DIXIE AND TARDY
When Dixie was about three weeks old he became afflicted by a cough. He
had a mania for bathing. I could not keep him out of the water dishes.
He was soaked from morning till night, and finally he sounded like a
consumptive robin. I tried shutting him in a cage, but that fretted
him; and when he came out he was more anxious to bathe than ever. The
cough hung about him for weeks, and I made up my mind that I was going
to lose him, but he finally recovered from it.
I used to hear him coughing at night, for I slept in a room opening off
the roof-veranda. I would put my head out the doorway in the morning,
and say, “Well, Dixie, how is the cough?” He knew quite well that I was
addressing him, and would give a little croupy bark in answer. I became
so fond of him, and his cough clung to him so late in the season, that
I resolved to keep him. Not so with the sparrow. I thought it would be
better to let him go, and one day I put him outside the wire netting.
I never saw a more surprised bird. He had forgotten the nest on the
side of the house, the tiny, sooty parent-birds. The robin was his
father, his mother, his world. He ran to and fro over the wire netting,
he looked down at his friend, at the nice food and the fresh seeds, and
his regret was so keen, that I said consolingly, “If you keep that up,
little fellow, I will let you come back again.”
I always keep a certain amount of food outside the aviary for street
sparrows and pigeons, so the little exile did not suffer, and in time
he forgot the robin, and only occasionally visited him.
Dixie grew and flourished, and is now a very fine-looking bird. A few
weeks ago he began to practise some fine rolling notes that promise a
fine singer. He stopped singing when I put him into the warm basement
for the winter. He was very indignant, and shook his tail as he talked
to me about taking him off the roof-veranda.
I remonstrated with him, and told him of his weak throat, and that I
wished him to get perfectly strong during the winter, so that next
spring he might fly away with the wild birds if he wished to do so. He
looked as if he understood. He is a very intelligent bird, and when he
wishes to dig worms that are beneath his reach, he lets me know it.
I found this out one evening, when I had forgotten to go at dusk and
dig him his final supper. I had taken a book, and was lying on a sofa
in the veranda-room, when I was aware that a very disconsolate little
figure was staring at me through the glass.
“What is the matter, Dixie?” I asked.
He at once flew to his box of worms, and taking the hint, I went out
and dug some.
I must put the digging of worms in the past tense. Dixie has lately
refused to eat them. That happens with every robin I have possessed.
Old Bob gave up eating worms long ago. Robins seem to like egg-food,
bread and milk, meat, and almost any kind of civilized food better than
angleworms. They will all eat mealworms--the fat, yellowish worms that
are raised especially for birds, but the plebeian earthworms they soon
tire of. Evidently they do not require them, for Bob is in excellent
condition, making seven and eight nests a summer, and being, I do not
know how many years old. I have had her for nearly seven.
Last, and best loved of my robins, because I snatched him from the jaws
of death, is Tardy--so named because he was a late autumn baby, being
brought to me on the fifth of September. He was plump and well-favored
when he came, but I made the same mistake with him that I made with
Dixie--I let him bathe too early.
It is a most amusing thing to see a robin with his first bath. He is
never surprised at worms. They come as a matter of course. But put a
dish of water in his cage. He has never had water before, except from
a medicine-dropper. He stares at this little bathtub. What is that
glittering in it?
He springs forward to investigate, runs backward in fear of the
gleaming, shimmering liquid. What can it be! He plucks up courage,
and bravely strikes the edge of the dish. It does not strike back. He
becomes bolder, and dabs his beak in the center. What is this flying
into his eyes? He chokes, coughs, gets a drop of the liquid down his
throat, tastes, swallows, and runs at it again.
“Hooray!” he chirps in robin joy. “It is fine! I’ll get into it,” and
down he goes, and the happy beholder of a robin’s first bath has hard
work to suppress a peal of laughter.
No boy with his first pants, first pony, or first anything, can excel
the joy of a young robin with his first bath--and like a too-indulgent
parent, I made the same mistake with Tardy that I did with Dixie, and
let him have as many as he liked.
It seemed incredible to me that wild birds could or would bathe too
much. Yet they do, and too late I shut Tardy up and took his bath away.
The mischief had been done, and I suppose my little bird really had
something like pneumonia.
I was quite upset about his illness, and made up my mind that he
should not die, if I could make him live. I have nursed many birds and
animals, had many a stubborn fight with their king of terrors, but I
never had such hard work to keep breath in a little bird’s body as I
had with Tardy.
He became hollow-chested and emaciated, the feathers came out of his
head. He was bald while yet a baby, his long legs made him look as if
he were on stilts, he coughed persistently, he became snappish and
peevish, and sometimes refused to eat.
