LITTLE PETERS
Soon after starting my aviary I bought a pair of large green
parrakeets, and consequently became interested in the whole parrot
tribe. I found that there are two hundred varieties or more of the
little tropical beauties called parrakeets or little Peters.
This first pair of mine I think, consisted of specimens of the
all-green parrakeet or the tirika--a species inhabiting eastern Brazil.
In that country these pretty green birds associate in countless flocks,
disporting themselves in the forest or swooping down on maize and rice
fields.
The lady in Halifax from whom I bought these, said that she found it
impossible to keep them in a cage. They would break out and invariably
amuse themselves by gnawing the plaster from the walls of the room
they were in. At first they did not like me. Parrots, we all know,
are narrow in their affections, and rarely like more than one person
at a time. They threw me suspicious glances and absolutely refused to
be separated from each other. If one flew across the aviary the other
uttered a piercing scream, then flew after him.
I took great interest in watching them. They seemed to have quite an
amount of individuality, and to be very unlike other birds, both in
appearance and in habits. Their hooked beaks, curious claws, awkward
gait, their gorgeous plumage, and their queer ways, set them in a class
by themselves. They never mingled with birds outside their family. They
were my exclusive set.
Parrakeets are not recommended for aviaries on account of their wicked
beaks that can so easily break the legs of small birds. This first pair
did not trouble me by meddling with other birds, nor did subsequent
pairs that I obtained. They always ignored the other inhabitants of
the aviary. My parrakeets and doves were all very much wrapped up in
themselves, and rarely meddled with their companions, unless they
transgressed bird etiquette by pressing close to them.
Most unfortunately, one of these tirikas was found dead a few months
after I obtained them. There was a mystery surrounding his death, and
I think it must have been the result of an accident. I was so sorry
for the lonely survivor, that I took him up to my own room, where he
soon became so tame and so lazy that he would not feed himself, but
called to me to put favorite morsels in his beak. Rowdy I called this
one, and after I had him a little longer I bought a pair of the best
known of all the little peters--undulated grass, or shell parrakeets.
These Australians were beautiful grass-green and yellow birds, about
as large as canaries, but with very long tails. They are often called
love-birds, but they are not true love-birds. Genuine love-birds are
natives of Africa, and have short tails.
The Australians naturally first came from Australia where immense
flocks of them used to be captured while feeding on the seeds of tall
grasses. From Australia to Europe was a long journey for them, and
after a time bird-keepers found that they could easily raise these
pretty creatures in aviaries. In a wild state they make nests in the
holes of old trees, or in almost any cavity. In aviaries, if the husk
of a cocoanut is given to them, or a hollow bit of wood, they will lay
from four to seven white eggs, and soon hatch young ones.
They are lovable and affectionate, and while the female is on the nest
her mate sits on a twig near-by and sings his best song, or rather he
warbles to her, for they do not sing as other birds do, but make a
chuckling, amusing little noise that sounds like talking.
I heard of this devotion of shell parrakeets, but my pair did not
act in this way. They kept together a part of the time, but I felt
convinced that if separated they would not die of grief. I soon made up
my mind that they were two male birds, and this decision was confirmed
by their actions when I one day had brought to me a pair of Madagascar
love-birds. Now I saw my Australians in their true character. Their
names were Big Eyes and Little Eyes, and as soon as Little Eyes saw
Mrs. Madagascar he flew excitedly to meet her, followed her from tree
to tree, and warbled and gabbled until he brought on a most ludicrous
situation of affairs.
All summer we were treated to exhibitions of infatuation, impatience,
jealousy, and resentment. Little Eyes was, of course, the infatuated
one, Mrs. Madagascar was impatience personified, her mate was jealousy,
and the neglected Big Eyes was resentment itself.
The little green Madagascars would sit pressed close to each other,
parrakeet fashion, and Little Eyes taking care to get always, on the
right side would slip up close to Mrs. Madagascar and warble soft
invitations in her ear to leave her mate and come and play with him.
At first she would pretend not to hear, then she would get impatient
and would gurgle an impatient aside to her mate, “What a rude
bird--what does he want?”
At this Mr. Madagascar would wake up, lean over, and give Little Eyes a
dab.
He did not care; sliding off for a minute he always returned. I
often pointed out the comical sight to visitors to my aviary--the two
Madagascars sitting, trying to sleep away the lovely warm days, Little
Eyes in close attendance, whispering and warbling in the tiny green ear
next him, and Big Eyes always in the background, grumbling angrily to
himself that no one wanted him.
