and can be trusted to walk about loose, as he does not garden.
“Break-of-day-boys” is their local name, and it fits them admirably.
At earliest dawn only do you hear the sweet clear whistle which is
their native note. They learn to whistle tunes easily and correctly,
but nothing can be compared to their own note. They are exactly like
the English magpie in appearance, only a little larger. I had a very
tame one, which had been taught to lie on its back on a plate with its
legs held stiffly up as if it were dead. I have a photograph of it in
that attitude, and no one will believe me when I assure them the bird
was alive; not even its open and roguish eye will convince them. I only
wish the sceptics had been by when I clapped my hands to signify that
the performance was over, and Mag jumped up like a flash of lightning
and made for the nearest human foot, into the instep of which she would
dig her bill viciously. It must have been her idea of revenge, for she
never did so at any other time; and she scattered the spectators pretty
swiftly, I assure you.
Dear, clever Mag was lost or stolen just before we left Perth. I
intended to have brought her to England, but one morning I was informed
by the sentry that he could not see her anywhere, and she always kept
near him. Further and anxious inquiries elicited that she had been
observed following a newspaper boy near the back-gate. The police
were communicated with, and the result was my being confronted at all
hours of the day and night by an indignant and rumpled magpie tied up
in a pocket-handkerchief, who loudly protested that we were absolute
strangers to each other. And so we were, for among the numerous arrests
made of suspicious characters among magpies, not one turned out to be
my poor Maggie.
But I must not loiter too long over my West Australian aviary, in
spite of the great temptation to dwell on those dear distant days. I
brought a small travelling-cage of Gouldian and other lovely finches
from the neighbourhood of Cambridge Gulf home with me. What I suffered
with that cage during a storm in the Bay of Biscay no tongue can tell.
However, they all reached London in safety, and in due time were taken
out—also with great personal trouble and difficulty—to Trinidad. Here
they were luxuriously established in four large wired compartments
over the great porch of Government House. No birds could have been
happier. The finches had one compartment all to themselves, so had the
canaries; whilst the laughing jackass, another Australian magpie, and
a beautiful Indian hill mynah occupied a third compartment, the fourth
being brilliantly filled by troupials, morichés, and sewing crows from
Venezuela, besides many lovely local birds of exquisite plumage.
In each compartment stood large boxes and tubs filled with growing
shrubs, whilst creepers, brought up from the luxuriant growth at the
pillars below, were twined in the fine meshes of the netting. Of course
there were perches and nests, all sizes and at differing heights.
It was really one man’s business to attend to them, but they were
beautifully kept. Every morning the grasscutter brought in a large
bunch of the waving plume-like seed of the tall guinea grass; and they
had plenty of fresh fruit, in which they greatly delighted. Of course
they quarrelled over it all, and a fierce battle would rage over half
an orange, of which the other half was utterly neglected.
The canaries led a commonplace existence and had only one adventure. I
had noticed that for some few weeks past the numbers of these little
birds seemed rather to diminish than increase at their usual rapid
rate. But I saw so many hens sitting on nests very high up that I
accounted for the small number in that way. However, one day a perch
fell down, and the black attendant went into the cage with a tall
ladder to replace it. Presently I heard a great scrimmage and many
“Hi! my king!” and other agitated ejaculations, which soon brought me
to the spot. It was indeed no wonder that my poor little birds had
been disappearing mysteriously, for there was a large, well-fed, but
harmless snake. It must have got in through the mesh when quite young
and small, but had now grown to such stout proportions that escape
through the wire netting—which would only admit the very tip of my
fourth finger—was impossible, and it was easily slain. The snake was
found coiled on a ledge too high up to be easily perceived from below.
Soon after that episode the little finches underwent a sad and
startling experience. One morning the coachman brought me in a
beautiful little bird of brilliant plumage which I had never seen
before. It had been caught in the saddle-room, and was certainly a
lovely creature, though unusually wild and terrified. However, I was
so accustomed to new arrivals soon making themselves perfectly at home
and becoming quite tame, that I turned the splendid stranger into the
finches’ compartment with no misgivings, and went away, leaving them
to make friends, as I hoped. About half-an-hour later I passed the
tall French window, carefully netted in, which opened on the corridor,
and through which I could always watch my little pets unperceived.
