bird-fancier the feathered family at the lodge was broken up and
dispersed. The clever parrot was kindly treated in a new home; but he
never seemed happy. He evidently missed his old master,--missed his
caresses and his scoldings. Or perhaps he found the steady goings-on of
a moral household too dull for his taste, for when I went to see him, I
found him as glum, stupid, and morose as an old politician who had had
his day. All he would say was, “O you goose!”
There is another curious parrot in Philadelphia, in a store kept by a
maiden lady whose voice is so exceeding shrill and parrot-like that it
is difficult to tell when she leaves off talking and the parrot begins.
One day, as a customer was examining an article on the counter, Miss
Polly called out: “What are you doing with that? Put it down! put it
down!” The lady looked round very indignantly for the offender, saying:
“Well, ma’am, I must say you have a very impudent child.”
There is in the same city another parrot, who recites a verse of an old
song in a most distinct and triumphant manner:--
“O pretty Polly,
Don’t you cry,
For your true-love
Will come by and by.”
There is in Brooklyn, New York, a parrot that sings many of the popular
airs correctly, and with as much expression as many fashionable singers
give to them. This bird is singularly social and affectionate, and
has a horror of being alone. He will sometimes awake in the middle
of the night, and arouse the household by crying: “O dear! I am all
alone!--all alone! Somebody come to me!”
I have heard much of a clever parrot once kept by some relatives of
ours on an old place in a quiet little village. Mistress Polly had free
range of the house and yard, and throughout the town was as well known
as the oldest inhabitant. Through all the pleasant weather she haunted
the tall trees in front of the house, climbing to the highest branches,
and from there superintending the affairs of the neighborhood, and
making astronomical and meteorological observations. In the spring
and autumn she watched from these lofty perches the flight of great
flocks of pigeons and crows with intense but decidedly unfriendly
interest. She would scream and scold at them in a most insolent and
defiant manner, evidently criticising the order of their march and all
their manœuvres and evolutions, for all the world like a newspaper
editor finding fault with the conduct of great armies. Doubtless she
was astonished and disgusted to see the great host sweep steadily
on, following their leader, paying no heed to her shrieking, railing,
and evil prophecies. Yet she was never so absorbed by her duties on
the watch-tower that she failed to come to her meals. These she took
with the family, perched on the back of a chair or the corner of the
table. She was very fond of coffee, and was always provided with a
cup. She would take it up by the handle with her claws, and drink from
it without spilling a drop. A terrible gossip and busybody was she,
talking perpetually and doing all the mischief that lay in her power.
She was the terror and torment of all cats and kittens; for, wary and
watchful as they might be, Polly was always surprising them by attacks
in the rear, and cunning ambuscades and flank movements. Nothing more
still and soft-footed could be imagined than her approaches; nothing
more sly, sudden, and sharp than the nips she gave with her horrid
hooked bill. A cat’s extended tail was especially tempting to her. She
generally fought the battle out on that line. “In maiden meditation
fancy free,” this parrot roamed about the yard, and laughed and railed
at patient sitting hens, and the proud mothers of newly hatched chicks
and ducklings. Sometimes she would follow a brood about, sneering
and advising, until the poor mother was in an agony of worriment. At
last she came to grief in this way. A spirited speckled hen, with a
fine brood of young ones, tired of being snubbed and of hearing her
offspring depreciated, and shocked at seeing the domestic virtues set
at naught by a flaunting foreign fowl of infidel sentiments, turned
upon her, sprang upon her back, and began pecking and tearing at her
sleek plumage like mad! The feathers fell all around, like a shower of
green snow; and the parrot began screaming with all her might: “Let up!
Let up! Poor Polly! Poor Polly!”
Her mistress came to the rescue, and Polly skulked away to her cage,
where she remained several days, sullen and deeply humiliated; but when
she emerged from her retirement she gave the hens and chickens a wide
berth.
