colonies to which the wandering star of my fate has led me, and I
have observed a curious similarity between the houses made with and
without hands. For instance, take a bird’s nest in England, where
human habitations are solid and carefully finished, and you will see
an equal finish and solidity in the neatly constructed nest with its
warm lining and lichen-decorated exterior. Then look at a bird’s nest
in a colony with its hastily constructed houses made of any slight
and portable material. You will find the majority of birds’ nests
equally makeshift in character and style, just loosely put together
anyhow with dried grass, and evidently only meant for temporary use.
I saw one such nest of which the back must have tumbled out, for a
fresh leaf had been neatly sewn over the large hole with fibre. In
strong contrast, however, to such hastily constructed bird-dwellings
was a nest of the “schneevögel” which came to me from the foot of the
Drakenberg Mountains in Natal. Beautifully made of sheep’s wool, it
had all the consistency of fine felt. It was a small hanging nest, but
what I delighted in was the little outside pocket in which the father
of the family must have been wont to sit. The mouth of that nest was
so exceedingly small that at first I thought that no bird bigger than
a bee could possibly have fitted into it, but I found that it expanded
quite easily, so elastic was the material. One could quite picture the
domestic comfort, especially in so cold and inhospitable a region, of
that tiny _ménage_.
I always longed to make a journey to the north-west of Western
Australia expressly to see the so-called “bower-bird” at play. This
would have necessitated very early rising on my part, however, for
only at dawn does this bird—not the true bower-bird, by any means—come
out of his nest proper, and lie on his back near the heap of snail
shells, &c. which he has collected in front of his hastily thrown-up
wind-shelter, to play with his toys. It is marvellous the distance
those birds will carry anything of a bright colour to add to their
heap, and active quarrels over a brilliant leaf or berry have been
observed. A shred of red flannel from some explorer’s shirt or blanket
is a priceless treasure to the bower-bird and eagerly annexed. But the
wind-shelter of coarse grass always seemed to me quite as curious as
the heap of playthings. The photographs show me these shelters as being
somewhat pointed in shape, very large in proportion to the bird, and
with an opening something like the side-door in a little old-fashioned
English country church. This habit of hastily throwing up wind-shelters
is not confined to this bird only. I was given some smaller birds from
the interior of Western Australia, and at the season of the strong
north-west gales—such a horrible, hot wind as that was—I found my
little birds loved to have a lot of hay thrown into their big cage
with which in a single morning they would build a large construction
resembling a huge nest, out of all proportion to their size. At first
I thought it was an effort at nest-building, but as they constantly
pulled it to pieces, and never used it except in a high wind, it was
plain to see that their object was only to obtain a temporary shelter.
Next to the brilliant Gouldian finches, which, by the way, were called
“painted finches” locally, I loved the small blue-eyed doves from the
north-west of Australia better than any other of my feathered pets.
These little darlings lived by themselves, and from the original pair
given to me I reared a large and numerous family. They were gentle and
sweet as doves should be, of a lovely pearl-grey plumage, with not only
blue eyes, but large turquoise-blue wattles round them, so that the
effect they made was indeed blue-eyed. They met with a tragic fate, for
I turned some eight or ten pair loose in the large garden grounds of
the Perth Government House. Alas! within a week of their being set at
liberty not one was left. They were much too confidingly tame to fend
for themselves in this cold and cruel world. Half-wild cats ate some,
hawks pounced on others, but the saddest of all the sudden deaths arose
from their love of me. Whenever I was to be seen, even inside the
house, a dove would fly to me and dash itself against the plate-glass
windows, falling dead in the verandah. They did not seem able to judge
distance at all, and it was grievous to know they met their death
through their devotion to their mistress and friend.
A dozen miles to windward, opposite the flourishing port of Freemantle,
Western Australia, lies a little island with a lighthouse on it, known
on charts and maps as Rottnest. It is astonishing what a difference of
temperature those few miles out to sea make, and on this tiny islet
was our delightful summer home, for one of the earliest governors had
built, years before, a little stone house on a charming site looking
across the bay.
