ease, and selected for a retreat the top of a door into the passageway
mentioned, which usually stood open. It was not long before his
curiosity was roused to know what was outside the door that so often
swallowed up his friends,--that into the hall. He resolved to find out,
and to that end, when stationed on the elevated perch of his choice,
held himself in readiness, upon the exit of any one, to fly out. He did
not wish to get away; he merely took a turn in the hall, and came back;
and once, when accidentally left in that unfamiliar place, he stayed in
the bath-room, with window wide open, for half an hour before he was
found. He became so expert in flying out of the door that it was a
difficult matter to pass through without his company; we had to train
ourselves in sleight-of-hand to outwit him. There were two ways of
getting the better of him; mere suddenness was of no use,--he was much
quicker than we were. One way was to go to the room on the other side of
the passage, where he was sure to follow, and before he fairly settled
there, to dodge back and shut the door,--a proceeding so unexpected that
he never learned to allow for it. The other way was to go to the
hall-door as if intending to open it; instantly the bird swooped down,
ready to slip out also, but finding the way closed, swept around the
room and alighted somewhere. This was the second to open the door and
step out, for he always paused a moment before flying again.
The only notice the jay ever took of the birds, as said above, was to
tease them, or put them in a flutter; as society he plainly despised
them. They soon learned to regard him as a sort of infernal machine,
liable at any moment to explode; and they were fully justified, for he
was fond of surprising them by unexpectedly flying around the room, tail
spread, feathers rustling, squawking madly in a loud voice. He usually
managed in his career to sweep close over the head of every bird, of
course frightening them off their perches, and thus to put the whole
room into a panic. They took refuge anywhere,--under the bed, behind the
chairs, against the wires, and on the floor,--while the mischief-maker
circled around, filling the air with shrieks, then suddenly dropped to
the round of a chair and calmly dressed his feathers, as if he had
merely been exercising his wings.
Poor little fellow! he was hardly more than a baby, and not very brave.
A big grasshopper which once got into the room afforded him great
excitement and the spectators much amusement. He saw it before his cage
was opened, and as soon as he came out he went after it. The insect
hopped up three feet, and so startled the bird that he jumped almost as
high. When it alighted he picked it up, but seeming not to know what to
do with it, soon dropped it. Again it hopped, and again the jay repeated
his bound; and this performance went on for some minutes, one of the
drollest of sights,--his cautious approach, the spring of the insect,
and his instant copy of the same, as if in emulation. After being picked
up several times the grasshopper was disabled; then when the bird came
near, it lifted its wings, plainly to scare its persecutor; it did awe
him. Meanwhile an orchard oriole had been eagerly looking on, and on one
occasion that the grasshopper was dropped he pounced upon it and carried
it off to a chair, where he proceeded to eat it, though it was so big as
to be almost unmanageable. The jay did not like being deprived of his
plaything. He ran after the thief, and stood on the floor, uttering a
low cry while watching the operation. In the oriole's moving the clumsy
insect fell to the floor, when the jay snatched it; and it was evident
that he had got a new idea about its use, for he carried it under a
chair and demolished it completely,--not even a wing remained.
More disturbing to the jay, strange as it may seem, was a tree. It was
really touching to see a bird afraid of this, but the poor youngster had
been taken from the nest to a house. A Christmas tree was brought into
the bird-room to please the residents there, when, to our amazement, the
jay went into a wild fright, flew madly around near the ceiling,
squawking, and making the other birds think something terrible had
happened. He flew till he was breathless, and was evidently very much
distressed. For three or four days he was equally alarmed the moment he
caught sight of it in the morning and whenever I moved it an inch,
though the other birds liked it and were on it half the time. When he
did get used to it he did not go upon it, but to the standard below,
where he could pick the needle-like leaves and carry them off to hide
about the room.
The blue-jay took his bath in an original way as he did everything else.
