THE OWLS START ON THEIR TRAVELS
Betsy and Solomon lived happily through that winter and spring, and
before summer came we had made up our minds to return to the East. What
should we do with the owls? They would be a great deal of trouble to
some one. They required an immense amount of petting, and a frequent
supply of perfectly fresh meat. No matter how busy we were, one of us
had to go to the butcher every other day.
We began to inquire among our friends who would like a nice,
affectionate pair of owls? There seemed no great eagerness on the part
of any one to take the pets we so much valued. Plans for their future
worried me so much that at last I said to my sister, “We will take them
East with us.”
The owls, who were to take so long a journey, became objects of
interest to our friends, and at a farewell tea given to us, a smartly
dressed young man vowed that he must take leave of Solomon and Betsy.
Calling for a broom, he slowly passed it to and fro over the carpet
before them, while they sat looking at him with lifted ear tufts that
betrayed great interest in his movements.
We trembled a little in view of our past moving experiences, but we
were devoted to the little creatures and, when the time came, we
cheerfully boarded the overland train at Oakland.
We had with us Betsy and Solomon in their large cage, and in a little
cage a pair of strawberry finches, so called because their breasts are
dotted like a strawberry. A friend had requested us to bring them East
for her. We had also a dog--not Teddy, that had only been lent to us;
but our own Irish setter Nita, one of the most lovable and interesting
animals that I have ever owned.
The chipmunk was no longer with us. He had not seemed happy in the
aviary--indeed, he lay down in it and threw me a cunning look, as if
to say, “I will die if you don’t let me out of this.” So I gave him
the freedom of the house. That pleased him, and for a few days he was
very diligent in assisting us with our housekeeping by picking all
the crumbs off the floors and eating them. Then he disappeared, and I
hope was happy ever after among the superb oak trees of the university
grounds close to us.
When we started for the East, the pets, of course, had to go into the
baggage car, and I must say here for the benefit of those persons who
wish to travel with animals and birds, that there is good accommodation
for them on overland trains. Sometimes we bought tickets for them,
sometimes they had to go in an express car, sometimes we tipped the
baggagemasters, but the sums spent were not exorbitant, and we found
everywhere provision made for pets. You cannot take them in your rooms
in hotels, but there is a place for them somewhere, and they will be
brought to you whenever you wish to see them, or to give them exercise.
We were on several different railway lines, and visited eight different
cities, and the dog and birds, upon arriving in eastern Canada, seemed
none the worse for their trip.
However, I would not by any means encourage the transportation of
animals. Indeed, my feelings on the subject, since I understand the
horrors animals and birds endure while being whirled from one place to
another, are rather too strong for utterance. I would only say that
in a case like mine, where separation between an owner and pets would
mean unhappiness, it is better for both to endure a few days or weeks
of travel. Then the case of animals and birds traveling with some one
who sees and encourages them every day is different from the case of
unfortunate creatures sent off alone.
Our Nita was taken out of the car at every station where it was
possible to exercise her, and one of us would run into restaurants
along the route to obtain fresh meat for the owls. Their cage was
closely covered, but whenever they heard us coming they hooted, and as
no one seemed to guess what they were, they created a great deal of
interest. My sister and I were amused one evening in Salt Lake City to
see a man bending over the cage with an air of perplexity.
“They must be pollies,” he said at last, and yet his face showed that
he did not think those were parrot noises issuing from within.
I remember one evening on arriving in Albany, New York, causing slight
consternation in the hotel by a demand for raw meat. We hastened to
explain that we did not want it for ourselves, and finally obtained
what we wished.
As soon as we arrived home in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the owls were put
downstairs in a nice, dry basement. They soon found their way upstairs,
where the whole family was prepared to welcome them on account of their
pretty ways and their love for caresses.
Strange to say, they took a liking to my father, who did not notice
them particularly, and a mischievous dislike to my mother, who was
disposed to pet them. They used to fly on her head whenever they saw
her. Their little claws were sharp and unpleasant to her scalp. We
could not imagine why they selected her head unless it was that her
gray hair attracted them. However, we had a French Acadian maid called
Lizzie, whose hair was jet black, and they disliked her even more than
they did my mother.
Lizzie, to get to her storeroom, had to cross the furnace-room where
the owls usually were, and she soon began to complain bitterly of them.