I was comparatively petless over there, for I could not well drag large
cages of birds about after me, when it was difficult enough to convey
chickens and ducks across the somewhat stormy channel, so I hailed
with delight the offer, made by a little island boy, of a half-fledged
hawk, as tame as it is in a hawk’s nature to be. There was no question
of a cage, and I am sure “Alonzo” would not have submitted to such an
indignity for a moment, so he was established on a perch in a sheltered
corner of the upstair verandah outside my bedroom door. I fed him at
short intervals—for he was very voracious—with raw meat, and he took
rapid gulps from a saucer of water; but he sat motionless on his perch
all day, only coming on my hand for his meals. This went on for two or
three weeks, when one morning at earliest daylight I heard an unusual
noise in the verandah, and just got out in time to see my little hawk
spreading his wings and sailing off into space. He had, however, been
wise enough to devour all the meat left in readiness for his breakfast.
Of course I gave him up for lost and went back to bed thinking sadly
of the ingratitude and heartlessness of hawk nature. I certainly never
expected to see my bird again, but a few hours later, as I was standing
in the verandah, I stretched out my hand as far as I could reach, when
lo! the little hawk dropped like a stone from the cloudless blue and
sat on my arm as composedly as if he had never left the shelter of his
home. It is needless to say that the return of the prodigal called
forth the same rapturous greeting and good dinner as of yore. After
that it became an established custom that I should every evening put a
saucer of chopped-up raw meat on a table in the verandah just outside
my window, and a pannikin of water to serve for the hawk’s early
breakfast, but he foraged for himself all day, coming back at dusk
to roost in the verandah. It was curious to watch his return, for he
generally made many attempts before he could hit off the exact slope
of the roof so as to get beneath it. After each failure he would soar
away out of sight, but only to return and circle round the house until
he had determined how low to stoop, and then like a flash he darted
beneath the projecting eaves. Apparently it was necessary to make but
the one effort, for there was no popping in and out or uncertainty,
just one majestic swoop, and he would be on his perch, as rigid and
unruffled as though he had never left it.
When our delicious summer holiday was over, and the day of return to
the mainland fixed, it became an anxious question what to do with
the hawk. To take him with us was of course out of the question, but
to leave him behind was heart-rending. Not only should I miss the
accustomed clatter of saucer and pannikin at earliest streak of dawn,
but not once did I ever hold my hand out during the day that he did
not drop on it at once. He never could have been far off, although no
eye could follow him into the deep blue dome where he seemed to live,
poised in the dazzling sunshiny air. But “Alonzo” settled the question
for himself a couple of days before we left, by suddenly deserting
his old home and leaving his breakfast untouched. We watched in vain
for his return on two successive evenings, nor did he drop on my hand
for the last two days of our stay. I then remembered that on the last
evening he had come home to roost I had noticed another hawk with him,
and rather wondered if he intended to set up an establishment in the
verandah. But I suppose the bride-elect found fault with the situation,
and probably said that, though well enough for a bachelor, it was not
suitable for the upbringing of a family, and so the new home had to be
started in a more secluded spot, and the sheltering roof knew its wild
guest no more.
I am afflicted with a cockatoo! I can’t “curse him and cast him out,”
for in the first place I love him dearly, and in the next he is a
sort of orphan grandchild towards whom I have serious duties and
responsibilities. And then he arrived at such a moment, when every
heart was softened by the thought of the Soudan Campaign with its
frightful risks and dangers. How could one turn away a suppliant
cockatoo who suddenly and unexpectedly presented himself on the eve
of the Battle of Omdurman, with a ticket to say his owner had gone
up to the front and he was left homeless in Cairo? It would have
been positively brutal, and then he was the friendliest of birds! No
shyness or false pride about _him_. He had already invited my pretty
little cook to “kiss him and love him,” and was paying the housemaid
extravagant compliments when I appeared on the scene. To say he flew
into his grandmother’s arms is but feebly to express the dutiful
warmth of his greeting. In less than ten minutes that artful bird had
taken complete possession of the small household, and assumed his place
as its head and master. Ever since that moment he has reigned supreme,
and I foresee that he will always so reign.