Several parrots, the pets and companions of religious persons, have
been distinguished by their piety, or what passed for such. These
have usually belonged to devout Catholics. I have read of one, named
_Vert-Vert_,--the inmate of a convent in France, and taught by the
holy nuns,--who was esteemed a most blessed and miraculously gifted
bird. His fame spread far and wide. Many made pilgrimages to the
convent to be edified by his pious exhortations; and at last the nuns
of another convent, in a distant province, solicited the loan of him
for a few months, for the good of their souls. He went forth as a
sort of feathered apostle, followed by the prayers and blessings of
the bereaved sisters, and looking very solemn and important. But,
unfortunately, on his journey, he was compelled to spend a night on a
steamer; and being kept awake by such new scenes, and perhaps a little
sea-sickness, he listened too much to the unprofitable and profane talk
of the sailors and some soldiers who were on board. And so it happened
that, when he reached the convent, where he was received with great
joy and impressive religious ceremonies, instead of edifying the good
sisters with exhortations and chants, delivered in a grave, decorous
manner, he horrified them by shouting like a rough old sea-captain
and swearing like a major-general, while he assumed the most knowing,
rollicking air imaginable. Those saintly women stopped their ears,
and fled from him as though he had been a demon-bird, and he was
immediately sent home in utter disgrace. There, through fasts and
penances, he was brought round to more correct habits and behavior; but
he never became the shining light he had been before his sudden fall.
No more pilgrimages were made to his perch. Though grown a sadder and a
wiser bird, it was impossible to tell whether he most sorrowed for his
fault or regretted the wicked world of which he had had a taste. Still
he made a good end, I believe, within the convent’s hallowed cloisters.
A certain pious cardinal in Rome once gave a hundred crowns in gold for
a parrot that could repeat the Apostles’ Creed. Another religiously
trained parrot once served as a chaplain on board of a ship,--actually
reciting the service for the sailors, who listened and responded with
becoming solemnity. I have never seen a clerical parrot; but I have
seen clergymen who suggested parrots. By the way, the parrot would
make a very economical sort of minister. After the first cost of the
bird, his education, and a respectable cage or parsonage, there would
be no demands on the congregation for increase of salary. As he would
have no scruples about repeating old sermons, he would not desire new
fields of labor. Parrots seldom have any family, so he would expect
no donation-parties. They never have dyspepsia, so he would require
no trips to Europe. He would not, I fear, be very popular in the
sewing-circles and Dorcas societies,--for he would talk down all the
ladies.
* * * * *
A dear young friend of ours has a lovely pair of turtle-doves, that are
constantly making love to each other, these soft spring days, in that
delicious, drowsy honey-moon coo, “most musical, most melancholy.”
Awhile ago the disastrous experiment was tried, of putting these doves
into the cage with a parrot. Miss Polly did not fancy her dainty
visitors in the least. She glared at them as they cuddled together
in a corner, eying her askance, and murmuring in the sweet dove
dialect,--Madame Columba very timidly, and Monsieur in a tender,
reassuring tone. Miss Polly abominated such soft, love-sick voices,
and such a parade of matrimonial bliss and affection just exasperated
her; so she pitched into them, scolding fearfully at first, but soon
coming to blows with her wings, then to scratching and pecking with
her steel-like claws and fearful, hooked bill. When the hapless pair
were rescued, it was found that the husband, who had fought gallantly
to protect his wife, had met with a serious loss, in the upper part
of his bill, which had been quite bitten off by that inhospitable old
termagant, who had doubtless thought thus to put an end to his billing
and cooing.
The poor fellow lost some glossy feathers in this encounter. They
have been replaced, but the broken beak has never been restored. Thus
maimed, he is only able to drink from a perfectly full cup, and his
loving mate invariably stands back till his thirst is satisfied. She
also feeds him when he has difficulty in eating, and always carefully
plumes him, as he can no longer perform that service for himself.
Indeed, she attends to his toilet before her own. No fond wife of a
disabled soldier could surpass her in watchful care and devotion. What
a touching little lesson is this, of tender, faithful love! I wonder if
he would have done as much for her. Let us hope so.
THE BENEVOLENT SHANGHAI.
I have long wished to record the admirable behavior of a certain
Shanghai rooster, once belonging to a relative of ours in the West.
This fowl was old, but he was tender; he was ugly, but he was virtuous,
as you shall see. One of the hens of his flock died suddenly and
mysteriously,--of too many family cares, perhaps, for she left a brood
of twelve hearty, clamorous young chickens. One of the children, the
poet of the family, said:--
“Grandfather Shanghai
Stood sadly by,
And saw her die,
With a tear in his eye.”
Perhaps he received her last instructions,--her dying bequest. If so,
never was a legatee more burdened with responsibilities; for from that
hour the good rooster adopted all those chickens, and devoted himself
to them. When the fowls were fed, he guarded their portion; he watched
over them when hawks were hovering near; he scratched and fought for
them and stalked around after them all day, and at night, after leading
the other fowls to roost, he would descend from the old pear-tree,
gather those poor sleepy little things under him, and do his best to
brood them. His legs were so long and stiff that it was a difficult
job. First he would droop one wing down to shelter them; then, seeing
that they were exposed on the other side, would let down the other.