“Dey watch me,” she said indignantly, “dey fly on my head, dey scratch
me, an’ pull out my hairpins, an’ make my head sore.”
“Why don’t you push them off, Lizzie?” I asked, “they are only tiny
things.”
“Dey won’t go--dey hold on an’ beat me,” she replied, and soon the poor
girl had to arm herself with a switch when she went near them.
Lizzie was a descendant of the veritable Acadians mentioned in
Longfellow’s “Evangeline,” of whom there are several thousand in Nova
Scotia. My mother was attached to her, and at last she said, “I will
not have Lizzie worried. Bring the owls up in my bathroom.”
There they seemed perfectly happy, sitting watching the sparrows from
the window and teasing my long-suffering mother, who was obliged to
give up using gas in this bathroom, for very often the owls put it out
by flying at it.
One never heard them coming. I did not before this realize how
noiseless the flight of an owl is. One did not dream they were near
till there was a breath of air fanning one’s cheek. After we gave up
the gas, for fear they would burn themselves, we decided to use a
candle. It was absolutely necessary to have an unshaded light, for they
would perch on any globe shading a flame, and would burn their feet.
The candle was more fun for them than the gas, for it had a smaller
flame, and was more easily extinguished, and usually on entering the
room, away would go the light, and we would hear in the corner a
laughing voice, saying “Too, who, who, who, who!”
The best joke of all for the owls was to put out the candle when one
was taking a bath, and I must say I heard considerable grumbling from
the family on the subject. It seemed impossible to shade the light
from them, and to find one’s self in the dark in the midst of a good
splash, to have to emerge from the tub, dripping and cross, and search
for matches, was certainly not calculated to add to one’s affection
for Solomon and Betsy. However, they were members of the family, and
as George Eliot says, “The members of your family are like the nose on
your face--you have got to put up with it, seeing you can’t get rid of
it.”
Alas! the time soon came when we had to lament the death of one of our
troublesome but beloved pets.
Betsy one day partook heartily of a raw fish head, and in spite of
remedies applied, sickened rapidly and sank into a dying condition.
I was surprised to find what a hold the little thing had taken on my
affection. When her soft, gray body became cold, I held her in my hand
close to the fire and, with tears in my eyes, wished for a miracle to
restore her to health.
She lay quietly until just before she died. Then she opened her eyes
and I called to the other members of the family to come and see their
strange expression. They became luminous and beautiful, and dilated
in a peculiar way. We hear of the eyes of dying persons lighting up
wonderfully, and this strange illumination of little Betsy’s eyes
reminded me of such cases.
Even after death she lay with those wide-open eyes, and feeling that I
had lost a friend, I put down her little dead body. It was impossible
for me to conceal my emotion, and my mother, who had quite forgotten
Betsy’s hostility to her, generously took the little feathered creature
to a taxidermist.
I may say that Betsy was the first and last bird I shall ever have
stuffed. I dare say the man did the work as well as it could be done,
but I gazed in dismay at my Betsy when she came home. That stiff little
creature sitting on a stick, with glazed eyes and motionless body,
could not be the pretty little bird whose every motion was grace.
Ever since the day of Betsy’s death, I can feel no admiration for a
dead bird. Indeed, I turn sometimes with a shudder from the agonized
postures, the horrible eyes of birds in my sister women’s hats--and yet
I used to wear them myself. My present conviction shows what education
will do. If you like and study live birds, you won’t want to wear dead
ones.
After Betsy’s death Solomon seemed so lonely that I resolved to buy him
a companion. I chose a robin, and bought him for two dollars from a
woman who kept a small shop. A naturalist friend warned me that I would
have trouble, but I said remonstratingly, “My owl is not like other
owls. He has been brought up like a baby. He does not know that his
ancestors killed little birds.”
Alas! When my robin had got beautifully tame, when he would hop about
after me, and put his pretty head on one side while I dug in the earth
for worms for him, when he was apparently on the best of terms with
Sollie, I came home one day to a dreadful discovery. Sollie was flying
about with the robin’s body firmly clutched in one claw. He had killed
and partly eaten him. I caught him, took the robin away from him, and
upbraided him severely.
“Too, who, who, who who,” he said--apologetically, it seemed to me,
“instinct was too strong for me. I got tired of playing with him, and
thought I would see what he tasted like.”
I could not say too much to him. What about the innocent lambs and
calves, of which Sollie’s owners had partaken?