But he certainly is the most mischievous and destructive of his
mischievous species. Nothing is safe from his sudden and unexpected
fits of energy. I first put him in a little conservatory where he had
light and air, and the cheerful society of other birds. This plan,
however, only worked for two or three days. One Sunday morning I was
awakened by ear-piercing shrieks and yells from Master Cockie, only
slightly softened by distance. These went on for some time until I
perceived a gradual increase of their jubilant note, which I felt sure
betokened mischief, so I hastily got myself into a dressing-gown and
slippers and started off to investigate what trouble was “toward.” It
was so early that the glass doors were still shut, and I was able to
contemplate Master Cockie’s manœuvres unseen. The floor of the little
greenhouse was strewn with fern-leaves, for gardening, or rather
pruning, had evidently been his first idea. The door of his travelling
cage—which I had left overnight securely fastened—lay flat on the
pavement, and Cockie with extended wings was solemnly executing a
sort of _pas seul_ in front of another cage divided by partitions, in
which dwelt a goldfinch and a bullfinch side by side. Both doors were
wide open and the bullfinch’s compartment was empty, but the goldfinch
was crouched, paralysed with terror, on the floor of his abode. He
evidently wanted to get out very badly, but did not dare to pass the
yelling doorkeeper, who apparently was inviting the trembling little
bird to come forth. The instant the artful villain perceived me, he
affected perfect innocence and harmlessness, returning instantly to his
cage, and commencing his best performance of a flock of sheep passing,
doubtless in order to distract my attention. How could one scold with
deserved severity a mimic who took off not only the barking dogs and
bleating sheep, but the very shuffle of their feet, and the despairing
cry of a lost lamb. And he pretended great joy when the bullfinch—more
dead than alive—at last emerged from the shelter of a thick creeper
where he had found sanctuary, asking repeatedly after his health in
persuasive tones.
I gave up the cage after that and established him on a smart stand in
the dining-room window; for I found that the birds in the conservatory
literally could not bear the sight of him. A light chain securely
fastened on his leg promised safety, but he contrived to get within
reach of my new curtains and rapidly devoured some half-yard or so of
a hand-painted border which was the pride of my heart. Then came an
interval of calm and exemplary behaviour which lulled me into a false
security. Cockie seemed to have but one object in life, which was to
pull out all his own feathers, and by evening the dining-room often
looked as though a white fowl had been plucked in it. I consulted a
bird doctor, but as Cockie’s health was perfectly good, and his diet
all that could be recommended, it was supposed he only plucked himself
for want of occupation, and firewood was recommended as a substitute.
This answered very well, and he spent his leisure in gnawing sticks of
deal; only when no one chanced to be in the room he used to unfasten
the swivel of his chain, leave it dangling on the stand, and descend
in search of his playthings. When the fire had not been lighted I
often found half the coals pulled out of the grate, and the firewood
in splinters. At last, with warmer weather, both coals and wood were
removed, so the next time Master Cockie found himself short of a job
he set to work on the dining-room chairs, first pulled out all their
bright nails, and next tore holes in the leather, through which he
triumphantly dragged the stuffing!
At one time he went on a visit for some weeks and ate up everything
within his reach in that friendly establishment. His “bag” for one
afternoon consisted of a venerable fern and a large palm, some library
books, newspapers, a pack of cards, and an armchair. And yet every one
adores him, and he is the spoiled child of more than one family.
XVIII
HUMOURS OF BIRD LIFE
“Birds in their little nests agree.”
Dr. Watts, though doubtless an excellent and estimable divine, must
have had but little experience of the ways and manners of birds when
he wrote this oft-quoted line. Birds are really the most quarrelsome
and pugnacious creatures amongst themselves, though they are capable of
great affection and amiability towards the human beings who befriend
them.
I have always been a passionate bird-lover, and have had opportunities
of keeping, in what I hope and believe has been a comfortable
captivity, many and various kinds of birds in different lands. My
first experience of an aviary on a large and luxurious scale was in
Mauritius, many years ago, and was brought about by the gift of a
magnificent and enormous cage, elaborately carved by Arab workmen. It
was more like a small temple than anything else. But the first steps to
be taken were to make it, so to speak, bird-proof, for the ambitious
architect had left many openings in his various minarets and turrets,
through which birds could easily have escaped.
