Rottnest Island, _16th March_.
Now I really must tell you about the pets. They have been kept waiting
quite a long time, and they would amuse you immensely, if you were here
to see and play with them.
Monsieur Puppy of course comes first, as he considers himself of the
greatest importance; and he certainly is very amusing. He is delighted
with the sea and the stretches of soft sand, in which he can dig for
imaginary bones, until he completely disappears, and you only see a
tightly curled tail wagging amid a shower of sand. The ridiculous part
of the Puppy is that he is really only a small, half-bred Japanese
pug, and he tries to be all sorts of other dogs! He is positively a
capital terrier, and a rat has no chance against him for an instant’s
life. Here, he is trying hard to be a retriever or water-dog, and
boldly rushes in to fetch out sticks and seaweed and anything you
throw—not too far out into the sea. How you would laugh at his puzzled
and disgusted face, when he gets a mouthful of salt water, and can’t
think why it should be so nasty. When he has floundered on shore he
turns round and barks vehemently at the sea, and then dashes up to
the house, and asks some one, in his own fashion, to rub him dry!
Besides all these occupations he considers himself the watchdog of the
establishment, and I often wonder the native lad, who brings down the
constant heliographic messages, etc., to the Governor’s office, is not
afraid of being torn to pieces by Puppy, who of course never dreams of
biting him, but keeps up a furious barking at the poor boy.
I have not time to tell you of half his tricks and accomplishments. The
most amusing, perhaps, is the way he drinks the Queen’s health after
dinner. It has always been the custom at all Government Houses for the
Governor not only to propose the Queen’s health at parties, but every
day, when we are quite alone, the first thing after dessert is put on
the table, the glasses are filled, and Pater says “The Queen”! Monsieur
Puppy has learned that biscuits now begin, and although he has been
trained to lie quietly at my feet, without stirring all dinner-time,
the moment the magic words are said, Puppy utters a peculiar grunt of
satisfaction, disentangles himself from my skirts, in which he has been
coiled up, comes out, and sits up to beg, first giving his three cheers
or “wuffs.” Sometimes he is so fast asleep and muffled up that he does
not hear at first, but if I say the two words again, distinctly, you
hear his funny little grunt, and out he comes directly.
He “dies for his country,” and pretends to be an impostor routed by
a policeman, and goes “on trust” in every imaginable way, and takes
mighty leaps for his biscuits, and does all sorts of tricks. Louis and
he are great friends, though poor Puppy goes through a good deal of
teasing at Louis’s hands. He is always trying to incite Puppy to catch
the crabs which are disturbed by all the digging and scratching in the
sand they do between them; but Monsieur has had one lesson which will
last him the summer. The first crab Puppy dug out went to bay, with a
little bit of rock behind it, and stood there waving its long nippers
at the little dog who barked furiously, and made gallant dashes to
try and get inside the crab’s guard. But no, it was no use, and Puppy
soon perceived that this new kind of rat must be dealt with in some
different fashion. After considering a moment—the crab having meantime
folded its claws meekly before it, as soon as ever Puppy stopped
barking—he gave a sudden swift slap at it, with his front paw, just
as a cat would. But the crab was on the look-out; and the next thing
we saw was Puppy dancing about on three legs, yelling and howling,
with the crab hanging on to his forepaw. It was no use trying to bite,
for there was another claw quite ready to seize his ear or nose. So
when I could get near enough, for laughing, I boldly seized the crab
from behind, and forced the nippers open, and then flung it far away
into the sea. Puppy instantly dashed after it; but, all the same, he
remembers the lesson.
