CADY
One day when my hospital was so full of birds I did not know which way
to turn, a little girl came in with a nice fat baby robin. I said: “I
cannot take another patient, for my hospital is full to overflowing.”
She begged so hard, and said: “I have taken it away from a cat three
times. The father and mother bird have gone and left it, and I cannot
make it eat.” I could not resist such pleading, and said: “I will feed
it for a few days, then let it go.” But my few days lasted for a year
and a half.
Just at that time I was having a very pleasant correspondence with Mrs.
Stanton, so I said: “I am going to name the bird Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
and call it Cady for short, so, if it turns out to be a boy, as she
always wanted to be, the name will be all right.”
I had no trouble in making Cady eat, and of all the birds I ever had, he
was the most interesting. He seemed to understand anything I said to
him, and would talk to me by the hour. We had no difficulty in
understanding each other’s language, but I expected every day to hear
him say real words.
For many weeks he lived on crackers and milk, then Mocking Bird Food,
with only two meal worms a week, for they are very rich. He loved them
dearly, and it was very hard sometimes not to give in to him when he
asked for more. He knew where they were kept, and often turned over the
bottle and tried his best to get them out. He always played with a worm
a long time before eating it. Then all at once he would give his head a
good toss, and down the worm would go.
One day he treated a large rubber band in the same way he did his worm,
and, before I realized there might be danger, it had disappeared. I was
dreadfully frightened, and watched him carefully all day, but he seemed
none the worse for a change in his diet.
I had him for a year and a half, and his food always consisted of the
Mocking Bird Food, meal worm, and cracker and milk for his supper at
five o’clock. He was so fond of the latter, I could not take it away
from him entirely, and when five o’clock came, he always knew and made
me understand it was time for his supper, and would not touch his other
food, no matter how much he had in his dish. He grew to be very large
and strong and the handsomest robin I have ever seen. He was very
playful, and had many playthings and played with them like a dog. Corks
were his special delight, and he had many sizes. A piece of embroidery
he could put his bill through would amuse him many hours. He knew his
name in a very short time, and, when a baby, if he heard my voice, or
even saw me out in the yard, he would call just as birds do for their
mother. He was full of mischief and very foxy. He never was caged, and
lived on the floor and his perches.
I would often see him on the top perch, looking very intently over into
one corner; then I knew he was like the little girl, “when I be’s still,
I be’s thinking mischief.” In an instant he would turn and make a dive
for one of the canaries. I had three canaries at that time, and one day
I went into my room to find feathers all over the floor and many spots
of blood, and Cady on the highest perch looking as innocent as a baby.
After looking about, I found the dear little things in a most
dilapidated condition. I was afraid Judy would die, for her wing was put
out of joint, but she finally recovered.
Every morning when I took my bath, Cady would come into my dressing-room
and have a visit, perched on the wash-stand or towel-rack, and tell me
many stories. He was a great lover of water, but he would not take his
bath alone, and I always had to play with him. He would wait for me
until noon, or, in fact, all day. I gave him a large square willow-ware
vegetable dish for his tub, which my friends thought much too good for
him, but nothing was too good for Cady. He always insisted upon having
fresh water for his bath, and never would take it in water that had
stood in the pitcher overnight. Many times I tried to fool him, but he
was too smart for me. When he was ready for his bath, he would go into
my dressing-room and chirp, then come back to me, go back again, and
keep it up until I got the water. Then the fun commenced. I began by
taking water in my hand and throwing it at him. He would hop all over
the room, come back to me for more, dance around first on one foot, then
on the other, turn his back to me, then face me. After we had played
enough in that way, he would hop into the water, and I would take a
whole handful of water and throw over him, then he would begin work in
good earnest, and such splashing you never saw.
He certainly was a sight when he had finished and hopped about the room
with streams of water running off him. It took him a long time to make
his toilet, for every feather had to be preened just so.
At that time I had a dear little boy sparrow named “Mack,” who was a
beauty and very bright. When Cady took his bath, he always came down and
took a shower bath. In the fall I began Cady’s music lessons, and every
one laughed at the idea of my thinking I could teach him to sing with
me. Every day after luncheon I spent an hour with him. I would put him
on the back of a chair by the piano and play and sing a very catchy
little waltz song, and I kept it up for weeks before he would sing at
all, but I knew by his looks and actions he was taking it all in, so I
was determined I would not give up. Finally one day he began to follow
me with the sweet notes of a canary, and I hardly dared breathe, but
went right on singing as if I did not hear him, and from that day on he
improved with every lesson. Next I took the waltz song “First Love” from
“Olivette,” and he showed great delight with the change, and entered
right into the spirit of the song. We sung that for many weeks, always
beginning our lessons with the first waltz song. Then for a change I
thought I would try him with a waltz song, “May Blossoms,” which was
entirely different in style and tone. He liked that best of all, and it
was simply marvellous the way he sang it. He was always in such a hurry
to sing it, he would often begin before the music. I began with the idea
of giving him a prize when we had finished our lessons, but that did not
suit him at all, and he gave me to understand that he must have one to
begin on. He soon learned to take his position on the chair when I
brought him into the parlour. I would begin to play, and sometimes,
before he thought, he would sing a few notes, then he would remember his
treat, and down he would hop into a chair, then over to another chair
which stood in the back parlour, as he was afraid of a fur rug that lay
between the doors, and would never put his claws in it. He would perch
on the arm of the chair until I went to my tea-table and got a crumb of
biscuit or cake and gave to him, then he would hop back the way he came,
take his position, and begin to sing. After his lesson he always had a
taste of honey and a drink of water out of a whiskey glass. He seemed
very proud of his accomplishments, and was always more than willing to
show off for visitors,—take a bath as well as sing for them.
