the woodwork of his cage, with so great success that the former have to
be frequently renewed, and the latter looks as though rats had nibbled
it. The deliberate way in which he goes to work to destroy his cage is
amusing, lifting the end of a perch and quietly throwing it to the
floor, or pounding and splitting off a big splinter of the soft pine and
carefully hiding it. To give him liberty, as I have, is simply to
enlarge the field of his labors, and furnish him congenial employment
from morning to night, the happiest and busiest member of the household.
He tries everything: the covers of cardboard boxes, always choosing the
spot that is weakest at the corner, and pounding till it is ruined; the
cane seats of chairs, which he selects with equal judgment, and never
leaves till he has effected a breach; a delicate work-basket, at which
he labors with enthusiasm, driving his pickaxe bill into it and cutting
a big hole. It is most curious to see him set himself to pick a hole,
for instance, in a close-woven rattan chair, or a firm piece of matting
stretched upon the floor. Selecting, by some esoteric wisdom, the most
vulnerable spot, he pushes and pounds and pokes till he gets the tip of
his beak under a strand, and then pulls and jerks and twists till he
draws it out of its place. After this the task is easy, and he spends
hours over it, ending with a hole in the matting three or four inches in
diameter; for he is never discouraged, and his persistence of purpose is
marvelous. Books are a special object of his attentions; not only does
he peck the backs as they stand on the shelves, till he can insert his
beak and tear off a bit, but if he finds one lying down he thrusts the
same useful instrument into the edge, slightly open so as to enclose two
or three leaves, and then, with a dexterous twist of the head, jerks out
a neat little three-cornered piece. Thus he goes on, and after a short
absence from the room I have found a great litter of white bits, and my
big dictionary curiously scalloped on the edges. He is able to pound up
as well as down, crouching, turning his head back, and delivering
tremendous blows on the very spot he wishes, and so accurately that he
easily cuts a thread, holding its strands under one toe.
But hammering, though a great pleasure, is not his dearest delight. The
thing for which, apparently, he came into the world is to put small
objects out of sight,--bury them, in fact. No doubt the business for
which Nature fitted him, and which in freedom he would follow with
enthusiasm, is the planting of trees; to his industry we probably owe
many an oak and nut tree springing up in odd places. In captivity, poor
soul, he does the best he can to fulfill his destiny. When he has more
of any special dainty than he can eat at the moment, as meat, or bread
and milk, he hides it at the back of his tray, or in the hole already
spoken of in connection with the corks; and when outside, nothing can be
droller than the air of concern with which he goes around the floor,
picking up any small thing he finds, left purposely for him, a burnt
match, a small key, stray pins, or a marble, and seeks the very best and
most secluded spot in the room in which to hide it. A pin he takes
lengthwise in his mouth, which he closes as though he had swallowed it,
as at first I feared he had. He has no doubt about the best place for
that; he long ago decided that between the leaves of a book is safest.
So he proceeds at once to find a convenient volume, and thrusts the pin
far in out of sight. A match gives him the most trouble. He tries the
cracks under the grooves in the moulding of the doors, the base board,
between the matting and the wall, or under a rocker; in each place he
puts it carefully, and pounds it in, then hops off, giving me one of
the
"sidelong glances wise
Wherewith the jay hints tragedies,"
attempting to look unconcerned, as if he had not been doing anything.
But if he sees that he is observed, or the match is too plainly in
sight, he removes it and begins again, running and hopping around on the
floor with the most solemn, business-like air, as though he had the
affairs of nations on his shoulders, the match thrust nearly its whole
length into his mouth. The place usually decided upon is an opening
between the breadths of matting. It is amusing when he chances to get
hold of a box of matches, accidentally left open, for he feels the
necessity and importance of disposing of each one, and is busy and
industrious in proportion to the task before him. It is not so pleasing,
however, when, in his hammering, he sets one off, as he often does; for
they are "parlor matches," and light with a small explosion, which
frightens him half out of his wits, and me as well, lest he set the
house afire. The business of safely and securely secreting one match
will frequently occupy him half an hour. He finds the oddest
hiding-places, as in a caster between the wheel and its frame; up inside
the seat of a stuffed chair, to reach which he flies up on to the
webbing and goes in among the springs; in the side of my slipper while
on my foot; in the loop of a bow; in the plaits of a ruffle; under a
pillow. Often when I get up, a shower of the jay's treasures falls from
various hiding-places about my dress,--nails, matches, shoe-buttons, and
others; and I am never sure that I shall not find soft, milk-soaked
bread in my slipper. But the latest discovered and most annoying of his
receptacles is in my hair. He delights in standing on the high back of
my rocking-chair, or on my shoulder, and he soon discovered several
desirable hiding-places conveniently near, such as my ear, and under the
loosely dressed hair. I did not object to his using these, but when he
attempted to tuck away some choice thing between my lips I rebelled. I
never expect to find a keyhole that he can reach, free from bread
crumbs, and the openings of my waste-basket are usually decorated with
objects half driven in.