When we first came over here there were three tame emeus in the
paddock, but two of them have been killed by accidents. They were a
great deal too tame, for they would walk about the verandah and poke
their long necks and spoon-like bills in at every window, snapping
up everything they saw. We lost keys, and thimbles, and various other
trifles; and I never could keep any bird-seed or fruit for my canaries;
the emeus got it all. The horses were always very much afraid of
them, and it was dangerous to attempt to mount unless you knew where
the emeus were. A tall bird would be sure to come round the corner
and frighten your horse out of its wits. They were terrible thieves
too, and one of them met its death in consequence of an enraged
cook flinging a cleaver at it, when he returned after a moment’s
absence, just in time to see the last of his nice dish of mutton-chops
disappearing down the emeu’s long throat. The natives had a splendid
feast off the emeus who came to grief, and reported, with much
satisfied rubbing of their stomachs, that they were “fat fellows.”
There are numberless flocks of pretty little paroquets on the island,
something like those Australian zebra-marked paroquets you often see in
cages in England, only these are prettier, I suppose from being wild;
their plumage is more brilliant and delicate. I used to notice large
flocks of these lovely little creatures drinking at the different
water-holes about the island, specially at one small shallow pond,
just outside the paddock. So I determined to try and tame them, and
now they are so perfectly fearless and friendly, that one of my great
regrets in leaving Rottnest at the end of this month is knowing how
much my paroquets will miss me. I used to scatter canary seed, and put
saucers of water, just outside the verandah, in which we always take
our afternoon tea, for it is cool, and in deep shade, with a lovely
view over the bay. Between us and the sea is what is meant for a lawn;
but during these three dry months, when there is scarcely any dew, and
not a single drop of rain falls, every blade of grass becomes burnt up
and yellow. However, the paroquets are not fastidious, and come down on
the lawn in great numbers every afternoon at tea-time.
At first only two or three came; but I suppose they reported favourably
of their feasts off bird-seed and cake crumbs, for every evening
the number of my guests increases; and they arrive earlier. If I am
lying down upstairs, and feel lazy about getting up to afternoon tea
(remember I have been up since daylight, and very busy until about
two o’clock, when we all take a siesta), Louis looks over the balcony,
and cries out, “Oh there are such quantities of paroquets, the lawn
is quite covered with them;” and then I have to get up directly and
go down. The moment one appears, a green cloud seems to lift itself
up from the ground, but only a very little way. I fling out a handful
of seed, and the cloud drops down on it directly. Then we go to tea,
and the boldest of the little birds come close to our feet picking up
crumbs, quite fearlessly. They are so sweet and charming and it is
great fun to watch their squabbles, and their cleverness. They know
four o’clock quite well, and you can see them collecting in the trees
round about, soon after three. As soon as ever the tea-table is brought
out they all fly down on the lawn, and I feel that it is very wrong of
me ever to keep them waiting.
Well, those are some of my wild pets. Now for my tame ones. Once a
week, on Sunday afternoons, all the cockatoos and parrots are let out
of that big cage I have told you about, and invited to tea on the
lawn. This is their great treat and delight, and I really believe they
know Sunday quite well, for as soon as ever I appear at the door of
their cage to go in and bring them out, I am greeted with wilder yells
and shrieks of joy than usual, and there is great hurry and eagerness
to secure a good seat on my shoulder or arm, for the short journey to
the front of the house. When we arrive I have to sit down on a shawl
on the what-ought-to-be grass, and all the birds come to tea with me,
drinking out of my cup (if it is at all too hot they invariably tip it
over), nibbling at my cake, and eating voraciously of the little heap
of canary seed I have taken the precaution to provide. Then they make
excursions in every direction, exploring, tearing up the grass-roots,
and doing all the mischief they possibly can.
The “Biaco”—native name for a lovely soft pink and gray parrot—is
sadly jealous, and leads every one near me a life of bites and pecks.
The Puppy, who can’t understand why he should be turned away from his
favourite place at my feet, has a dreadful time of tweaks and nips of
tail and ears. I wonder he does not snap at the birds, but he is too
much astonished at these sudden attacks to do more than jump aside.
The cockatoos are not a bit afraid of him, and will stalk him in the
most absurd way, watching till he is asleep, and then sidle round a
corner, make a sudden swift dash and nip at his tail, or even his foot.