[Illustration: CADY TAKING HIS SINGING LESSON]
One day he was in the back parlour and wanted to go into the front
parlour. A gentleman was sitting with his legs crossed in the chair that
was his stepping-stone, and what to do he did not know. Several times he
hopped on to the first arm, then on to the floor, would look at the fur
rug, but could not get up enough courage to go over it. Again, as he
hopped on to the arm, his eye caught the toe of the gentleman’s shoe. In
an instant he was on it and over into the front parlour, singing with
great glee over his cunning feat.
One day in the spring, when I was giving him his lesson, a friend came
in with a very large dog. Cady had never seen a dog before, and I was
afraid he would die of fright and that his voice was ruined for ever. I
could not get him to sing a note for many weeks. He showed the same fear
every time I brought him down to the parlours. After he had finished
moulting in the fall, he was more beautiful than ever. Every feather was
perfect and shone like satin. I brought him down-stairs to show to a
friend, and the first thing he did was to take his position on the chair
by the piano and begin to chirp, and I knew he was asking me to play for
him. For six months he had not sung a note, so you may imagine my
delight when out poured the sweetest trills of the best bred canary.
Like all robins, Cady was a very early riser, and during the summer he
would wake me at five o’clock in the morning, and I would have no peace
until I opened my blinds. Of course, it was very nice for Cady, but, oh,
poor me! Never before or since have I ever gotten up so early, for sleep
was out of the question. He would come down on my bed, perch on my
shoulder, and send the sweetest trills right down into my ear, but I
could not fully appreciate them at that early hour. If that did not take
effect, he would peck my hands; if I put them under the cover, then my
eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth.
I regret very much that Cady’s photograph was not taken when he was
taking a sun bath. He would toss back his head, spread out his wings,
lean against anything that was most convenient, and a lady with a train
posing for her portrait could not have been more graceful. Every one
said: “When winter comes, Cady will feel the cold,” but Cady had no
intention of being cold, and a warm room was all the Florida he cared
for.
Instead of a sun bath, he took a fire bath, and often before he went to
sleep for the night he would perch on the back of a low chair by the
fire, and drink in all the warm air he could hold.
The first autumn I had Cady, I was told I must clip his wings, for he
was never caged. A friend came one day, and we clipped several of the
birds’ wings, but my heart was broken when it was done, for they all
felt so ashamed, especially Cady. At that time I had the Princess of
Wales, and she was a most inquisitive little lady. She would follow Cady
about, look him all over, get him into a corner, examine his wings, and
lift up with her bill the one that had been clipped. The next autumn,
when Cady’s new feathers came in, they were so beautiful I did not have
the heart to clip his wings again. But he was getting so unruly, chasing
my other small birds, flying through the air and picking them up as if
they were flies, that I did not know what to do with him. I knew I must
clip his wing or cage him, and I knew the latter would simply kill the
poor bird. Each day I would get ready to cut it my courage would fail,
and I would put it off until the next, and, like all things we keep
putting off, there came a day when I would have given all I possessed if
I had clipped his wing in the beginning.
Cady was afraid out-of-doors. One day he fell out of my bedroom window,
and waited for me to come and get him. He often stood in my bedroom
window, but never seemed to care to go out. If I took him into the yard,
he would fly back into the house if the door was open.
One day I took him quite a walk to see a friend. He perched on my wrist
(as my finger was too small), did not offer to get off, and seemed very
much at home in the friend’s house, so I never thought of his going
away. When he began his lessons in the autumn, his wing was all
feathered out, and he could fly everywhere. Instead of hopping from
chair to chair for his treat, he would fly out into the dining-room,
light on the dining-room table and wait for me to come.
One Sunday morning I had been giving him a longer lesson than usual, for
he was singing better than I had ever heard him. All at once he stopped
short, flew as usual into the dining-room, where the door was opened on
to the piazza, and out of it he went, soaring way up in the air. It was
a glorious day, and when he lighted in a tall tree up the street, I
could hear him singing with delight. If I could have had the street to
myself, I am sure I could have gotten him, but it was just the hour when
the children were returning from Sunday school, and I could not keep
them away. Twice he came within a few feet of me, then the boys or the
rustle of the leaves frightened him away. For weeks he was about, and I
spent many hours trying to get him to come to me. He always answered my
call, but seemed afraid to fly down to me.
I would not have taken hundreds of dollars for him, and whatever became
of him I know not, but I fear he perished when winter came, as he knew
nothing about migrating.