First, he stood beside the wide, shallow dish, looked at it, then at me
and all around the room, one wing drooping and the other laid jauntily
over the back, while he talked in a low tone, as if he said, "If anybody
is going to object, now is the time." No one ventured to dispute his
right, and suddenly he plumped into the middle, neither alighting on the
edge nor testing the water. Then there was a lively frolic, with tail
spread, crest raised, wings beating, and the water flying several feet
around. He was a very beautiful bird when in perfect-plumage. There were
six distinct shades of blue, besides rich velvety black, snowy white,
delicate dove color, and blue-gray. He is too well known to need
description, but a jay is not often so closely seen when alive and in
perfection of plumage. This bird had a charming way of folding his wings
that hid all the plain blue-gray. When held thus and laid together over
the back, there were displayed first the beautiful tail, with broad
white edges to the feathers; above it the wings looking like a square
cut mantle, of the same colors; above this a deep pointed shoulder cape,
of rich violet blue, the feathers fluffed up loosely; and at the top of
all, his exquisite crest.
VIRGINIA'S WOOING.
For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell,
When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell,
When the grass brightens and the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song.
CELIA THAXTER.
XII.
VIRGINIA'S WOOING.
You must know in the beginning that Virginia wore feathers. But she had
as many trials with her suitors as though she dressed in silks, and she
displayed so much of what we call "human nature" that her story is as
interesting as that of half the Ethels and Marguerites of the romances.
She came of a good old family, the Cardinals, and, belonging to the
Virginia branch, was called properly Virginia Cardinal, or, in
scientific, fashion, _Cardinalis Virginianus_. She was a beauty, too. It
is well known that the cardinal himself has a full suit of the most
brilliant red, but it is not so familiar a fact that the dames of the
tribe are more modest and wear the family colors simply as linings and
in subdued tints: rich rose-colored wing-facings, light coral-hued beak,
delicate pink crest, all toned down by the soft olive brown of the
breast and back, over which is everywhere a lovely suggestion of red.
The home of Virginia, when she came to the bird-room, was a large cage
by the window; that of the cardinal being next to it, equally
commodious, but a little farther from the light. This personage, her
first admirer, made the mistake that larger suitors sometimes fall into,
with equally disastrous results,--he "took things for granted." Between
the cages was a door, but, to try the temper of the birds, it was at
first closed. The cardinal was evidently pleased with his lovely
neighbor; he went as near to her as he could get, and uttered some low
remarks, to which she listened, but did not reply. Later, when a
meal-worm was given to him, he did not eat it, but held it in his beak,
hopped over to her side, tried to get through the wires, and plainly
thought of offering it to her. His disposition appearing so friendly, a
human hand interposed and opened the door. Instantly he went into her
cage, and apparently thinking better of the intended offering he ate it
himself, and proceeded to investigate her food-dishes and try the seed,
then hopped back and forth between the two cages, and at last selected
the perch he preferred and took possession. He paid no attention to her
in the way of recognizing her ownership, which he would naturally do to
another bird; he assumed that whatever belonged to the cardinal family
belonged to him; perhaps he even thought she went with the house,--it
certainly looked as though he did.
But the little dame had a mind of her own. On his first intrusion she
vacated her home and passed into his. When he appeared in his cage she
quietly hopped back; on his return she changed cages with equal
alacrity; when he settled himself on her perch, she was quite contented
on his. There was no dispute, no warfare; she simply said, in manner,
"All right, my friend, select your abode, and I'll take the other. I'm
satisfied with either, but I intend to have it to myself." After awhile
it seemed to strike his lordship that she avoided him, and he resolved
to settle that matter; here making his second mistake, in trying to
force instead of to win. He entered the cage where she sat quietly, and
flew at her. She dodged him and took refuge in the other apartment; he
followed; and thus they rushed back and forth several times, till she
stopped for breath on a lower perch, while he was on an upper one in the
same cage. Then he leaned far over and fixed his eyes on her, crest
raised to its greatest height, wings held slightly out, and addressed
her in a very low but distinct song, which resembled the syllables
"cur-dle-e! cur-dle-e! cr-r-r"; the latter sounding almost like a cat's
purr. After singing this several times, and being slighted by her
leaving the cage, he laid his crest flat down, muttered something so low
that it could not be noted, and looked very much put out. Soon, however,
he shook his feathers violently, flung himself at her, and she dodged,
as before. When both happened to be for a moment in their own cages, the
door was suddenly closed between, and each had his own, as at first.