My attention was attracted by two or three curious little feathered
lumps on the gravelled floor. On closer examination these proved to
be the heads of some of my especial favourites, which the new arrival
(a member of the Shrike family, as I discovered too late) had hastily
twisted off. Besides these murders he had found time to go round the
nests and turn out all the eggs and young birds. My dismay and horror
may be imagined, but I could not stop, for luncheon and guests were
waiting. I hastily begged a tall Irish orderly who was on duty in the
hall to catch the new-comer and let him go. Now this man loved my birds
quite as much as I did, and seemed to spend all his leisure-time in
foraging for them. They owed him many tit-bits in the shape of wasps’
larvæ or the nursery of an ants’ nest nicely stocked, or some delicacy
of that sort. There was only time for a hurried order, received in grim
silence, but when I was once more free and able to inquire how matters
had been settled, all I could get out of O’Callaghan was: “I’ve larned
him to wring little birds’ necks.”
“Did you catch him easily?” I inquired.
“Quite easily, my lady, and _I_ larned him.” This in a voice trembling
with rage.
“What have you done to him?” No answer at first, only a murmur.
“But I want to know what has happened to that bird,” I persisted.
“Well, my lady, I’ve larned him;”—a pause; “I’ve wrunged _his_ neck.”
So in this way rough and ready justice had been meted out to the
wrong-doer very speedily.
Perhaps of all my birds the one I called the Sewing Crow was the most
amusing. It was a glossy black bird about the size of a thrush, with
pale yellow tail and wing-feathers, and curious light blue eyes with
very blue rims. It was brought from Venezuela, and its local Spanish
name means “The Rice-bird,” but it never specially affected rice as
food, preferring fruit and mealworms. I had several of these crows,
but one was particularly tame, and rambled about the house seeking for
sewing materials. I found it once or twice _inside_ a large workbag
full of crewels, where it had gone in search of gay threads, with
which it used to decorate the wire walls of an empty cage kept in
the verandah outside my own sitting-room. The extraordinary patience
and ingenuity of that bird in passing the wool through the meshes of
the wire can hardly be described. I suppose it was a reminiscence of
nest-building, because it always worked harder in the springtime. It
had a great friend in a little “moriché,” black and yellow also, but
of a more slender build, and with a very sweet whistle. The “moriché,”
too, was perfectly tame and flew all about the house, and it was very
comic to watch its efforts at learning embroidery from its friend. It
arrived at last at some sort of cage decoration, but quite different
from that of the crow, who evidently disapproved of it, and often
ruthlessly pulled the work of a laborious morning on the “moriché’s”
part to pieces. Now the “moriché” knew better than to touch the crow’s
work, though he often appeared to carefully examine it.
One day the crow must have persuaded the moriché to help him to roll
and drag a reel of coarse white cotton from the corridor of the
work-room, across the floor of my sitting-room, into the verandah. I
saw them doing this more than once, and had unintentionally interfered
with the crow’s plans by picking up the reel and returning it to the
maids’ work-basket. However, one afternoon the crow got rid of me
entirely, and on my return from a long expedition I found both the
crow and moriché just going to roost in the empty cage, which was
really only kept there for them to play in. I then perceived what the
reel of cotton, which was again lying on the verandah floor, had been
wanted for. The crow had sewn a straw armchair with an open-patterned
seat securely to the cage by nine very long strands, and was sleepily
contemplating the work with great satisfaction. It was quite easy to
see how it had been managed once a start was made with the cotton; but
it must have entailed a great deal of flying in and out with the end of
the cotton, for it had not been broken off. Of course I left the chair
in its place, and it remained untouched for some months; but I always
had to use it myself, lest any one should move it too roughly, and so
break the connecting strands which had cost my little bird so much
labour and trouble.