The jay shows unbounded interest in everything. Every sound and every
fresh sight arouses him instantly; his crest comes up, his feathers
fluff out, and he is on tiptoe to see what will come next. He is
remarkably discriminating among people, and takes violent likes and
dislikes on the instant. Some persons, without any reason that I can
discover, he salutes on their first appearance with an indescribable
cry, like "obble! obble! obble!" At others he squawks madly. On one
occasion he took an intense dislike to a lady, of whom birds generally
are very fond, and he made a peculiar display of rage, squawking and
screaming at her, raising his crest, stamping, snapping his beak, giving
vicious digs at the side of the cage, as though he would eat her if he
could reach her. And although he often saw her, and she tried her best
to win him, he always showed the same spirit, going so far, when out of
his cage, as to show fight, fly up at her, peck her savagely, and chase
her to the door when she left. Again, a lady came in with her baby, and
he at once singled out the infant as his enemy, fixing a very wicked
glance on it, but in perfect silence. He jumped back and forth as if mad
to get out, and sat with open mouth, panting as if exhausted, with eyes
immovably turned to the baby. He would not pay the slightest attention
to any one else, nor answer me when I spoke, which was very unusual,
till they left the room, when the moment the door closed behind them he
began rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Some visitors whom he
fancies, he receives in silence, but with slightly quivering wings; only
the very few he loves best are greeted with a low, sweet, and very
peculiar chatter, which he keeps up as long as he is talked to.
Investigating everything in the room is one of my bird's greatest
pleasures, and most attractive of all he finds the drawer of my desk, on
the edge of which he stands, delighted and bewildered by the variety
before him. Great would be the havoc if I were not there; and the
curious thing about it is that he will pull things over carelessly, with
one eye on me, to see if I object. If, on touching some particular
thing, he sees that I do not approve,--and he recognizes my sentiment as
quickly as a bright child would,--that thing, and that only, he will
have. At once he snatches it and flies away across the room, and I may
chase him in vain. He regards it as a frolic got up for his amusement,
and no child ever equaled him in dodging; he cannot be driven, and if
cornered he uses his wings. I simply put my wits against his, follow him
about till he has to drop his load to breathe, when a sudden start sends
him off, and I secure it. If I cover up anything, he knows at once it is
some forbidden treasure, and devotes all his energy and cunning, which
are great, to uncovering and possessing himself of it. He opens any box
by delivering sharp blows under the edge of the cover, and hides my
postage stamps in books and magazines. He hops around the floor in a
heavy way, as often sideways as straight, and holds his toes as close
together as though he had worn tight boots all his life. If startled, he
bounds up into the air in the oddest way, a foot or two, or even more,
generally turning half round, and coming down with his head the other
way. If much alarmed he will bounce up in this way half a dozen times in
quick succession, and should he happen to be on a table at the time, he
usually ends by landing on the floor. His alighting after any flight is
most singular: he comes to the floor in a crouching position, legs
sprawled, body horizontal and nearly touching the matting, looking like
a bird gone mad; then instantly springs up six or eight inches, half
turns, and stands upright, crest erect, and looking excited, almost
frightened. If much disturbed he comes down with wings half open, tail
held up, and every feather awry, as if he were out in a gale, uttering
at the same time a loud squawk. He is a most expert catcher, not only
seizing without fail a canary seed thrown to him, but even fluttering
bits of falling paper, the hardest of all things to catch.