Madam was delighted, but the cardinal resented it; he tried to remove
the obnoxious barrier, pecked at it, shook it, and could not be
reconciled. He grew hungry and was obliged to eat, but between every two
seeds he returned to struggle with the bars that kept him from her.
Meanwhile Virginia had apparently forgotten all about him, eating and
making her toilet for the night, as cheerful as usual.
The next morning, the outside doors of the two cages were opened, and
both birds at once came out into the room. The cardinal, not yet over
his tiff of the evening before, took wing for the trees outside the
windows, and brought up, of course, against the glass. He was greatly
disappointed. He alighted on top of the lower sash, tested, examined,
and tried to solve the mystery. Virginia, too, tried to go through the
pane, but learned in one lesson that it was useless. She did not care
much about it any way, for she was perfectly contented inside. She went
around the room, hovering slowly under the ceiling, which is always of
interest to birds, and then set herself to work in a most systematic
manner to find out all about the new world she was in. She examined the
outside perches and tried each one; she explored the bathing table,
flirted out a little water from the dishes, and at last thought it time
to make acquaintance with her neighbors.
She began with the robin, and flew to his roof. The robin was not
pleased, snapped at her, opened his mouth, uttered a queer low
robin-cry, "seep," and pecked at her feet, while she stood quietly
looking down at the show from above, as much interested as though it
were arranged to amuse her. At length she began to make the more formal
visit. She dropped to the door-perch and approached the entrance. The
inhospitable owner met her there, not to welcome and invite her in, but
to warn her out! He lowered his head, opened his beak, and bowed to her,
looking very wicked indeed. It was plain that he was "not receiving"
that morning. But Virginia had come to call, and call she would. Nothing
daunted by his coolness, she hopped in. The robin was amazed; then
declared war in his peculiar way,--first a hop of six inches, with
wings spread, then a savage clatter of the bill. His guest met this
demonstration quite calmly. She lowered her head, to defend herself if
necessary, but made no other movement. Her calmness filled the robin
with horror; he fled the cage. Then she went all over it, and satisfied
herself that it was much like her own, only the food-dish was filled
with some uneatable black stuff, instead of the vegetarian food she
preferred. She soon departed.
Meanwhile the cardinal was wasting his time over the window problem,
touching the glass with his beak, flying up a few inches before it,
gently tapping the pane as he went. It was two or three days before he
made up his mind he could not get through. After that he was as
indifferent to the outside as any bird in the room, and turned his
attention once more to Virginia. Whenever they were in their cages, with
the door open between, he assumed the lord-and-mastership of the two; he
drove her away from her own food-cups, usurped her perch and her cage,
and made himself disagreeable generally. Finally, one day when she was
sitting quietly on the upper perch of his deserted cage, he came into
the same cage, and, resting on the low perch close to the door, his tail
hanging outside, began a low call, a curious sort of "e-up," with a
jerk on the second syllable. Though a common enough sound for a
cardinal, this plainly meant more than was apparent to human spectators.
Virginia at once grew uneasy, hopped across the upper perches, and when
her nervousness became too great dashed down past him, though he was
partly in the doorway, and into her own cage, where she resumed her
restless jumps. He was not pleased with her reception of his attentions;
he sat a long time in that attitude, perfectly still, perhaps meditating
what step he should take next, glancing at her meanwhile over his
shoulder, but not stirring a feather. Time passed, and he came to a
decision of some sort, which was shown by a change of position. He
turned around, and took his seat on the corresponding perch in her cage,
just before the door. This impressed Virginia; she stopped her hopping
and looked over at him with an air of wondering what he would do next.