After I had had the Madagascars for some time they became troubled
with overgrown beaks, and one morning I caught them and trimmed the
beaks with a penknife. The Australians were nearly frantic to see that
I had deprived them of their playmates, and flew about the veranda,
chattering and screaming excitedly.
When I showed them the cage containing the Madagascars, they flew right
up to it, and Little Eyes, whose love for Mrs. Madagascar had been made
fonder by absence, shrieked something that sounded like, “Where have
you been? speak! speak!”
The Madagascars, who had been apathetic and frightened while having
their beaks trimmed, roused themselves at this warm greeting from their
playmate, and one of them squeezed through the bars of the cage. I let
the other out, and then there was a jubilation--calls and screams of
delight, and a wild dashing to and fro.
Poor Mr. Madagascar soon died. The autumn came, and I think I let them
stay out too late, and I also think that the overgrown beak had been
left too long. He had not been able to crack a sufficient supply of
seeds. I had always a hard time to get my birds indoors in the autumn.
They wanted to stay outside, and I have seen a canary sitting on eggs
with snowflakes flying around her.
Now that the male Madagascar was gone, Little Eyes’ opportunity had
come; he kept close to the bewildered widow, warbling, “I am here, I am
here--speak quick, speak quick!”
She did speak quick, and the little fellow never deserted her, and was
inconsolable when she left him.
Her departure was taken in a most peculiar and tragic way. I had her
with Little Eyes and Big Eyes on my farm. I noticed one day that Mrs.
Madagascar was gnawing a hole in the plaster, and some one in the
family suggested that possibly it would be as well not to allow her to
destroy the wall.
“She wants to make a nest,” I said. “She will only pierce a small hole.”
I knew she did not need the plaster, for I was always careful to have
lime, crushed shells, grit, and sea-sand for my birds.
After a good-sized hole had been made, Mrs. Madagascar only appeared
at intervals. I was most pleased at the thought of raising young
parrakeets, but one day when confined to my room, I was made slightly
uneasy by hearing a scratching in the wall of the bird-room under me.
A few days later I made an investigation, and Mrs. Madagascar was
missing--I never saw her again. A Japanese robin was also missing. He
was a nervous, fussy fellow, not allowed to associate with the other
robins from his country. He had probably seen the hole in the wall,
had gone in and investigated, and had lost his way and perished. His
would be the noise I heard. Mrs. Madagascar was a quiet bird. She must
have died some time before; she had probably lost her way while fussing
about her nest, taken a wrong turn, and had gotten bewildered in the
partition.
I felt terribly. There was no sound in the wall now, and it was too
late to do anything but reluctantly to fasten up the hole so that no
other bird could get in. If we had torn down the plaster we might not
have found the little bird bodies, for in their bewilderment they might
have groped blindly far from the small entrance. If I had only had some
of the family make an examination of the wall when I first heard the
noise--if I had only been a little more uneasy. It seemed a horrible
way for my pretty birds to die. At last I stopped worrying. It would do
no good. The birds were gone. But I must be more careful in the future.
Little Eyes did not live long after the disappearance of the bird
he loved so well, and Big Eyes soon followed him to the bird world,
where I hope little birds and big birds have none of the worries and
sufferings they experience here.
I was more fortunate with my next parrakeets that are well and happy at
this present time. The first one arrived one cold November afternoon.
A lad brought him to me in a box, and said a young man in the north
end of the city had sent it to me. Would I please cure it? It was very
sick. I opened a box and found a brilliant green African love-bird with
a bright red face. Its body was cold, its head and neck were flabby,
its claws were curled tightly, its heart was beating very feebly, and
it was evidently dying.
I seated myself by the fire, and called for my sister, who was almost
as much interested in my birds as I was. In a trice she had a cup of
hot water at my elbow, and I dropped a little in the bird’s beak. Then
she got a hot water bag and I laid the bird on it, face downward,
keeping its back to the fire, then I uncurled the little claws that
were clenched, for they kept the body from the contact of the bag. At
this, the bird showed his first signs of animation, and opening his
eyes he feebly tried to bite me. Very much pleased at this sign of life
I gave him some warm sweet oil, and after a time a few drops of milk.
His heart action had improved, and soon he straightened himself out and
perched on my finger. I then took him up to Sukey’s room, thinking that
the voices of the few birds I had there might rouse him. They did, and
leaving my hand he climbed on a tree, but instead of seeking food he
put his head under his wing. I knew this would not do, so I brought
him down by the fire again, and offered him a dish of seeds--flax,
domestic and French millet, canary, and hemp.