The blue-jay is a bird of opinions about most things, and able to
express himself quite clearly; as, for example, when he found himself
under a chair without rounds, on which he likes to perch, he stood and
looked around on every side, and made a low, complaining cry, plainly a
protest against so unnatural a chair; and again, when he scolded at the
rain that came in sudden gusts against the window, or charged furiously
at the crack under a door when he heard sweeping outside. In general he
is very quiet when one is in the room, but the moment the door closes
behind the last person his voice is heard,--whistling exactly like a
boy, calling, squawking, and occasionally uttering a sweet, though not
loud song, which is varied by a sound like rubbing a cork against glass.
The most quiet approach silences him. When under strong emotion he may
squawk or scream before spectators, but he never whistles or sings when
he knows any one is in the room. When out of his sight and so long
silent that he has forgotten me, I have now and then heard the song.
The funniest thing this knowing fellow does is to stamp his feet, and it
is a genuine expression of impatience or displeasure. When I take
something away from him or he thinks I mean to do so, or refuse him
something he wants, he stands still and jerks his feet in such a way
that they stamp with a loud sound, as if they were of iron. It is very
droll. In serious anger, he adds to this, bowing and curtsying by
bending the legs, snapping the bill, pecking, and jumping up with the
body without lifting the feet.
It may be that the jay in freedom disturbs other birds, as has been
affirmed, but among a number smaller than himself my bird has never once
shown the least hostility. He is interested in their doings, but the
only unpleasant thing he has done is to shriek and scream to stop their
singing. In spite of his natural boldness, always facing the enemy,
always ready to fight, and never running from danger nor allowing
himself to be driven anywhere, when he is not quite well he is a timid
bird. In moulting, this spring, my jay lost his entire tail, and was
extremely awkward in getting about, almost helpless, in fact; and at
that time he was afraid to hop to the floor, and refused to come out of
the cage. (I should have said, by the way, that he feared hurting
himself; he was quite as spirited as ever, as ready to show fight.) To
get him out of the door I offered him the greatest inducements, with the
cage on the floor, so that he could not fall far. He would stand on the
lowest perch, three inches from the floor, look at the meat or whatever
treasure I placed in the open doorway, and cry a faint, low, jay-baby
cry, yet not dare descend, though plainly aching with desire to get the
object so nearly within his reach. Even since he is entirely recovered
and the possessor of a beautiful long tail, he dreads the one little
step and has to be coaxed out and in his cage every day, as we coax a
startled child.
Nothing ever interested the jay more than a piano, though he is fond of
any music. The first time he heard one he quickly hopped across to the
player, pulled at the hem of her dress, flew up to her lap, then her
arm, and mounted to her shoulder, where he stood some time, looking and
listening, turning his head this way and that, raising his crest,
jerking his body, and in every way showing intense excitement. Finally
he took his last step, to the top of her head, where he was more pleased
to be than the player was to have him. She put him down; and the next
time he tried a different way, mounted to the keys, and thence to the
cover, crouching and peering under the lid to see where the sounds came
from. Satisfied about this, he returned to her head, which he evidently
considered the best post of observation. Every time she played she
received the devoted attentions of the bird, and he could not be kept
away.
My blue-jay is now a beautiful creature, in perfect plumage, with breast
and back plumes so long that often in repose, just after he has dressed
them, the violet blue of the back meets the light drab of his breast, on
the side, covering his wings completely, and making a lovely picture.
All through the spring excitement, when the other birds, one after
another, grew uneasy, belligerent, or unhappy, and one after another
were returned to freedom, he never showed a moment's uneasiness, an
instant's desire to be free, but scrupulously attended to his own
regular business, which is to pound and pull and peck to pieces my
furniture, and especially to destroy my books.
As these last words are written, just at dusk, the dear, troublesome
rogue comes down to the corner of his cage nearest to me, and as if he
understood that I had said something about him begins to talk and
remonstrate in a low, loving tone. I do feel reproached, and I must
unsay it. His business, his manifest destiny, is to hammer and peck the
shells of nuts, and to hide them away where they will grow; and if cruel
man confines him in a house, he must exercise his untiring energy, his
demon of work, in what he finds there,--and who can blame him, or find
fault? Not I, certainly.