It is sheer spite, nothing else, and Puppy can’t understand it at all.
Even my special pet, a wee gray paroquet, with orange wattles and long
tail feathers, from the Toojay district, is spiteful to the Puppy,
and will climb down, from its favourite perch on my shoulder, to bite
poor Puppy’s tail. I have one splendid brilliant parrot, with a long
tail of every colour of the rainbow, but it is too fierce and wild to
let out of the cage. It whistles very well, and picks up every tune it
hears. The only name we know it by is the absurd one of “twenty-eight,”
because its wild note is exactly like those words.
Among my pets, however, is a large cockatoo from Albany. It is an ugly
bird, of a dirty white plumage, with a pale yellow crest, and a large
light blue ring round its eye. I never saw so large and cruel-looking
a beak, and, although it is as tame as possible, and seems incapable
of biting, I confess to some inward tremors when it lays this beak
affectionately against my face and kisses me all over, or takes my
finger gently between its strong jaws. This bird talks capitally, and
picks up every word at once. It barks and mews like a dog or cat, and
used to shout and call out exactly like the children it heard passing
in the street in Perth on their way to school. “Come along, Tommy,” or
else “Wait for me, can’t yer?” and so forth. All the other parrots seem
afraid of it, so I suppose that beak _can_ bite if needful.
Besides the white cockatoo I have five “jokolokols.” This is the native
name for the prettiest of all the wild cockatoos, but it is also the
most delicate, and can seldom be brought to England. It is a large
handsome bird of a milk-white plumage, which looks so exquisitely clean
that visitors often ask me if I wash my “jokolokols.” No; they wash
themselves, the dear things, and preen their lovely feathers among the
gum bushes and wattle trees in the cage. Their snowy wings are lined
with delicate pink, and the crest—a very large one—is superb, with its
fan of shaded crimson feathers standing boldly up at the least alarm.
Round the beak and eyes is a circle of shaded pink feathers, fading
softly off into the white plumage. Two very young birds, fully fledged,
but with ridiculous callow beaks, were brought to me some time ago in
Perth, and I have had to finish rearing them. Such a business as it has
been, and such appetites as those birds possessed! They were _never_
satisfied, and were wont to begin and shriek for their breakfast at
daylight. Louis and I took it in turns to feed them with bread crumbs
and sweet rusks soaked in tepid water, and we used to shovel quantities
of this soft stuff down their capacious throats. It was no matter if
even I had just given them an enormous supper, whenever they caught a
glimpse of me in the garden, they set up wild and clamorous yells for
“more,” and I used often to be quite cross when father would say, “I
am sure you starve those poor birds; you had better go and feed them.”
That was just what the jokolokols wanted, and they were delighted to
get an extra supper. They are very handsome birds now, and you may
imagine how tame they must be. They had to learn to feed themselves,
however, during one of my excursions last year, when they were left to
the gardener’s care, and he had not time to spoil them as I did.
I saw such an absurd race or chase, whichever you like to call it,
between two of my parrots, or rather between a small clever gray
parrot, who talked perfectly well, and a strange fierce cockatoo of
great physical strength and prowess, but _no_ intellect. This cockatoo,
called “Joe,” could not speak a word, and was very jealous of the
admiration and petting the little pink and gray parrot attracted to
itself. Each bird had one wing cut, so they were on equal terms as
to flying; but the white cockatoo could walk, or waddle rather, much
faster, and chased the gray on every possible opportunity. Generally
there was a bush or tree or friendly passer-by, with whom the parrot
could take refuge; but on this occasion the cockatoo had set out to run
poor little Griselda down. Every chance was in his favour, for the race
took place on a long narrow terrace walk, with neither bush nor tree
very near, and the parrot had only been able to secure a very short
start.
