Tom Moor was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His father, when he
died, left him an affluent fortune, and a shop of excellent trade.
As he was standing at his door one day a countryman came up to him
with a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him, says, "Master, will you
buy a nest of daws?" "No, I don't want any." "Master," replied the
man, "I will sell them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for
nine-pence." "I don't want them," answered Tom Moor, "so go about your
business."
As the man was walking away one of the daws popped out his head, and
cried "Mawk, mawk." "Damn it," says Tom Moor, "that bird knows my
name; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the bird?" "Why, you
shall have him for threepence." Tom Moor bought him, had a cage made,
and hung him up in the shop.
The journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would frequently tap
at the bottom of the cage, and say, "Who are you? Who are you? Tom
Moor of Sackville Street."
In a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted
victuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the
white of his eyes, cock his head, and cry, "Who are you? who are you?
Tom Moor of Sackville Street."
Tom Moor was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums of money;
finding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard
table set up in one corner of his dining-room, and invited a party of
his friends to play at it.
The jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his cage was left open,
and he hopped into every part of the house; sometimes he got into the
dining-room, where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a
constant winner, the others would say, "Damn it, how he nicks them."
The bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former,
would call, "Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.
Damn it, how he nicks them."
Tom Moor, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in
trade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet; he took his bird with him,
and lived on the master's side, supported by friends, in a decent
manner. They would sometimes ask what brought you here? when he used
to lift up his hands and answer, "Bad company, by G--." The bird
learned this likewise, and at the end of the former words, would say,
"What brought you here? Bad company, by G--."
Some of Tom Moor's friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he
was totally deserted, and removed to the common side of the prison,
where the jail distemper soon attacked him; and in the last stage of
life, lying on a straw bed; the poor bird had been for two days
without food or water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the
floor, calls out, "Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street; damn it,
how he nicks them, damn it, how he nicks them. What brought you here?
bad company, by G--, bad company, by G--."
Tom Moor, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and
reflecting on himself, cried out, "Good God, to what a situation am I
reduced! my father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an
established trade. I have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am
now dying in a loathsome jail; and to complete all, keeping that poor
thing confined without support. I will endeavour to do one piece of
justice before I die, by setting him at liberty."
He made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement,
and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the Temple were going
over the jail, and Tom Moor's bird mixed among them. The gardener was
then laying the plats of the Temple gardens, and as often as he placed
them in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a gun
and attempted to shoot some of them; but, being cunning birds, they
always placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree; who, as
soon as the gun was levelled cried "Mawk," and away they flew.
The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was
spread they caught fifteen; Tom Moor's bird was amongst them. One of
the men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens
the doors and windows, and turns the birds loose. "Now," said he, "you
black rascals, I will be revenged of you." Taking hold of the first at
hand, he twists her neck, and throwing him down, cries, "There goes
one." Tom Moor's bird, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of
the room unobserved, as the man lays hold of the second, calls out,
"Damn it, how he nicks them." The man alarmed, cries, "Sure I heard a
voice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast; it could
only be imagination." On laying hold of the third, and twisting his
neck, Tom's bird again says, "Damn it, how he nicks them." The man
dropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came
from, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, "Who are you?"
to which the bird answered, "Tom Moor of Sackville Street, Tom Moor of
Sackville Street." "The devil you are; and what brought you here." Tom
Moor's bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, "Bad company, by G--,
bad company, by G--." The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits,
opened the door, ran down stairs, and out of the house, followed by
all the birds, who by this means regained their liberty.