Regarded as a cage it was not a success, for it was really difficult
to see the birds through the profuse ornamentation of the panelled
sides. However, I stood it in a wide and sunny verandah, and proceeded
to instal the birds I already possessed in this splendid dwelling. I
had brought some beautiful little blue and fawn-coloured finches from
Madeira, and I had a few canaries. Gifts of other birds soon arrived
from all quarters; a sort of half-bred canary from Aden—there were a
dozen of those—and many pretty little local birds. I made them as happy
as I could with endless baths, and gave them, besides the ordinary
bird seed, bunches of native grasses, and even weeds in blossom, which
they greedily ate. The little Aden birds would not look at water for
bathing purposes. They came from a “dry and thirsty land, where no
water is,” and evidently regarded it as a precious beverage to be kept
for drinking. They had to be accommodated with little heaps of finely
powdered earth, in which they disported themselves bath-fashion, to the
deep amazement of the other birds.
But how those birds quarrelled! At roosting-time they all seemed to
want one particular spot on one particular perch, and nothing else
would do. All day long they quarrelled over their baths and their
food, and the only advantage of the ample space they enjoyed was to
give them more room to chase each other about. They all insisted on
using one especial bath at the same moment, and would not look at any
other, though all the baths were exactly alike. One fine day a batch of
tiny parrakeets from a neighbouring island arrived, and I congratulated
myself on having at last acquired some amiable members of my bird
community. Such gentle creatures were never seen. With their pale-green
plumage and the little grey-hooded heads which easily explained their
name of “capuchin,” they made themselves quite happy in one of the many
domes or cupolas of the Arab cage. In a few days, however, a mysterious
ailment broke out among all the other birds. Nearly every bird seemed
suddenly to prefer going about on one leg. This did not surprise me
very much at first, as the mosquitoes used to bite their little legs
cruelly, and I was always contriving net curtains, &c., to keep these
pests out. At last it dawned on me that many of the canaries had
actually only one leg. An hour’s careful watching showed me a parrakeet
sidling up to a canary, and after feigning to be deeply absorbed in
its own toilet, preening each gay wing-feather most carefully, the
little wretch would give a sudden swift nip at the slender leg of its
neighbour, and absolutely bite it off then and there. Of course I
immediately turned the capuchins out of the cage with much obloquy,
but too late to save several of my poor little pets from a one-legged
existence.
I had also several parrots and cockatoos, but they had to be kept as
much as possible out of earshot, for their eldritch yells and shrieks
were too great an addition to the burden of daily life in a tropic land.
There was one small grey and red parrot, however, from the West Coast
of Africa, which was different from the ordinary screaming green and
yellow bird. This was certainly the cleverest little creature of its
kind I have ever seen. Dingy and shabby as to plumage, and with a
twisted leg, its powers of mimicry were unsurpassed. It picked up
everything it heard directly, and my only regret was that it appeared
to forget its phrases very quickly. Before it had been two days in
the house it took me in half-a-dozen times by imitating exactly the
impatient peck at a glass door of some tame peacocks, who always
invited themselves to “five o’clock-er.” I used to go to the door and
open it; of course to find no peacocks there, for they were punctuality
itself, and never came near the house at any other time. After the
pecks—exactly reproduced as if on glass—came an impatient note,
followed by the exact cry of an indignant peacock. I believe that grey
parrot had the utmost contempt for my mental powers, and delighted in
victimising me.
I was a constant sufferer in those days from malarial fever, and when
convalescent and comfortably settled on my sofa in the drawing-room,
the parrot would first gently cough once or twice, then sigh,
and finally, in a weak voice, call “Garde, Garde.” This was to a
functionary who lived in the deep verandahs, and whose mission in life
seemed to be the regulating of the heavy outside blinds made of split
bamboo. The next sound would be the awkward shuffling of heavy boots
(for the “Garde” usually went barefoot, except when in uniform and on
duty), followed by “Madame.” Then my voice again, “Levez le rideau.”
“Bien, Grande Madame.” Then you heard the creak of the pulleys as the
curtain was raised, followed by the Garde’s tramping away again, all
exactly imitated.
The A.D.C.’s way of calling his “boy” (generally a middle-aged man) was
also faithfully rendered, beginning in a very mild and amiable voice,
rising louder as no “boy” answered, and finally a stentorian “boy”
produced a very frightened and hurried “’Ci, Monsieur le Capitaine,
’ci.” I grieve to say this performance generally ended with a confused
and shuffling sound as of a scrimmage.
