SOME TRANSIENT PATIENTS
A young meadow-lark was brought to me one morning by a small boy, whose
dog had chased it and broken its leg. I had never had any experience in
setting bones, but, as there is always a first time, I thought I could
at least try, even if I did not succeed. I found it was not a very easy
thing to do alone, but, after trying a number of times, I managed to get
my toothpick splint on securely. For several days the leg seemed to be
doing nicely, and I felt quite proud of my work and sure the leg was
knitting. All at once the bird began to smell very badly, and in a few
days it died, so I think it must have been hurt internally.
Another morning I had an orchard oriole brought to me. He, like the
Prince of Wales, had been shot. One wing was broken and there was a deep
flesh wound underneath. I did not expect to save him, but, after a few
days, the wound healed and he was perfectly well, except the broken
wing, which did not bother him. He seemed very happy, even if he could
only fly a very little, and spent most of his time hopping about on the
floor. His favourite perching-place was on the top of a candle on my
dressing-table.
One morning he came over to my bed and woke me by pecking my hands. As
it was too early for me to wake, I put him on the floor and went to
sleep. When I got up, I could not find my pretty Duke. He had never been
in my dressing-room, but that morning the light must have attracted him,
as my room was dark, and in trying to hop on the edge of the water-jar
he fell in.
You can imagine my horror when I saw him in the water dead, with his
lovely feathers all spoiled, and I felt I had been a careless nurse.
A cousin brought to the hospital from the country a young snipe. She was
so afraid it would get away, she put it into a shoe box which was too
small, then tied the cover down tight, without making one hole to let
the air in. Consequently, when she arrived, the bird was just gasping
and almost dead.
I had never seen a young snipe before, and I was so anxious to save it.
It was a beauty. Of course, it was all legs and feet, but they were
really beautiful in shape, and the colour like the soft shade of green
in young twigs. I worked over it four hours, hoping I might bring it
back to life, but it was beyond me. It was a most pitiful sight to see
it take so long to die.
I was very glad one day to have the pleasure of looking over a chimney
swift, but, as it was an old bird and not hurt in the least, I felt it
would be cruel to keep it in the hospital. It was so frightened it did
not fly off from my hand for five minutes after I took it out-of-doors.
One day a very tender-hearted little boy, with big tears in his eyes,
came and asked me to take in a tiny baby bird not three inches long from
end of bill to tip of tail. It was gray with white breast, long pointed
white bill, and very large eyes. Its pretty little head was drawn back
like a person having spinal meningitis, and it was making a mournful
peep. When I took it into my hand, I did not think it could live but a
few moments, but it did four hours, suffering all the time, and it
seemed as if its pitiful peep would drive me wild. I managed to get a
little milk down its throat, but I could not find the cause of the head
being drawn back, as there was no sign of any bruise. Finally I saw a
black speck sticking out of its bill. I began to pull, and kept on until
I had pulled out a quarter of a yard of coarse horsehair. I knew then
there was something on the other end, and that the bird could not live
with whatever it was in its throat. I gave a quick pull, and you can
imagine my surprise when out came a piece of hard white shell,
triangular shape, all wound around with the hair. No wonder the little
thing peeped, and that its head was drawn back, with that sharp point
sticking into its throat. The mother must have rammed it down her baby’s
throat, thinking it was some goody.
After I had removed the shell, the little sufferer seemed so relieved;
the peeping stopped, and it would try to flop its wee wings when it saw
me with the milk. I was in hopes I was going to save it, but it did not
have the strength to rally, and it went where all good birdies go.
For a week I had a dear baby robin, who came down-stairs every night to
look me up when it was time for him to go to bed in his basket. I had a
wild pigeon at the time who delighted in pecking any small bird who came
to the hospital. He gave the robin a hard peck on the back of the neck,
I suppose striking a nerve, for soon the head began to draw back, and in
a few hours he died. Theodore Roosevelt, the wild pigeon, was in the
hospital two long years, receiving constant treatment, from burns which
he had received by being caught in electric wires.
Then I had a large white domestic pigeon that was taken away from a dog
who was tearing him to pieces. Such a sight as he was, covered with
blood and mud, when I took him in. The feathers were all torn out of one
wing, and he could not stand on his feet. The first thing I gave him a
bath in warm water and soap, then found several flesh wounds, which I
powdered with talcum powder (never put anything greasy on a bird), and
put him in a cot, where I kept him as quiet as possible for several
days. He was not at all timid, ate from my hand, drank water from a
whiskey glass, as if he had always been fed in that way, never even
trying to stand up or get out of his cot. I felt quite encouraged when,
after a week, he could perch on my wrist for a few minutes, so I knew
that there were no bones broken, but I was afraid that he was never
going to have the use of one of his claws, for the toes all turned under
when he tried to put it down, but patience and care were my reward, for
it got entirely well. You could fairly see the new feathers grow in his
wing, and he was delighted when he could flop his wings and exercise. It
was very interesting to watch him when he first began trying to walk. I
would put him down on the floor. He would lift the lame foot very high,
and throw the claws out before putting it down, to prevent the toes
turning under. I expected he would want to fly away when he found he was
made whole again, but he did not seem to have the slightest desire. He
became quite a pet, and when I spoke to him, he would bow his head and
say, “Coo-wee, coo-wee, coo-wee,” but he was too large a bird for the
house, and he now lives with many of his kind, where he has the best of
care.