Then, finding that he could not keep both down at once, he would try
to crouch lower, and would sometimes tip himself entirely over. It was
a laughable sight, I assure you. But somehow he managed to keep them
warm, to feed them, and bring them up in the way they should go; and I
hope they always loved him, and never made fun of their gaunt, ungainly
old guardian, when they grew up, and went among the other young people
of the farm-yard, especially when chatting with the foreign fowls, the
proud Spanish hens, and the pretty Dorking pullets.
THE GALLANT BANTAM.
I have observed that while the Bantam pullet is a quiet, modest, little
pantaletted lady, the Bantam cockerel always makes up in big feeling
for what he lacks in size. A gentleman farmer owned a Bantam of this
sort, that was always full and bubbling over with fight. He would go
at any gentleman-fowl in the yard, with beak and spur. He would defy
the fiercest old gander, and challenge the biggest “cock of the walk”
to mortal combat. At last he grew so uncomfortably quarrelsome, and
presented such a disreputable appearance,--having had the best part
of his tail-feathers torn out, and his spurs broken off,--that his
master was obliged to put him out to board with a nice old lady who
had no fighting fowls for him to contend with. It was hoped that he
would be content to tarry in that Jericho until his tail-feathers
should be grown; but one day, when his master paid a visit to his good
neighbor, he found the little Bantam with his head badly swollen, and
with a patch over one eye and across his beak, placed there by the kind
old lady. He had gone outside the yard, and picked a quarrel with a
strange rooster, only about six times his size, and been pretty badly
punished.
A short time after, a big turkey gobbler was added to the feathered
community of that farm-yard, the old lady not dreaming of the Bantam
cock daring to make hostile demonstrations against such a potentate.
But she had done our little hero injustice. As soon as he saw the
mighty spread the arrogant old fellow was making, he just gathered
himself up, and “went for him,” if I may use a slang expression, which
I know boys, at least, will understand only too well.
The big gobbler looked down upon him at first in contemptuous
astonishment, as much as to say, “What fooling is this?” But when he
saw that the fiery little fellow was in earnest, he just struck him one
blow with his terrible wing, and--well, the gallant Bantam went “on
his raids no more.” He was served as another savage Turkey served poor
Crete. This is a world of tragedies and downfalls.
On a late visit to the Central Park, we noticed, among the collection
of fowls there, a Bantam cock, of the very smallest pattern, that
yet seemed to have a big, gallant heart. We saw him in one of his
soft moments, when, in fact, he was making love. He had been very
ambitious in selecting the object of his adoration, for he was actually
paying his addresses to a full-sized Shanghai hen, who was in a large
cage, separated from him by a light lattice. He would strut up and
down before her, ruffling his fine feathers, and making eyes at her.
Sometimes he would dance up sideways, declaring his passion with a
soft, musical murmur, that sounded like “coort, coort,” which it would
seem she could hardly resist; but she did,--not so much as a feather
on her breast was stirred by his appeal; she regarded him in placid
disdain. Indeed, it was almost as funny to watch the tiny, strutting
little creature making love to that superior fowl, as it would be to
see Commodore Nutt courting Miss Swan, the giantess.
“So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of knight like the young Lochinvar?”
THE DISOWNED CHICKS.
I have a friend living in the very heart of the big city of Chicago,
who owns several hens of rare varieties, and a flock of young chickens
of remarkable promise. She keeps them in her back-yard, which they
utterly devastate, not suffering a green thing to live, making it
look like a small copy of the Desert of Sahara. Yet she says keeping
them reminds her of the country! She is a very poetic and imaginative
lady. It is very likely that a hand-organ reminds her of music, and
fish-balls of the mighty, briny deep.
One of this good lady’s hens is a handsome, stately fowl, dressed in
gray satin, and wearing a top-knot that is like a crown of silver. She
has one chicken, almost full-grown,--the last of many lively children,
the victims of rats and the pip. Of him she is very fond. There was, at
one time, great danger that he would be spoiled,--for she toiled for
him all day, trotting about everywhere with him “at her apron-strings,”
so to speak; and she actually broods him at night, though, do the best
she can in spreading herself, she can’t take in all of his tail, unless
she lets his head stick out somewhere. Thus he is content to sleep
ingloriously, when he ought to be roosting on some lofty perch, ready
to greet the first streak of dawn with a brave crow, prophetic of the
day.
