GOOD-BYE TO THE GALLINULES
Not long after the entrance of this new gallinule into my bird world,
circumstantial evidence convicted him of a crime that seemed to me
particularly atrocious and unnecessary.
I had bought two little birds--a linnet and a goldfinch. These birds
came with large numbers of other birds from Europe to New York, which
is the great market for foreign birds.
They were both so restless in the cage in which I put them for
quarantine purposes, that I was convinced they were trapped birds. This
suspicion was confirmed by finding some of the linnet’s feathers stuck
together with bird lime. Indeed, he was in such a state that I did not
see how he had maintained enough freedom of movement to get about the
large cage in which I had put him. I cut off the sticky feathers, felt
angry with his trappers for catching him, for the little wild creature
beat himself against his bars all the time, and I let him loose in the
aviary. He flew about the basement, ascended to the roof-veranda, made
friends with one of my native linnets--so-called, which are really
finches, and finally I gave him his freedom. He flew away with the
finch, and I hope migrated with him.
This European linnet was a quiet-looking, dark bird. The goldfinch was
utterly different, both in appearance and in disposition, and was also
totally unlike our pretty, bright American goldfinch. The English bird
was about five inches long, his whitish beak was conical and sharp, his
feet were brown and slender, the front of his head was bright scarlet,
the top of it black. His cheeks and upper neck were pure white, the
sides of his breast light brown, the middle whitish gray, his wing
feathers were velvety black, yellow, and white. In Europe he and his
fellows are of great service to farmers, their sharp little beaks
dragging many insects from their hiding-places. One of their chief
articles of diet is thistle-seed, and they are trapped by means of bird
lime placed near bunches of thistles.
My little goldfinch did not seem very strong. One can fancy that after
having a struggle with limed twigs, and then being shut up in a tiny
cage with an entire change of food, and being transported across a wide
ocean, he would not to any sensible degree find himself benefited in
health. This poor little fellow soon died, and the bird-dealer gave
me another one that worried along through one winter and spring. He
was like the first one, as far as two birds can be alike. I became
very fond of him. He was such a quiet, good little creature, and never
molested another bird. When moulting-time came his weak points were
accentuated. His feathers seemed to drop out all at once, and he lost
his ability to fly. However, he bore his affliction philosophically,
and seeing that his wings had deserted him, calmly took to his slender
brown feet. Through the long, pleasant autumn days, he would go from
tree to tree, climbing from one branch to another till he reached the
top, then at night he always chose for his bed-place a perch near
the old-fashioned worked picture, given to my father by one of his
parishioners, and entitled, “Sweet rest in Heaven.”
This picture hung in my bedroom, a sunny apartment opening on the
roof-veranda. I had very much enjoyed this room, but my birds had
become so sociable, hopping in to see me, examining my pincushion and
workbasket for threads and bits of cloth for their nests, and also
crowding me so much when I tried to look in my mirror, that for a part
of the year I gave the room up to them and slept in another.
I had nailed some branches and perches to the walls and the little
goldfinch when morning came, carefully picked his way down from behind
the picture, and began journeying to and fro on the veranda, with many
slips and many falls, but with so much enjoyment of his liberty that I
could not bear to shut him up in one of the detested cages.
I knew that it was scarcely safe to have this little crippled fellow
wandering about among large birds, but he was so discreet, and the
large birds seemed so forbearing, that I hoped nothing would happen to
him.
Then I was with my birds nearly all day long, either on the veranda or
in the bird-room, and if I were not there some members of the family
would be reading, sewing, or entertaining friends out in the sunshine.
I kept for several years from eighty to a hundred birds at a time, and
there were a good many quarrels which would be quickly settled by a
word from us, or sometimes by the birds themselves.
I have often seen a bird rush between two others who were angrily
beating each other. Of course, the purpose of this bird is not to
settle the quarrel. After watching them carefully I concluded that
they interfere from a variety of motives, none of them altruistic. I
think the chief reason of their interference arises from the fact that
birds are highly sensitive creatures. They hate sharp noises and any
disturbance. If they do not understand a noise they fly away and hide,
or rush wildly to and fro. If they do understand it, as in the case of
two of their fellows quarreling, they irritably interfere, as if to
say, “Why do you make such a horrible noise and disturb the harmony of
things?”
The gallinules loved the roof-veranda, and solemnly ascending the
elevator, would stand for hours in the water dishes, or would bask in
the sunlight. I noticed that they moved about a good deal at night, and
I have since heard that there is more movement in the bird world at
night than we sometimes suppose.
I know many of my birds would make their way about, if there was the
least particle of light, and some of them would arouse me by flying to
and fro, and singing, if the moonlight were bright.
I did not know very much about gallinules, and it did not occur to me
that they would prey upon birds, though I did find one of them playing
with one of the turtles. However, gallinules were waders, and anything
that lived in the water would be legitimate prey. But this second
gallinule should not have killed my dear little goldfinch, and torn his
wise little head from his shoulders.
This was the painful sight that greeted me one morning as I stepped
out to the veranda. There was the headless body. There stood the
gallinule, looking as if he were thinking of nothing but the beauty
and brightness of the morning.
How did I know this gallinule, Beauty Number Two, was to blame? Well,
if a mother has a certain number of children, and studies the character
of each one, she knows them as thoroughly as one created being can
understand another. She leaves the children in a room and returns to
find one hurt and crying. She looks around, and by certain indefinable
signs discovers the aggressor.
The gallinule’s philosophical, uninterested air might have led an
outsider astray, and for just a very short time my suspicions did
wander to a cardinal bird. However, they came back to the long-legged
bird, and after a time I saw him playing with the poor little
goldfinch’s head. I put him through the gate leading to the elevator,
and told him to stay in regions below for a time. I would not have a
murderer above. He did not like this, and with his companion would come
and stand at the gate, pleading to be let in, until at last I relented;
and whether he understood or not, he did not kill another bird for a
long time.
When I moved the birds to my farm in the country, the gallinules went
too. In an ell of the house were some rooms with screened windows.
The screen on one door was loose, and my first gallinule managed to
insinuate his body, and get out one fine day.
Below the house was a meadow, and through the meadow ran a beautiful
little river. We could hear the birds the farmers called meadow-hens
laughing down there all day long, and at night the legions of frogs
kept up an harmonious chant of “Rain, rain, rain!”
Along the river banks were lovely wild flowers and thick shrubbery. I
imagined that the gallinule would have a delightful time in this dense
covert, and as he had been clever enough to find his way to Nova Scotia
from Mexico or Georgia, perhaps, when autumn came, he might be clever
enough to find his way back. So I took the other gallinule and carried
him out to the bank overhanging the meadow. I threw him high up in the
air, and he sank down from my sight among the violets and long grass of
the hillside.
From what I knew of his habits, I concluded that he would hide there
till night came, then make his way to the river. I hoped that he would
find Beauty Number One, and many times since I have thought that I
would give a very great deal to know the ultimate fate of my two
gallinules.
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