One morning I saw a baby sparrow on a piazza, and a cat just ready to
spring at it. I got in ahead of the cat, and brought her home with me. I
wish all of the people who say they hate the English sparrow could have
known this one, whom I named “Monie.” She was a perfect little beauty,
and full of all sorts of antics. Every feather shone like satin, and her
colouring was the soft shade of brown you see in otter fur. She loved to
tease the other birds, especially the canaries. She would go inside the
cage when they were on top and bite their claws and try to pull them
through the bars. Then she would hang with one claw caught on the top of
the cage and go through all sorts of performances. I had a box which
rested on a low table, divided off into two compartments, one filled
with gravel and the other with food. In the centre of one side was part
of a broomstick, with any number of perches all sizes on it, and a
platform over the other side where a brass cage stood. The box and
perches, being painted light green, made a pretty sight when the perches
were filled with many birds of different size and colour. There was a
platform that rested on the window-sill, where Teddy, the pigeon, liked
best to stay. He would walk back and forth or sit there most of the day,
looking out of the windows. When, he wanted to walk in the gravel or get
something to eat, he would walk down the little steps into the box with
a great deal of dignity.
Monie always insisted upon perching on one of the largest perches, and
very often she would fall on to the floor, and, as her wing was clipped,
she could not get back in the box until I picked her up. At that time
there were some mice who came and ate with the birds. Taffy did not seem
to think they had any right there, and often tried to catch them. Twice
he picked Monie up off from the floor, thinking she was a mouse, and
brought her down-stairs. When he saw me, he came right up to me and let
me take her out of his mouth, as if he was glad to get rid of her. The
next time I missed her, I looked ten minutes, then I heard Taffy ring
his bells, and he kept it up until I found him behind a heavy curtain,
lying down with his paws under him, and holding Monie very carefully in
his mouth. I put out my hand and he laid her in it, and she was not hurt
in the least. After that I tried my best to make Monie sleep on a
smaller perch, but she was as wilful as she was pretty, and no other
perch seemed to suit her. Her wilfulness caused her death, for she fell
off in the middle of the night when the room was dark. Taffy picked her
up and she squealed like a mouse. As he held her tighter, she squealed
louder, and Taffy thought he had a mouse sure. I jumped out of bed, but,
by the time I got a light, he had choked her to death. When he saw that
he had Monie instead of a mouse, he put her into my hand, and no person
could have shown more grief.
Late one evening a small boy came to the door and asked if I did not
want to buy a white rat. To get rid of the boy, I bought the rat,
thinking I would give it to our boy the next morning, but he was so
bright and cunning, I named him Billy Watt, and kept him many months. He
was a most interesting pet and very much like a squirrel in all of his
ways. Taffy thought it was “adding insult to injury” to ask him to be
polite to Billy Watt, but he soon understood he was to treat him as
politely as the birds.
One day Billy Watt bit Monie so the blood came. I took him in one hand,
Monie in the other, and let her bite his nose, ears, and paws, and it
frightened him almost to death when he found a bird could bite as well
as a rat, and he never touched her again.
It was hard to make people believe, who did not see it, that Taffy would
sleep for hours in my room, with birds flying around and Billy Watt
asleep in a basket near by.
The largest patient I ever had was a turkey-buzzard, and the smallest
full-grown bird a Parola warbler.
When Taffy beheld Mr. Buzzard perched on the back of a chair, his wrath
knew no bounds. He did not spring at him, simply sat down in front of
him, and by the growling and spitting you would have thought there were
a dozen of cats instead of one.
One day our neighbour’s crow came to visit us, and insisted upon sitting
in Taffy’s chair, which did not suit his Royal Highness at all. He stood
upon his hind legs with his front paws on the chair, and smelled Mr.
Crow all over, but Mr. Crow did not mind in the least and would not
move, so Mr. Taffy jumped into the chair and curled himself up by the
side of the crow, and they spent the day together.
Once I read with the greatest interest an article about a Parola
warbler, and felt I would like very much to know the authoress, and tell
her there was another person who had come in as close contact with one
as she did. One can read dozens of beautiful descriptions of these
daintiest of fairies, but no one can have the slightest conception of
their beauty, or half appreciate them, until they have held one in their
hand. Mine was caught by a cat, but it lived all day, so I had plenty of
time to study every exquisite feather.
I hope the day may come when I shall be fortunate enough to see another,
but they are very rare, especially in Central New York.
The Parola warbler was the first bird that opened John Burroughs’s eyes
to the beauty of birddom.