There used also to be an orderly on duty outside the Governor’s office,
who, once upon a time, was afflicted with a violent cold in his head.
This malady, and his primitive methods of dealing with it, made him
a very unpleasant neighbour, so his Excellency requested the Private
Secretary to ask for another orderly _without_ a cold in his head. Of
course this was immediately done, and the desired change made, but not
before Miss Polly had taken notes. Next day I was startled by the most
violent outburst of sneezing and coughing in the verandah, followed by
other trying sounds. I next heard a plaintive and deeply injured voice
from the Governor’s office—it must be remembered that every door and
window is always wide open in a tropic house.
“I thought I asked for that man to be changed.”
This brought the Private Secretary hurriedly out of his room, to be
confronted by a small grey parrot, who wound up the performance by
a sort of sob of exhaustion, and “Ah! mon Dieu!” the real orderly
standing by, looking as if he was considering whether or no he ought to
arrest the culprit.
One likes to have parrots walking about quite tame, free and
unfettered, but it is an impossibility if a garden or any plants are
within reach, for the temptation to go round and nip off every leaf and
blossom, and even stem, seems irresistible to a parrot or a cockatoo.
Soon after I went to Western Australia, in 1883, I was given a pair
of beautiful cockatoos called by the natives “Jokolokals.” They did
not talk at all, but were lovely to look at, and as they had never
been kept in a cage and were reared from the nest, they were perfectly
tame and their plumage most beautiful, of a soft creamy white, with
crest and wing-lining of an indescribable flame tint. I never saw such
exquisite colouring, and they looked charming on the grass terraces
during the day, and for a while roosted peaceably in a low tree at
night.
But one morning, early, I was told the head-gardener wished to speak to
me, and he was with difficulty induced to postpone the interview until
after breakfast. I tremble to think what the expression of that grim
Scotch countenance would have been at first! It was quite severe enough
when I had to confront him a couple of hours later. The Jokolokals had
employed a long bright moonlight night in gardening among the plants
with which the many angles and corners of the wide verandahs were
filled, and such utter ruin as they had wrought, especially among the
camellias! Not only had every blossom been nipped off, but they had
actually gnawed the stems through, and few pots presented more than an
inch or two of stalk to my horrified eyes. After that—on the principle
of the steed and the stable-door—the beautiful villains were put in a
large aviary out of doors, and revenged themselves by awaking me every
morning at daylight by fiendish yells. The gardener’s cottage was out
of earshot.
I had also a very large cage of canaries, in which they lived and
multiplied exceedingly. In a country where there are no song-birds
a canary is much prized, and every year I gave away a great many
young birds. There was also another large cage with small (and very
quarrelsome) finches, including many brilliant Gouldian finches
from the North-west (they call them Painted finches there), a tiny
zebra-marked finch, and many different little birds kindly brought to
me from Singapore and other places.
However, to return for a moment to the cockatoos. The large white
Albany cockatoo, which has a very curved beak and wide pale-blue
wattles round the eye, talks admirably, and is easily tamed if taken
young. In spite of its ferocious beak it is really quite gentle, and
mine—for I had several—were only too affectionate, insisting on more
petting and notice than I always had time to bestow.
There were often garden-parties in the lovely grounds of the Government
House at Perth, and at one of the later ones some of my guests came
to me complaining, as it were, of the weird utterances of the Albany
cockatoo, who lived with other parrots in a kind of wire pagoda among
the vines. “What does he say?” I asked laughingly. “He wants to know
if we like birds,” was the answer. So I immediately went down to the
cage, and was at once asked by the cockatoo in a very earnest voice,
“Do you like birds?” Alas for the want of originality in the human
race! He had heard exactly that remark made by _every_ couple who came
up to the cage, and had adopted it. My little son taught that bird to
call me “Mother,” and it never used the word to any one else. If I ever
passed the cage without stopping to play with or pet the cockatoos, I
was greeted with indignant cries of “Mother,” which generally brought
me back, and the moment I opened the door the big cockatoo would throw
himself on his back on the gravel floor, that I might put the point of
my shoe on his breast and rub his back up and down the gravel. I never
could understand why they all loved that mode of petting.