain. When a nut or anything

he wanted lay too far away for him to reach it, he being fastened by

a chain, he would try to draw it to him with a stick. If he failed in

this, he would take his shawl by the two corners, throwing it back over

his head and then flinging it forward with all his strength, but not

letting go the corners. If it reached far enough to cover the nut, he

would draw this in by pulling back the shawl. This is like the story

of the elephant that used its trunk to make a wind beyond anything out

of its reach, and thus blow it back.

His chain was a constant trouble to him and he tried in every way he

could to get rid of it. When it was tied to a ring sunk into the floor,

he spent a whole day passing the chain back and forward through the

ring, and hammering it with all his strength. He went at it again the

next day and this time got the chain so tangled up that he could not

loosen it. When his master came to his aid he watched him very closely,

sometimes taking hold of his fingers and pulling them to one side that

he might see better. He would also look up into his master's face in

an intelligent way as if to ask him how he did it. After the chain was

loosened he worked at it again for hours, but took care not to twist it

into the ring a second time.

Among the many things done by this comical little creature there were

two which showed so much monkey wisdom as to be worth telling. His nuts

were kept in a trunk which he looked upon as his own property. There

were other things kept in the trunk, but if any person opened it to get

anything out he grew very angry. It was not on account of the nuts, for

he always had plenty of these, but for meddling with his property.

One day, when his chain was broken, he got to the trunk and began

picking at the lock with his fingers. His master then gave him the key

and for two full hours he tried to unlock the trunk. It was a hard lock

to open, being a little out of order, but he found the right way to put

the key in and turn it in the lock, every time trying the lid to see if

it would come up. Of course, he had seen others use the key and knew

how it should be used.

The most remarkable thing done by our smart little friend was the

following: One day he got hold of a hearth-brush, one of the kind

which has the handle screwed into the brush. In his usual fondness for

experiment he at once began on the handle, and soon had it unscrewed

and out of the brush. Then he began to try and find the way to screw it

in again.

At first he put the wrong end of the handle into the hole and turned

it round and round, always the _right way for screwing_. Then he tried

the other end, still always turning only the right way. How he knew the

way the screw should turn is a mystery. The work was a hard one, for he

had to use both hands on the handle, and the brush, with its bristles,

would not lie still. Next he tried holding it with his foot, and even

then it was not easy to get the first turn of the screw to take hold.

When this was done he turned the handle round and round until it was

fully screwed in.

The strange thing was that, in all his efforts, he never tried to turn

the handle the wrong way; he always screwed from right to left. The

work done, he unscrewed it and screwed it in again, this time more

easily. He kept on until he could do it without trouble and then threw

it aside for some other amusement.

Here is a case where the animal tried for himself a thing he had never

seen done, not for anything to be gained, but simply to find out how

to do it. He knew somehow the right from the wrong way, and when he

had finished he had no further use for the brush. He had learned that

lesson, solved that riddle, and was ready to try something else.

ANECDOTES OF THE APE

While men like to have the monkey for a pet, the monkey imitates them

by having pets of its own. It has a fancy for this and likes to have

something or some animal under its care. It may be a doll, a guinea

pig, a white rat, or anything to which it takes a fancy. This was the

case with a monkey we are told of, which was very fond of nursing.

His fancy in this way brought him to a sad end. Seeing a litter of

young pigs, he grew eager to have one of these for a pet. Watching

till the mother pig was at the other end of the pen he popped down and

seized one of the little grunters. With his prize he leaped to the door

of the pig-stye, but it gave way under his weight and he fell back into

the jaws of the furious sow, who with one crunch put an end to the

pet-lover's career.

Here is another story told by the same party: "A female baboon which

I brought up in my family got hold of a kitten with the intention of

making a pet of it and mothering it, but was scratched by the scared

fondling. The monkey then made a close study of the kitten's paws,

pressed the claws forward, looked at them from above, from beneath,

and from the side, and then bit them off to save itself from further

scratches."

This love of pets on one occasion led to a serious scene. It was in the

case of a large baboon kept on a ship on which was a lady passenger

with a baby. Not noticing that the baboon had its eye on the little

one, the mother laid it down on a bench to look at something which the

captain wanted to show her.

In a moment the big monkey had the child in its arms and was running

for the rigging, hastened by the mother's scream on seeing the fate of

her little one.

Clasping the baby with one arm, the nimble creature ran up to the mast

head with the aid of the other, and when the sailors started after it

ran to the head of the top mast. By this time the poor mother was being

carried to the cabin in a dead faint.

What to do the captain did not know. He called the sailors down,

fearing that if they chased the brute it might throw the child into the

sea. But when it saw that they had given up the pursuit it set itself

to quiet the screaming child, fondling and talking to it in a very

motherly way.

The baby by this time was in a terrible state, and the captain, at his

wits' end, at length ordered everybody on deck to go below, thinking

the monkey might come down if the coast were clear. The plan proved a

good one. On seeing that there was no one on deck, the animal descended

with its prize and laid it on the bench from which it had been taken.

It was soon in its mother's arms and the pet-loving baboon found itself

locked up as a punishment for its trick.