In behalf of this bird against whom the pen of nearly every writer is
lifted, let me quote from one of our early and most careful observers,
William Bartram: "The jay is one of the most useful agents in the
economy of nature for disseminating forest trees and other ruciferous
and hard-seeded vegetables on which they feed. These birds alone are
capable in a few years' time to replant all the cleared lands." Thoreau,
who was perhaps the closest of our modern students of nature, cites this
passage and emphatically affirms its justice.
THE BLUE-JAY AGAIN.
As for birds, I do not believe there is one of them but does more good
than harm; and of how many featherless bipeds can this be said?
LOWELL.
XI.
THE BLUE-JAY AGAIN.
The blue-jay came out of the egg with his mind made up. He always knew
exactly what he wanted, and never doubted that he knew how to get it. I
wrote of this bird some time ago, but he was then a comparatively new
acquaintance. He lived with us many months after that, and became much
more familiar; for besides being slow to feel thoroughly at home, he was
very young, and he grew in wisdom with age. So I have more to say of
him.
Human society was necessary to the jay; he cared for the other birds of
the room only as objects on which to play tricks for his own amusement.
He was peculiar, too, in never liking more than one friend at a time,
and was very decided in his opinions of people, having a distinctly
different reception for each one of the household, as well as for
strangers. His mistress was always his prime favorite; and although
during my absence from home he adopted some one temporarily in my
place, he was never so affectionate to that one as to me, and the
instant I returned resumed his old relations to each of us.
To his best beloved this bird never squawked or whistled; on the
contrary, he talked in low, sweet tones, hardly more than a murmur,
slightly lifting and quivering his wings, sidling as near as he could
get, and if I put my face down to him touching my cheek or lips gently
with his beak, in little taps, like kisses. Any one else in that
position would receive a violent peck. Sometimes, when I was busy, and
therefore silent a long time, and the jay was in his cage, where I was
obliged to put him in order to work at all, he stood perfectly quiet and
motionless an hour at a time, moving only when he was hungry, and
apparently watching me every instant,--a performance very uncommon in a
bird, who usually has some interests of his own, however fond he may be
of a person. The moment I spoke to him his whole manner changed. He came
at once as near as he could, about four feet from me, and began to talk,
holding his tail on one side, and both wings spread to their fullest
extent and parallel with his back. In this attitude he hopped up and
down his three perches, always as near my side as possible, and
evidently in great excitement. If during this exhibition any one came
in, his wings instantly dropped, though he did not stop talking to me.
This action of the wings showed extreme affection, and must not be
profaned by common eyes. When I came close and replied to him, his
agitation was almost painful to see,--such loving tones, such gentle
kisses, such struggles to express himself. Not only did he insist on
sharing his dainties with me, offering me mocking-bird food or bread and
milk in the most loving way, but he wished to share mine; ice-cream he
delighted in, cake he was as fond of as any child, and candy he always
begged for, though instead of eating it he hid it somewhere about the
room,--under my pillow, or between the leaves of a book, all sticky as
it was from his mouth.
Second in the blue-jay's affection was a lady to whom at first he took a
great dislike. She tried her best to win him, talking to him, treating
him to various tidbits, and offering him the hospitality of her
room,--separated from the bird-room by a passage,--and above all dancing
with him. These attentions in time secured her a warm place in his
regards, though his treatment of her was very different from that
reserved for me. He was always gentle with me, while in her society he
exhibited all his noisy accomplishments,--squawked, whistled and
screamed, stamped his feet, and jounced (the only word to describe a
certain raising and violent dropping of the body without lifting the
feet). He ran after her when she left the room; he pecked her hand, and
flew up at her face. Gradually, as he grew to like her better, the more
violent demonstrations ceased; but he was always boisterous with her,
generally expected a half-fight, half-frolic, and I must say never
failed to enjoy it greatly.
The dance spoken of was droll. His chosen place for this indulgence was
the back of a tall chair. His friend stood before this, whistled, bowed,
and moved her head up and down as if dancing; and he on his perch did
the same, jumping up and down in a similar way, answering her whistle
for whistle, moving his feet, sliding from one side to the other,
curtsying, lowering the body and flattening the head feathers, then
rising, stamping his feet, and drooping his wings. This he kept up as
long as she played second to him.