Night after night I got up every few hours, and coaxed him to take
something, for he was like a weak patient that would die if left too
long without nourishment.
“I won’t,” he would snap angrily, as I offered him a worm at two P. M.
“Oh, please,” I would coax him. “Good Tardy!”
“Well, just to oblige you,” he would seem to say at last, and the worm
would go down.
“Now another, Tardy boy.”
“I will not,” and this tone was final.
Then I had to open his beak, and he would cough and nearly choke,
and I would feel that I was killing him, and would glance toward the
chloroform bottle that I kept standing near him, for I was resolved not
to let him suffer too much.
I never chloroform an animal or bird that has a chance to get well,
even if it undergoes some suffering in the process. Often, as I sit by
some intelligent, suffering creature, I try to express to it in some
way the hope that it will have courage to endure bravely--just as one
says to a human being, “Bear up--be courageous--your pain will soon be
over.”
When one speaks in this way, it is touching to see how responsive are
the members of the lower creation. Naturally, if their sufferings are
too great, they are, like us, utterly oblivious of what goes on around
them. But, if there is only intermittent pain, they seem to appreciate
one’s sympathy.
Tardy’s illness made him very intelligent and very dependent on me, but
the time came when I thought he ought to feed himself.
I can always tell by the length of a young robin’s tail when he is old
enough to look after his own food supply, but Tardy’s tail grew until
it was almost as long as an old bird’s, yet he would not eat a morsel
himself. He would fly at me on the rare occasions when he wanted food,
would scream, peck at me, and go to his dish of worms.
I would take a spoon, lift a worm, and say, “There it is, pick it up
for yourself.”
He would put his head on one side, and stare at it, knowing quite well
what I meant, but would not touch it.
Then I would relent and hand it to him, and if it was neither too long
nor too short, nor too fat nor too lean, he would take it.
He was, as indeed most robins are, a very extravagant bird, and would
eat some worms and throw the rest about.
Sometimes I had hard work to find boys to dig worms for me, but no
matter how busy or how tired I was, the supply must be kept up, for
while he was young he liked nothing else.
He was a very nervous bird, and I never caught him sleeping, no matter
how quietly I stole into the room. This was unnatural. A young bird
should not do much else but sleep and eat. To my great joy, the cough,
after a time, began to leave him, and he condescended occasionally to
feed himself.
When I found I was obliged to leave home I did considerable worrying
about my sick robin. However, a kind maid that I had had on my farm
promised to take the best of care of him, and after laying in a stock
of worms, and engaging a boy to bring more, I came away.
This maid writes me constantly about all my birds. Of Tardy she
remarks, “The Robin in the Chage is a verry dirty Bird. I can’t keep
him clean, and if I give him a paper in his Chage he will tear it up.
He eats Lamb now and Ant eggs. The Feathers are growing on his Head.”
After hearing this, I wrote her to put him in the aviary, where I hope
he will make friends with Bob and Dixie, and spend a happy winter.
My only regret is, that during my absence, my little bird will lose his
pretty, affectionate ways. He will never again call to me, nor take
my fingers in his beak and play with them. Nor will he strike me--but
perhaps it is just as well that he should take his rightful place, as a
plain, unaccomplished robin.
The Tardy who was afraid of all other birds, who was so nervous that he
would not eat if I took a stranger in his room, was not in his proper
sphere. The new Tardy will, I hope, be a strong bird, able to fly away
with his fellows when the lovely springtime comes.
I used to have a great liking for, and approval of, accomplished pets
in the lower creation. Now, unless in exceptional circumstances, I
would rather see an animal or a bird live his own life in the sphere in
which God has placed him.
The trained birds and animals that used to give me so much pleasure are
now distressing sights to me. Why should little canaries be taught to
wear jackets, and fire cannon, and draw little carts? They don’t like
it--they can’t like it. Those actions are contrary to bird nature. They
were created birds. Why not let them be birds? Bird intelligence is not
human intelligence, and it seems foolish to try and wrest it into a
semblance of ours.
I now let my pets do just exactly what they wish to do in the line of
accomplishments. I always carry on a certain amount of supervision and
discipline in the way of not allowing them to injure each other, but
they do no tricks, unless they fall into them naturally.
It used to be a great pleasure to us as a family to teach our dogs
tricks. Now we allow them to be plain dogs, unless they pick up certain
intelligent ways. The sight of trained dogs is now almost a revolting
one to me. No one can persuade me that dogs like to do the unnatural
things required of them.
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