Monkeys are often kept on ship board and they are not to be trusted if

there is anything they can steal. There were two of them on a British

naval ship in the West Indies, a big and a little one, both great

favorites. Dressed in uniform, they would march up and down the deck,

salute the captain, and imitate the movements of the officer of the

watch. But both were thieves, the big one stealing, the little one

hiding, and they needed watching.

One day the captain's gold snuff-box was missing. It was known that the

monkeys had stolen it, for both of them were taken with a severe fit

of sneezing. But no one could find it, until the little one was seen

peeping into a middy's chest. Searching this, the box was found below

the clothing.

Another theft was made while the ship was at anchor in Kingston harbor,

Jamaica. This time it was a bottle of wine, which the big one emptied

without leaving a drop for his pal, who sat and looked at him as if he

had been very badly treated.

In a few minutes the big thief was reeling about the deck very drunk.

He jumped on the bulwarks, and seeing a shark swimming around the ship

began a great jabbering and at last jumped overboard, perhaps with some

idea of making a pet of the big fish. One snap of the huge jaws and the

drunken monkey was no more.

The little one saw this with screams of agony. He could not be consoled

for the loss of his mate, and the next day he, too, jumped overboard

and was soon in the same place as his dead friend.

FEELING AND FRIENDLINESS IN THE MONKEY

What has been said above goes to show that the monkey can think and

that it comes next to man in doing its own thinking. It goes to school,

no doubt, as boys and girls go to school, but it teaches itself also,

as may be seen in the story of the monkey and the brush-handle. But the

monkey can not only think, it can also feel, and when we tell of some

of its shows of feeling it almost seems as if we were talking about

people like ourselves.

Here is a story that has been often told, but is worth telling again.

A man in India had shot a female monkey and carried it to his tent.

A crowd of friends of the dead animal, forty or fifty of them, soon

gathered round the tent, making a great noise and acting as if they

were about to make an attack on the sportsman. Only when he came out

gun in hand did they run away, as if they well knew the powers of that

dreadful weapon.

But the leader of the band stood his ground, chattering away in monkey

language. When he found that his fury and his threats did no good, he

came to the tent door and began to moan in a sorrowful manner and to

make signs as if to beg for the dead body. When it was given to him he

took it in his arms and carried it away to his waiting friends. All

those who saw this sad scene vowed that they would never again fire at

one of the monkey race.

This interesting story is only one among many. One of them has to

do with an instance where the horses of a party of travellers were

frightened by monkeys in the trees, some of the horses breaking loose.

To stop this one of the party fired at the monkeys with a load of small

shot to drive them away. One of the monkeys ran down to the lowest

branch of the tree, then stopped, put his paw to the part wounded, and

held it out covered with blood for the man to see. The sportsman says:

"I was so much hurt at the time that it left an impression never to be

effaced and I have never since fired a gun at any of the tribe."

A few minutes later a native came in and said that the monkey was dead.

They told him to bring it in, but when he went back he found that the

other monkeys had carried off their dead comrade and none of them were

to be seen.

Here is a case of the same kind, told by Sir William Hoste, an officer

in India. It is of a still more affecting kind. We give it as told by a

Mr. Jesse.

"One of his officers, coming home after a long day's shooting, saw a

female monkey running along the rocks, with her young one in her arms.

He immediately fired and the animal fell. On his coming up, she grasped

her little one close to her breast, and with her other hand pointed

to the wound which the ball had made, and which had entered above

her breast. Dipping her finger in the blood, and then holding it up,

she seemed to reproach him with being the cause of her death, and in

consequence that of the young one, to which she frequently pointed."

When Sir William was told this affecting story he, as in the other

cases cited, resolved never to shoot one of these animals as long as he

lived.

Is not all this very human-like? The poor things, knowing that men are

stronger than they and carry death-dealing weapons, do all they can to

make them sorry for their cruelty and accuse them of murder. If they

could talk they could not say more than these monkeys did in dumb show.

Monkeys are very fond of and tender to their young. One writer saw an

American monkey driving away the flies that troubled her infant, and

another saw a mother monkey washing the faces of her young ones in a

stream. When their young die the mothers are very apt to die of grief.

This we are told by Darwin, who further says: "Orphan monkeys are

always adopted and carefully guarded by the other monkeys, both male

and female."

[Illustration: An afternoon chat. Observe the close attention of the

monkey and its care of its young]

They also take care of those that are hurt. One writer tells us that he

kept a number of Gibbons in his garden, living in the trees and coming

down to be fed. One of them fell from a tree and sadly hurt its wrist.

The others at once paid it great attention, and an old female, who was

no relation to the crippled animal, fed it every day before eating any

food herself. The writer goes on to say: "I have frequently noticed

that a cry of fright, pain, or distress from one would bring all the

others at once to the complainer, and they would then condole with him

and fold him in their arms."

Captain Hugh Crow, in his "Narrative of my Life," tells a story of this

kind which goes to show how tender the monkeys are to one another. On

board his ship were a number of monkeys, of different kinds and sizes,

among them a beautiful little one, only about ten inches long and no

larger in body than a common drinking glass.