He tried to eat but he was too weak. The seeds fell out of his beak. I
offered him apple, and he tried to scrape off some of that, but could
not. I masticated some, and he began weakly to nibble at it. When
he finished, I again put the seeds before him. He chose the millet;
I suppose he liked the soft shell and oily taste. He ate slowly but
steadily, but he was still so weak that he would only open his eyes to
pick up a seed, and would close them as he ate it.
I still sat by the fire, as he liked the heat, and held him on my
finger. To my delight he so far improved that he at last seized a
good-sized piece of apple and ate it. I put him in a cage at last, as I
got quite stiff from sitting so long in one position, and the love-bird
was far enough on the road to recovery to be able to climb unsteadily
to a perch, where he sat meditatively, and at last opened his eyes and
began to make his toilet for the night.
A bird that is too weak to clean his beak is a pretty sick bird.
Red-face now began to pay a little attention to his dirty one, and
stroked it gently against the bars of the cage to clean it. Then he
began to play with his feathers and cunning little claws.
“He will live,” I said triumphantly, and I watched him as he ate at
intervals till ten o’clock in the evening. Then I put his cage on
the hot water pipes in my study. I had some canaries in there, and
seeing them, he spread his wings and started warbling. He looked such
an exquisite little creature that, as soon as he was tucked away for
the night, I went to my natural history to find out something more
about him. This red-headed love-bird seems to be the best known of
the parrakeet tribe after the Australian or grass parrakeets, such as
Big Eyes and Little Eyes. I learned that they, when excited, spread
out their short green tails, tipped by spots of orange and black.
Subsequently I saw my own birds doing this--opening and shutting their
short tails just like brilliant fans.
They are only six inches long and inhabit forests in the central parts
of Africa. There they fly in large flocks, and often sit closely
together in long rows, where their gorgeous little green bodies and red
faces must produce a very striking appearance. They are said to be the
most hardy of the parrakeet family and will stand a good degree of cold
weather. They are no bathers, but they take great pride in arranging
their feathers, and in pluming and in stroking one another.
Later on, I noticed that this parrakeet did occasionally step into the
water and make a pretense of bathing, but what he liked better was to
stand near some bird that was taking a vigorous bath and catch the
drops as they flew out of the basin. In such cases he would get quite
excited and would dip backward and forward as if he too were really in
the water.
I was very much afraid that my little Red-face would die, and the next
morning hurried downstairs so early that I had to strike a match to see
whether he was dead or alive. When he heard me he took his rosy head
from under his wing and fell to eating. He got on so well during the
day that toward night I took him up to Sukey’s room so that he might
have the little birds there to cheer him up.
At the sight of these little birds and Sukey he became so excited that
I had to bring him back to the few canaries and the quiet of my study.
A sick bird is like a sick person--quiet and warmth are necessary for a
perfect recovery.
As the days went by he kept on improving, and I learned his history.
Some of the Canadian soldiers who went to South Africa to take part in
the war against the Boers had brought back this little captive, and had
given him to the young man who sent him to me. Who owned him in Africa
or how old he was, I could not find out. His owner said that he was
inclined to be a delicate bird, and as he had not time to fuss with him
I might keep him if I wished. I was most pleased to have him, and found
him a great ornament in my aviary. Contrary to the popular opinion that
one love-bird will not live alone, Red-face kept in the best of health
and spirits, and as there were now no other parrakeets in my aviary,
he chose a red-headed Brazil cardinal for a friend. The cardinal hated
him, and beat him if he went too near, so Red-face calmly gave him up
and spent his days flying about the aviary and warbling happily to
himself.
I was so sorry for what I considered his state of loneliness that one
day, seeing a rosy-faced love-bird in town, I bought him and brought
him home. In order that the two might become acquainted I put them in
a cage. They got on pretty well together, but when I took them out
Red-face beat the stranger.
In order to illustrate the vagaries of birds, I may say that the Brazil
cardinal that hated Red-face and drove him away, allowed the stranger
that looked exactly like him to sit near his nest. There is nothing but
human nature that at all resembles the doubled and twisted workings of
bird nature.
Red-face and the stranger were separated this autumn. When I left
home I thought that my pretty Africans would be better off in a large
American aviary under the care of a skilled curator, so I attempted
to catch them both. The stranger hid and is still at home. I only got
Red-face. He is in New York State, and his fate is unsettled, for in
the aviary to which I sent him, the gray-headed love-birds object so
to his presence that it was feared he would be killed. So he is still
seeking a home, and it is possible that he may once more find himself
back in Canada with his former bird companions.
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