What he did was to hop one step nearer, to the middle perch. Upon this
she abandoned her place, came to the floor, and began to eat in the most
indifferent manner; then passed into his cage, then back to the floor of
her own, still eating, while he sat silent and motionless on the middle
perch, evidently much disturbed by her conduct. After an hour of this
performance he retired to her upper perch, and stayed there.
The same day, the jealousy of the unsuccessful wooer was aroused by a
fine, fresh-looking cardinal whom he saw in the looking-glass. In flying
past it he caught a glimpse of his reflection, and at once turned,
alighted before it, and began calling vehemently; holding out, and
quivering his wings, and flying up against the figure again and again in
the most savage way. The next day he began to mope and refused to come
out of the cage; whether because of illness, or disappointed affections,
who shall say?
The time of her tormentor's retirement was one of great happiness to
Virginia. She paid her usual visit to the robin, and he, as at first,
vacated the cage, this having become the regular morning programme. Now,
too, she went on to extend her acquaintance by entering the cage of
another neighbor, a scarlet tanager, a shy, unobtrusive fellow, who
asked nothing but to be let alone. This bird also did not reciprocate
her neighborly sentiments; he met her with open beak, but finding that
did not awe her, nor prevent her calmly walking in, he hastily left the
cage himself. During the time that her persecutor was sulking, and not
likely to bother, she had leisure for the bath, which she enjoyed
freely, coming out with her long breast-feathers hanging in locks and
looking like a bundle of rags. Her last experimental call was now made
upon another household, the Baltimore orioles, and there she met with
something new--perfect indifference. Even when both of the birds were at
home they did not resent her coming in. She went to the upper perch with
them; the cage was big, there was plenty of room, and they were willing.
Their manners, in fact, were so agreeable that if their cups had been
supplied with seed, I think she would have taken up her abode with them;
as it was, she frequently spent half an hour at a time there. On this
eventful day Virginia began to sing, for in her family the musical
performances are not confined to the males.
After several days of retirement, the cardinal plucked up spirit to
resume his annoyance of Virginia, and for a few nights a queer sort of
game was played by the two, explain it who can. If the barrier between
the cages was removed after the outside doors were shut for the night,
he at once went to her cage and to the middle perch. Virginia, on the
upper perch, waited till he reached that spot, then dropped to the
floor, slipped through the door into his cage, and went to the upper
perches there, where she hopped back and forth, while he did the same in
her cage. Suddenly, after a few moments, down he came again through the
door to his own middle perch, when instantly, as before, she retreated
into her cage. Thus they went on an hour at a time; he apparently
following her from one cage to another, and she declining to occupy the
same apartment with him. Occasionally it was not so calm; he lost his
temper, or grew tired of trying to please; once or twice, without
warning, he lowered his head, looked ugly, and fairly burst into her
cage and flung himself at her. She dived under or bounded over a perch,
any way to escape him, and took refuge in the other cage.
This could not go on long; the cardinal lost interest in everything,
took to moping, and at last died,--disappointed affection, shall we say,
or what? Virginia was relieved; she sang more and in a louder tone,
hopping around her cage with a seed in her mouth, flying through the
room, or splashing in the bath; in fact she was bubbling over with song
all the time, as if she were so happy she could not keep still. She paid
her daily visits to the cages, forcing the robin to take an outing,
which he did not care to do while moulting and not very sure of his
powers.
Many birds show emotions by raising the feathers on different parts of
the body, but this bird was remarkable in the expression of her crest
alone. When she peeped into a strange cage, and was somewhat uncertain
of her reception, the crest laid flat down, her very head seemed to
shrink; she stepped in at the door, excited, for it might be peace and
it might be war; the feathers rose and fell alternately; if suddenly
startled, the crest sprang to its highest point; and when singing, or
passing peacefully about the room, it dropped carelessly back on her
head.