I was really within easy saving distance, though they could not see
me, and should certainly have interfered had I thought Griselda was
in danger; but it was very amusing to watch the way she daunted and
delayed the cockatoo. Even by the help of her beak on the ground, which
she used as a third leg, the poor little bird could not keep much ahead
of the cockatoo, who waddled more swiftly and easily. When he got too
near, quite close behind in fact, the parrot would stop short, turn
round so as to face her enemy, stretch her wings out, crane her head
forward, and yell at the pitch of her voice the word “Boy,” in the most
perfectly human tone. The cockatoo had evidently never heard any of his
species speak, and must have considered this human voice, proceeding
from a bird’s throat, nothing less than witchcraft or sorcery. He
always stopped dead short, and remained as it were turned to stone by
surprise, standing motionless, with his beautiful crest raised high
up, staring stupidly at Griselda who, the moment she had produced the
intended effect, turned round and scuffled away once more as fast as
ever she could. The instant Joe could pull himself together he started
after her in hot pursuit, to be again checked by the word “Guard,”
called in equally distinct tones. There was no need for my interference
at all, and Griselda saved herself by her own cleverness entirely.
Besides their Sunday afternoon tea-parties with me, the parrots and
cockatoos are let out whenever I can spare time, and they all assemble
at the door of their cage the moment they see me, in case I am able and
willing to open it. As soon as they are let out they waddle and flutter
off to their favourite places in the garden or on the lawn. There
is generally some particular berry they love, and I keep them well
supplied with raw vegetables. Once, and once only, they found their way
to the kitchen-garden, and had a field-day among the green peas! Some
of them can fly in spite of their cut wings, and keep me in a state
of anxiety by their prolonged excursions to the nearest tree-tops.
However, when the others are put back into the aviary—they always walk
in of their own accord—I am sure to hear a rustle and cry behind or
above me, and this is the truant, swiftly descending from his lofty
branch in a great hurry, and terribly afraid of being shut out.
And now I have only left myself a little space to tell you of my
canaries. They have been sent to me from Sydney and from Melbourne.
Such beauties, as yellow as gold, and the cocks sing splendidly. They
have an enormous cage divided in two, and with nests all round in which
they rear many families. It was a terrible business moving this great
cage over here just after Christmas. The instant it was taken down from
its stand or table the poor baby canaries tumbled out of the nests in
every direction. I was in despair, and gave them up for lost. However,
I collected the little bare and hideous creatures (more like bubbles
with beaks than respectable young birds!), put them in a basket, fed
them as well as I could for a day or so, and then, the moment we
arrived here, returned them to their parents’ care. Strange to say they
all lived, and are now as big as the old ones.
The cage stands on the sheltered side of the verandah, where the wind
is not too strong, and the gay singing of my little pets enlivens the
house without deafening us. They are so happy with incessant fresh
baths and heaps of green food. Two pair of very well-bred canaries were
sent to me the other day from England in a small travelling cage. The
voyage had proved a terribly long one, and my little birdies must have
felt it dreadfully. They arrived quite bald, and had not a feather of a
tail left among them, but I am sure they will soon recover. The cocks
sing away as if nothing was the matter, and it was pretty to see their
astonishment and delight at the space provided for them. They behaved
exactly as we should do after many weeks of a sea-voyage. They first
took a bath—a series of baths in fact—and then flew down on the heap
of green food, and ate as if they never meant to stop! I can’t bear to
keep a canary in a small cage; but these birds have as much room as
they can possibly want—over 6 feet each way, and lots of gravel and
water and green food. The ants are our only trouble, and if I do not
take care that the saucers of water in which the castors of the cage
stand are always full, a swarming line of ants makes its way up the
mahogany legs, and then the whole cage has to be turned out.
Sometimes an emeu comes gravely stepping round the corner and looks
in, then I hear a terrified “tweeing,” and have to go and drive away
the greedy intruder. Or else one of the cows puts her head in at the
verandah in search of pears, and I am obliged to bribe her to follow me
round to her proper side of the house by a large slice of water-melon.
So you see my pets bully me a good deal, in one fashion or another.