The most popular of my birds, however, was certainly the laughing
jackass, who dwelt in company with the magpie and the mynah. Unhappily
a misunderstanding arose, when I was away in England, between these two
birds, once such great friends. If I had only been there to adjust the
quarrel, all might have gone well; but the magpie, after many days of
incessant battle, I was told, fell upon the mynah and killed it. It
was curious that they should have lived together for a couple of years
without more than the ordinary share of bird-quarrels. I do not know
what active share the jackass took in this affair. I always doubted his
intentions towards that mynah, and he always regarded it with a bad
expression of eye, but as he was very slow and cumbrous of movement I
thought the mynah could well take care of himself. The only time the
laughing jackass ever showed agility was when a mouse-trap with a live
mouse in it was taken into his cage. With every feather bristling he
would watch for the door of the trap to be opened, when he pounced on
the darting mouse quicker than the eye could follow, and killed and
swallowed it with the greatest rapidity. Once a mouse escaped him,
and the magpie caught it instead, and a more absurd sight could not
be imagined than the magpie flitting from perch to perch, holding the
mouse securely in his beak, through which he was at the same time
trying hard to whistle; whilst the jackass lumbered heavily after him,
remonstrating loudly, for the magpie did not want to eat the mouse, and
he did.
It always amused me to see the jackass take his bath, though it
was rather a rare performance, whereas all the other birds tubbed
incessantly. I had a large tin basin full of water placed just beneath
one of the lowest perches, and when the jackass intended to bathe he
descended cautiously to this perch and eyed the water for some time,
uttering—with head well thrown back—his melancholy laugh. As soon as
his courage was equal to it he suddenly flopped into the water, as if
by accident, and then scrambled hastily out again. After repeating
these dips many times he seemed to think he had done all that was
necessary in the washing line, and scrambled up to a sunny corner where
he could dry and preen his beautiful plumage.
Yes, my birds were the greatest delight and amusement to me for many
years, and I had nearly a hundred of them when my happy life in that
beautiful tropical home came to a sad and abrupt end. Many of my
friends have often asked me if I did not regret leaving my birds; but
as I left everything that the world could hold for me in the way of
happiness and interest and work behind me at the same time, the loss of
the birds did not make itself felt just then. I miss them more now than
I did at first, but I believe they have nearly all found kind and happy
homes, where they are cherished a little for my sake as well as for
their own, the dear things!
XIX
GIRLS—OLD AND NEW
“Comparisons are odious” we know, but yet when one gets past middle age
one is constantly invited to make them.
My life is brightened and cheered by many girl friends, and there is
nothing about which they show a more insatiable curiosity than my own
girlhood.
I think it is the going back so constantly to that distant time, and
being forced by my imperious pets to drag every detail out of the
pigeon-holes of memory, which has impressed so forcibly on me the
superiority of the modern girl.
I began to answer their questions with the full intention of proving
to the contrary, but alas, in the course of the talks, I often felt
how heavily handicapped we had been. I am afraid the first point upon
which I had to dilate was our clothes, the description of which always
provoked peals of laughter. It is to be presumed that pretty women set
the fashions and that they suited them, but the rigour of the fashion
laws prescribed that every one should wear exactly and precisely
the same gown or bonnet, with, of course, disastrous results as to
appearance. Then we all had to dress our hair in precisely the same
way. The ears especially were treated as though they were monstrous
deformities, and had to be carefully concealed. What the modern girls
find most difficult to believe is that these same fashions lasted
for three or four years without the slightest change, so there was
no escape from an unbecoming garment. Of course I impressed upon my
laughing audience, with all the dignity at my command, that we looked
extremely nice, and at all events were quite contented with our
appearance.
If I could not defend the colours and cut of the material provided
for our bodies, still less could I champion the diet prescribed for
our minds. Looking back on it all I see there was the same cardinal
error; the want of recognition of any individuality. As in our frocks
so in our studies, no allowance whatever used to be made for our
different natures. In fact, the great aim of every mother and teacher
was to make her girl exactly and precisely like every other girl. No
matter in what direction your tastes and talents lay, you had to plod
through the same list of what was called “accomplishments.” The very
word was a misnomer, for nothing was really accomplished. A girl’s
education was supposed to be quite “finished” (Heaven save the mark!)
at about sixteen or seventeen, but if she were studiously inclined,
or even dimly suspected that she had not exhausted all the treasures
of knowledge, she would have found it difficult to pursue any course
of study. And the idleness of that stage of girlhood was one of its
greatest dangers. A reaction from the practical days of our own
grandmothers had set in, and there was no still-room, or work-room,
or any branch of domestic education to which we could turn to find an
outlet for our energies.