Virginia was allowed a week's solitary enjoyment of the two cages, and
then one day a new tenant appeared in the cardinal's quarters. She was
out in the room when he arrived, but she instantly came over and
alighted on his roof, to have a look at him. Most expressive was her
manner. She stood in silence and gazed upon him a long time; all her
liveliness and gayety were gone, and she appeared to be struck dumb by
this new complication of her affairs. It was plain that she was not
pleased. Perhaps her dislike was evident to the new bird, for suddenly
he flew up and snapped at her, which so surprised her that she hopped a
foot into the air. When the time came to open the door into her cage,
the stranger was delighted to go in, but Virginia dodged him, exactly as
she had done his predecessor. He did not lose his temper and condescend
to the vulgarity of flying at her, as the first admirer had done. He
looked interested to see that she avoided him, but after all he did not
take it much to heart. This cardinal, like the other, was not yet
acclimated--if one may call it so--to life in a house, and after a week
he also took his departure.
Now Virginia, free again, became at once very gay. She sang all the
time; she kept the robin stirring; she bathed; she waxed fat. But her
time was approaching. Spring came on, and with the first warm weather
the birds began to disappear from the room. First the tanager expressed
a desire to mingle with society once more, and went his way; then the
orioles were sent to carry on their rough wooing in the big world
outside; the robin followed; and at last Virginia was left with several
big empty cages and only two birds, a reserved and solitude-loving
Mexican clarin, and a saucy goldfinch, so long a captive that he had no
desire for freedom. Now for the first time Virginia was lonely; the
strange quiet of the once lively room worked upon her temper. She
snapped at her little neighbor; she haunted the window-sill and gazed
out; while nothing hindered her passage excepting the weather, our
climate being rather cool for her.
At last July, with its great heat, arrived, and the restless bird was
carried by a kind friend, who offered to do this good deed, to a place
in Central Park, New York, where a small colony of her kind have
established themselves and build and nest every year. Here she was set
free, and here she met her third suitor. The place and the season were
propitious, and Virginia was ready to look with favor on a smart young
cardinal in the brightest of coats, who came in response to her calls
the moment she found herself on a tree, really out in the world. A
little coaxing, a few tender words, and she flew away with him, and we
saw her no more.
FRIENDSHIP IN FEATHERS.
Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not
capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide
and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the
reflecting planet. EMERSON.
XIII.
FRIENDSHIP IN FEATHERS.
Emerson somewhere speaks of a friendship "on one side, without due
correspondence on the other," and I often thought of it while watching
the curious relation between two birds in my house last winter; for the
more one studies our feathered neighbors, the better he comes to realize
that the difference between their intelligence and that of man himself
is "only of less and more."
This friendship, then, was all on one side. It was not a case of "love
at sight"; on the contrary, it was first war, and the birds had been
room-mates for months before any unusual interest was shown; neither was
it simple admiration of beauty, for the recipient of the tenderness was
at his worst at the moment; nor, again, could it be the necessity of
loving somebody, for the devotee had lived in the house ten years, and
had seen forty birds of almost as many kinds come and go, without
exhibiting any partiality. The parties to this curious affair were,
first, the beloved, a male scarlet tanager, whose summer coat was
disfigured with patches of the winter dress he was trying to put on; and
secondly, the lover, a male English goldfinch, scarcely half his size.
The tanager, as perhaps every one knows, is one of our most brilliant
birds, bright scarlet with black wings and tail. He is as shy as he is
gay, living usually in the woods, and not taking at all kindly to the
enforced companionship of mankind. I had long been anxious to make the
acquaintance of this retiring bird, partly because I desire to know
personally all American birds, and partly because I wanted to watch his
change of plumage; for the scarlet uniform is only the marriage dress,
and put off at the end of the season. Hence whenever I saw a tanager in
a New York bird store I brought it home, though dealers always warned me
that it would not live in confinement. My first attempts were
disastrous, certainly. The birds refused to become reconciled, even with
all the privileges I gave them, and one after another died, I believe
for no other reason than their longing for freedom. Let me say here that
feeling thus, they would have received their liberty, much as I wished
to study them, only their plumage was not in condition to fly, and they
would go out to certain death. My hope was to make them contented
through the winter, while they put on a new suit of feathers, and open
the doors for them in summer.