I had a fine large place in the basement for keeping pets, with an
earth floor, and a number of windows, and I did not propose to have
Sollie murder all the birds I might acquire. So, one end of this room
was wired off for him. He had a window in this cage overlooking the
garden, and it was large enough for me to go in and walk about, while
talking to him. He seemed happy enough there, and while gazing into
the garden or watching the rabbits, guineapigs, and other pets in the
large part of the room, often indulged in long, contented spells of
cooing--not hooting.
In 1902 I was obliged to leave him for a six months’ trip to Europe.
He was much petted by my sister, and I think spent most of his time
upstairs with the family. When I returned home I brought, among other
birds, a handsome Brazil cardinal. I stood admiring him as he stepped
out of his traveling cage and flew around the aviary. Unfortunately,
instead of choosing a perch, he flattened himself against the wire
netting in Sollie’s corner.
I was looking right at him and the owl, and I never saw anything but
lightning equal the celerity of Sollie’s flight, as he precipitated
himself against the netting and caught at my cardinal’s showy red
crest. The cardinal screamed like a baby, and I ran to release him,
marveling that the owl could so insinuate his little claws through the
fine mesh of the wire. However, he could do it, and he gripped the
struggling cardinal by the long, hair-like topknot, until I uncurled
the wicked little claws. A bunch of red feathers fell to the ground,
and the dismayed cardinal flew into a corner.
“Sollie,” I said, going into his cage and taking him in my hand, “how
could you be so cruel to that new bird?”
“Oh, coo, coo, coo, coo,” he replied in a delightfully soft little
voice, and gently resting his naughty little beak against my face. “You
had better come upstairs,” I said, “I am afraid to leave you down here
with that poor cardinal. You will be catching him again.”
He cooed once more. This just suited him, and he spent the rest of
his life in regions above. I knew that he would probably not live as
long in captivity as he would have done if his lot had been cast in
the California foothills. His life was too unnatural. In their native
state, owls eat their prey whole, and after a time disgorge pellets of
bones, feathers, hairs, and scales, the remnants of food that cannot be
digested.
My owls, on account of their upbringing, wanted their food cleaned
for them. Betsy, one day, after much persuasion, swallowed a mouse to
oblige me, but she was such a dismal picture as she sat for a long time
with the tail hanging out of her beak that I never offered her another.
I tried to keep Solomon in condition by giving him, or forcing him to
take, foreign substances, but my plan only worked for a time.
I always dreaded the inevitable, and one winter day in 1903 I looked
sharply at him, as he called to me when I entered the house after being
away for a few hours. “That bird is ill!” I said.
No other member of the family saw any change in him, but when one keeps
birds and becomes familiar with the appearance of each one, they all
have different facial and bodily expressions, and one becomes extremely
susceptible to the slightest change. As I examined Sollie, my heart
sank within me, and I began to inquire what he had been eating. He had
partaken freely of boiled egg, meat, and charcoal. I gave him a dose of
olive oil, and I must say that the best bird or beast to take medicine
is an owl. Neither he nor Betsy ever objected in the least to opening
their beaks and taking any sort of a dose I was minded to give them.
The oil did him no good, and I saw that he was doomed. I kept him
beside me during the night, and at four o’clock in the morning he died.
Just at the last he opened his eyes, and there was the same strange,
luminous, beautiful appearance of the eye-ball that there had been when
Betsy died. I have seen many birds die, but have never, except in the
case of the owls, noticed this opening of the eyes, with the curious
illumination.
We missed the little fellow immensely, for he often insinuated his
pretty little cooing note in the midst of our family conversation. He
knew each one of us, and would call out when we came near him, but a
stranger he always received in silence, and with raised ear tufts.
We tried not to mourn foolishly for our pet. The reproach is often and
justly brought against animal-lovers that they are over-sensitive--that
they love not wisely, but too well. We suffer, and the lower creation
suffers with us. We lie down and die, and so must they. The rational
and really happy way is to struggle against this passion of tenderness
for all suffering, created things, to endeavor to be wise and
practical, and while doing everything in our power to alleviate all
suffering and unhappiness, yet not to be weakened by it.
Little Solomon had a happy life, and an almost painless death. There
was only one thing lacking. We would like to look forward to seeing him
again. Perhaps we shall--who knows?
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