A few weeks ago another hen, a young pullet, dressed gayly every
day in gold and brown, with a gorgeous top-knot, came, one morning,
triumphantly out from under the porch, with a large flock of charming
little chicklings, who toddled along after her, and glanced up at
the sky, and round on the earth,--that vast sandy plain of the
back-yard,--in a most knowing and patronizing manner. Nobody would have
guessed it was their first day out of the shell. They were not going to
show their greenness,--not they.
For a while those downy, yellow, cunning little roly-poly creatures
seemed to amuse their mother; she appeared fond of them, taking
pleasure in parading them before such of her neighbors as were
chickenless. But she was a giddy biddy, lazy and selfish; so, as soon
as she found that she must scratch to fill so many little crops, she
threw up maternity in disgust. She actually cast off her whole brood,
pecked at them, and scolded them till they ran from her in fright,
and huddled together in a corner of the fence, peeping piteously,
and doubtless wishing they had never been hatched. Perhaps some were
chicken-hearted enough to wish for death to end their troubles, till
they caught sight of some ugly old rat prowling about “seeking whom
he might devour,” when they reconsidered the matter, and took a more
cheerful view of life.
Well, it came to pass that the excellent gray hen, with the one big
chicken, seeing their forlorn condition, pitied them exceedingly, and
actually adopted the whole flock. Only think, children, it was as
though your mother should adopt a small orphan asylum, and all of them
twins!
She toils for them and protects them all day, treating them in all
respects as her own chicks, till sundown; then, not having room for
them under her wings without dislodging her only son and heir, she
always escorts them up the steps of the porch and sees them go to
bed in a little box, which has been prepared for them by their kind
mistress, with a cover of slats to guard them from rats and cats and
bats and owls, and every thing that prowls or lies in wait for small
fowls. Well, when she has seen the last chick tumble in, and cuddle
down to its place with a sleepy good-night “peep,” to be brooded under
the invisible wings of the soft summer night, that good, motherly
creature descends with stately dignity from the porch to her own
sleeping apartment underneath, when she mounts on a box, and, calling
her one long-legged darling, does her best to hover him, and to make
believe he is a baby-chicken still. In the morning she is astir
betimes, scratching and pecking for him and his adopted brothers and
sisters with wonderful impartiality. I must do this same big chicken
the justice to say that he has never made any violent opposition
to this sudden addition to the family; but he has rather a haughty
manner towards the little interlopers, and could we understand the
sort of Chickasaw language he speaks, we might find him occasionally
remonstrating with his maternal parent in this wise: “Really, mother,
it strikes me you are running your benevolence into the ground, in
scratching your nails off for a lot of other hen’s chickens! such
things don’t pay, ma’am; charity begins at home, and one would think
you had enough on your claws, in providing for the wants of a growing
young cockerel like me, without doing missionary work. Besides, you
are encouraging idleness and shiftlessness; it just sticks in my crop
to have you burden yourself with the cast-off responsibilities of that
impudent pullet, who goes cawking lazily about, carrying her top-knot
as high as ever.”
The conduct of that unnatural young mother is, indeed, reprehensible.
At meal-times she always comes elbowing her way through the crowd of
her virtuous neighbors, to secure the largest share of corn-mush,
not hesitating to rob her own children! She will be likely to have
a disturbing and demoralizing influence on the female feathered
community. She shirks her duties,--declines to lay eggs lest chickens
should come of them. She believes the chicken population is too
large already for the average supply of chickweed and grubworms. She
discourages nest-making, and despises her weak-minded sisters, who, in
spite of her warning, persist in laying, sitting, and hatching; who
really believe in the innocence of chickenhood, and actually love to
brood their chicks, to feel the soft little things stir against their
breasts, and to hear now and then, in the still, dark night, their
drowsy “peep, peep.” She goes against all such silly sentiment and
loving slavery. She pities any poor pullet who has to spend her days in
a coop, especially in Chicago. She is a sort of hen-emancipator, and
strolls about at “her own sweet will,” “in maiden meditation, fancy
free.”
If she could have the management of the hatchway, all chickens
would be hatched with equal rights to wear the spur, and with equal
gifts of crest and crow; all hatching would be done by steam, in a
general incubatorium at government expense, in a way to astonish all
grandmother Biddies; sittings would be abolished, coops levelled to the
earth, and the sound of the cluck be heard no more in the land.
As for the poor cast-off chicks, they grow and thrive, get more steady
on their legs, and put out tiny tail-feathers, tinged with gold, as the
bright summer days go on. They doubtless think that their first mother
was a mistake, and that their second mother is the certain true one,
and honor her silver top-knot accordingly.
So you see, dear children, there is a Providence for little chickens,
as well as for little sparrows.
THE END.
Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.