A girl with any musical talent could of course go on practising, and
had a chance of achieving something, but art education must have been
at its lowest ebb half a century ago. It is difficult to believe that
a “drawing class” of that day generally consisted of a dozen girls or
so meeting at the house of some rising or even well-known artist. The
great point seemed to be his _name_. Drawing materials and every other
facility, except instruction, used to be provided by our “master.”
Perhaps the poor man recognised the hopelessness of his task, but he
certainly let us severely alone even in our choice of subjects. We were
only asked to copy other drawings, and I well remember selecting, as my
first attempt at painting, a most ambitious sketch of a pretty Irish
colleen with a pitcher on her head emerging from a ruined archway. I
dashed in her red petticoat and blue cloak with great vigour, but took
little pains with her uplifted arm or bare legs. They must indeed have
been curious anatomical studies, for I recollect the master heaving a
deep sigh, if not a groan, as I presented my drawing for his criticism.
But he made no attempt whatever to teach me how to do better, only took
possession of my picture, kept it a few days and returned it—what was
called “corrected,” though we never knew where our faults lay.
Our “fancy work” was truly hideous also, and as useless as it was
ugly. It makes one’s heart ache to think of the terrible waste of time
and eyesight which our awful performances in wool work and crotchet
entailed. Hardly any girl was taught to do plain sewing, and I really
think one of my keenest pangs of regret for my misspent youth in the
way of needlework was caused the other day, by my youngest girl friend
telling me that at her school she was taught to cut out and make a
whole set of baby clothes, as well as garments for older children.
Our amusements were few and far between, but we took to them a
freshness and keenness of enjoyment which I suspect is often lacking
in the much amused damsel of the present day. But then, on the other
hand, “vapours” had gone out of fashion, and “nerves” had not yet been
invented, so one never heard of rest cures being prescribed for young
matrons!
I am thankful to say that the day of tight lacing and small appetites
was over before I became aware of the dangers I had escaped, but I
remember the pity with which I listened to my poor young mother’s
stories of how she was required to hold on to the bedpost while her
maid laced her stays, and how she often fainted after she was dressed.
I am often asked what exercise we were allowed to take. We rode a great
deal, though girls were hardly ever seen in the hunting field, and
I wonder we survived a ride on a country road, considering that our
habits almost swept the ground. We had no out-door game except croquet,
which was just coming into fashion, and was pursued with a frenzy quite
equal to that evoked by ping-pong or any other modern craze. Of course,
there was always walking and dancing, though over the latter there
still hung a faint trace of the stately movements of the generation
before us. We all did elaborate steps in the quadrille, and although
the waltz was firmly established in the ball-rooms of my youth, it was
a slow measure compared to the modern rush across the room. The polka
woke us all up, and we hailed its pretty and picturesque figures with
enthusiasm.
I often hear of the iniquities of girls of the present day, but I don’t
come across those specimens, and I confess that I honestly believe the
modern girl, as I know her, to be a very great improvement on the
early Victorian maiden. To begin with, she is much nicer and prettier
to look at, because she can suit her dress and her _coiffure_ to her
individuality. Then she is not so dreadfully shy—not to say _gauche_,
as we were, because she is not kept in the school-room until the hour
before she is launched into society, as ignorant of its ways as if she
had dropped from the moon.
I distinctly remember being reproached for my want of “knowledge of
the world,” when I had not even the faintest idea what the phrase
meant. When I came to understand it, it seemed a rather unreasonable
criticism, for I certainly should have been regarded with horror had I
made any attempt to acquire such knowledge on my own account.