When this playfellow went away, the jay missed his dances and frolics.
He flew into her empty room, perched on the back of the rocking-chair,
where he had been wont to stand and pull her hair, and began a peculiar
cry. Again and again he repeated it, louder and louder each time, till
it ended in a squawk, impatient and angry, as much as to say, "Why
don't you answer?" After a while he began to whistle the notes she used
to imitate; finding that this brought no response, he returned to the
cry; and when at last he had exhausted all his resources, he came back
to my desk and consoled himself by talking to me.
A young lady in the family he greeted by flying at her, alighting on her
chair-back, clawing her neck, and squawking; and before a youth who
often teased him he trailed his wings on the floor, tail spread and
dragging also, uttering a curious "obble! obble!" something like the cry
of a turkey. The head of the household he met with stamping of the feet,
and no sound; while at a maid who came in to sweep he always flew
furiously, aiming for her head, and invariably frightening her half out
of her wits.
The jay was extremely wary about anything like a trap, and being always
on the lookout for one, he sometimes, like bigger persons, fooled
himself badly. Finding him fond of standing on a set of turning
bookshelves, I thought to please him by arranging over it a convenient
resting-place. He watched me with great interest, but, when I had
finished, declined to use the perch, though ordinarily nothing could
keep him from trying every new thing. I put a bait upon it in the shape
of bits of gum-drops, a favorite delicacy; but he plainly saw that I
wanted him to go to it, and in the face of the fact that I had
heretofore tried to keep him off the papers and magazines lying there,
he decided that it was suspicious. He flew so as almost to touch the
stick, and hovered before it to snatch off the candy placed there; but
alight on it he would not, and did not, though I kept it in place a
week.
In many ways this bird was wise; he knew exactly where to deliver his
blows to effect what he desired. A cage-door being fastened with fine
wire, he never wasted a stroke upon the door, but gave telling blows
directly upon the wire. A rubber band was looped about a rod for him to
play with, in the expectation that he would pull on it and make sport;
but he disappointed us all by hammering at the loop, until he loosened
it and easily pulled it off. Again it was tied on with strong linen
thread; he turned his whole attention to the knot of the latter, till it
yielded and was disposed of also.
Dear as was this bird, he was a more than usually troublesome pet. My
desk became his favorite playground, and havoc indeed he made with the
things upon it; snatching and running off with paper, pen, or any small
object, destroying boxes and injuring books. Finally, in self-defense,
I adopted the plan of laying over it every morning a woolen cloth, which
must be lifted every time anything was taken from the desk. This
arrangement did not please my small friend in blue, and he took pains to
express his displeasure in the most emphatic way. He came down upon the
cover, tramped all over it, and sought small holes in it through which
to thrust his bill. One day he was busily engaged in hammering a book
through an opening, and to cure him of the trick I slipped my hand
under, caught his beak between two fingers, and held it a moment. This
amazed but did not alarm the bird; on the contrary, he plainly decided
to persevere till he found out the secret. He pecked the mounds made by
my fingers; he stooped and looked into the hole, and then probed again.
This time I held him longer, so that he had to struggle and beat his
wings to get away, and then he walked off indignantly. Still he was not
satisfied about that mystery, and in a moment he was back again, trying
in new ways to penetrate it. I was tired before he was. He was baffled
only temporarily; he soon learned to draw up the fabric, hold the slack
under one foot while he pulled it still further, and thus soon reach
anything he desired.
The blue-jay always pried into packages by pecking a hole in the
wrapper and examining the contents through that; and boxes he opened by
delivering upward blows under the edge of the cover. The waste-basket he
nearly emptied from the outside by dragging papers through the openings
in the weaving. Seeing two or three unmounted photographs put into a
book, he went speedily for that volume, thrust his beak into the slight
opening made by the pictures, and pulled them out, flying at once across
the room with one in his mouth. It was secured and put back, and the
book held down by a heavy weight; but he found the place at once, and
repeated the naughtiness. The book had to be completely covered up
before the photographs were safe.