Now—so far as my experience goes—the up-to-date girl has pretty and
pleasant manners, and is not secretly terrified if a new acquaintance
speaks to her. She is more sure of herself, and has the confidence
of custom, for she has probably been her mother’s companion out of
school hours. I fear girls are not quite as respectful and obedient to
their elders as we used to be, although the days of “Honoured Madam”
and “Sir” had passed away with the generation before mine. Still the
modern mother seems quite content with her pretty girl, and it is
often difficult to distinguish between them, but I always observe the
daughter is the most proud and delighted if “Mummie” is taken for her
elder sister.
Then the New Girl is so companionable. Her education has been conducted
on very different lines to ours, and she does not dream of giving
up her studies because she is no longer obliged to pursue them. Her
individual tastes have been given a chance of asserting themselves, and
I am often told of “work” gone on with at home. In fact her education
has really taught her how to go on educating herself. Of course I am
speaking of intelligent girls, and I am happy to think they are far
more numerous than they were even one generation ago. There will always
be frivolous, empty-headed girls, but with even them I confess I find
it very difficult to be properly angry, as they are generally so pretty
and coaxing.
The delightful classes and lectures on all subjects and in all
languages now so common were unknown in my day, to say nothing of the
numerous aids to difficult branches of knowledge. Even history was
offered to us in so unattractive a form that although we swallowed,
so to speak, a good deal of it, we digested little or none. Poetry
was generally regarded as dangerous mental food, and, perhaps to our
starved natures, it may have been. Our reading was most circumscribed,
and everything was Bowdlerised as much as possible. I am not sure,
however, that miscellaneous reading does not begin too soon now, and
certainly I am often astonished at the books very, very young girls are
allowed to read. In this respect I confess I think the old way safer,
to say the least of it.
In considering the subject of the new ways of girls, however, one must
bear in mind how many more girls there now are, and that marriage is
not the invariable destiny of every pretty or charming girl one meets.
The consequence is girls certainly do not talk and think of future or
possible husbands as much as they used to a couple of generations ago.
Such talk was quite natural and harmless under the old conditions,
but I must say it seems healthier and nicer that now it should be the
merits of the favourite “bike,” or the last “ripping” run, or the
varying fortunes of golf or hockey, or even croquet, which claims their
attention when they get together. I often wonder how a man could have
encumbered himself with any of us as his life’s companion! It is true
that he had not any option, but still we must have been rather trying.
I know of one girl who amazed her husband by appearing before him the
first Sunday morning after their marriage, with her Prayer Book, which
she handed to him with the utmost gravity, and standing up with her
hands clasped behind her back, in true school-girl fashion, proceeded
to rattle off the collect, epistle, and gospel for the day, having no
idea she was doing anything the least unusual!
The only comfort I have in looking back on our crudeness and ignorance
is that we were really good girls. That is to say we were trained to be
unselfish, and certainly we were obedient and docile, though in many
ways what would now be called silly. Still, we were as pure minded and
innocent as babes, and quite as unworldly. No doubt this white-souled
state sprang from crass ignorance, but who shall say that it was
not good to keep us from tasting the fruit of that terrible Tree of
Knowledge as long as possible?
“You must have been dears,” is the verdict with which a talk of these
distant days is often ended by my laughing critics. And I feel inclined
to say, “Well, and you are dears, too,” so I suppose that is the real
solution of the question.
THE END
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
Edinburgh & London
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “Station Life in New Zealand,” Macmillan.
[2]
“Now under heaven all winds abated,
The sea a settling and foamless floor,
A sunset city is open-gated,
Unfastened flashes a golden door.
Cloud-walls asunder burst and brighten
Like melted metal in furnace blaze;
The lava rivers run through and lighten,
The glory gathers before my gaze.
* * * * *
Eastward an isle, half sunken, sleeping,
Crowns the sea with a bluer crest;
Vine-clad Terceira!—but I am keeping
A tryst to-night with the wondrous west.
What there is wanting of purple islands,
Lo! golden archipelagoes,
Coasts silver shining, and inner highlands,
Long ranges rosy with sunny snows.
* * * * *