CARDINAL BABIES
Bird-lovers who have long waited for the advent of certain young birds
will understand my interest in this little fellow. I called him or her,
for I did not know the sex, Natal or Natalie, for he was hatched on the
twenty-first of June, the natal day of Halifax.
The last thing at night and the first thing in the morning I looked
out to the trees on the veranda to see if he were quite safe and
comfortable, and I slept with my window wide open so that I could hear
any disturbance in the night.
One very bright moonlight night last summer I heard my handsome robin
Dixie give a loud shriek of dismay, and begin to fly nervously about
the veranda. I find robins are nervous sleepers. The least thing wakens
them, and I lay for a few seconds listening to him calling and flying
to and fro. When he began to rouse the other birds I sprang up and went
softly to the window. I could see nothing, so I spoke to the birds, and
when they quieted down, went back to bed.
Presently he started again, and this time some of the birds, instead of
merely flying to and fro, began to throw themselves against the wire
netting of the veranda.
A panic in an aviary is a serious thing, especially if there are
several hundreds of birds who lose their heads at the same time. In my
aviary I always have dark corners where birds can fly and hide. I would
never put birds under a transparent roof with no place of retreat.
However, this night panic was different from a fright by day. The birds
had been violently awakened from sleep, and had completely lost their
heads. They had not sense enough to keep in the protected corners when
they got in them. Something unforeseen and startling had occurred, and
again I crept softly to the window. I could see nothing out of the way.
Of course my mind went to the cats, but since I had had the board put
around the elevator, no cat had ascended it.
Finally, I noticed a dark mass behind one of the trees. It was
motionless, and I concluded that it was one of the bunches of
seed-grass I tossed among the branches for the birds. However, to make
sure, I would examine it. I stole across the veranda, and there outside
the netting, perched on the railing, was a large black cat looking me
calmly in the eyes.
I told her what I thought of her and her family and she took it
gracefully. Then I said “Scat,” and told her to go down whatever way
she had come up.
She coolly retreated a few paces to a Virginia creeper, and swung
herself down, as I suppose she had come up--namely, paw over paw.
“The naughty cat has gone, birdies,” I said, and went back to my room.
To prove the nervousness of robins, I will only have to say that in
a few seconds Dixie was screaming again. This was pure reminiscence.
The cat had gone, there was nothing there; but this time he acted
worse than he had yet done, and he frightened one bird into hysterics.
I heard this one knocking himself against the wire netting like a
catapult.
How could any bird head stand that dreadful thumping? I hurried to the
spot, and to my dismay discovered that the bird gone crazy with terror
was my baby cardinal.
I descended upon him, clasped him in my hand--though I always prefer
to catch a bird in a cloth--and absolutely flew to the veranda-room.
In there it was dark, and he could not see to beat himself against the
windows.
His breath was coming in fluttering gasps--of course he thought the
cat had him. I put him quickly on the floor and ran from the room.
I was afraid he was dying. “If I lose him,” I said to myself, “how can
I forgive that cat?”
I scarcely dared look from my window in the morning; but there, oh,
joyful sight! was my beloved baby bird running to and fro along the
windows of the veranda-room, trying to get out.
I speedily opened the door, and he flew to his parents, who were
delighted to see him.
Strange to say, though they beat him, they would scream angrily at me
if I approached too near the little fellow. They kept up a kind of
interest in him, though they chastised him.
All day I watched my bird baby, and it seemed to me that nothing for a
long time had made me as happy as his escape from death by fright.
I forgave the cat, but the next day I had to call back this
forgiveness. I was standing in the middle of the veranda, when I heard,
a sound that always strikes dread to my heart. It was a wretched,
asthmatic breathing that I have never known a bird to recover from.
Which one was the victim? My eye ran anxiously around my small bird
world. Not Red-top; no, he would be the last one I could give up. Not
Touzle, the dear mother bird, not Dixie, best and brightest of robins,
not his friend the sparrow, not Blue Boy the indigo bunting, nor the
goldfinch Boy, nor Andy and his mate, nor any of the sweet-singing
canaries. Not old man Java, nor the rosy-faced love-birds, and not,
oh, no! not my last, but almost best-loved bird, the cardinal baby.
I stepped near to him and he flew away. The hard breathing stopped, and
it seemed to me for a minute that my heart stopped too. I followed him,
and the wretched, rasping sound was now quite close to me. My baby was
doomed. I would have to give him up. In some brighter, fairer world I
might see that pretty creature mature and perhaps live forever--who
knows--for many wise men say that there will be a future life for
birds, that an all-wise and all-merciful Father will never utterly
destroy any created thing that has in it the spark of life.
There was only one thing to be thankful for. I would have time to get
acquainted with the certainty of his death--and as far as I could
observe, a bird’s sufferings were not extreme when afflicted in this
way. The canary Britisher had the same trouble, and he seemed to get a
great deal of pleasure out of life. So day by day I watched my pet, and
delighted in giving him all the dainties he would eat.
He lingered on until I left home in the autumn, but shortly afterward
died. I heard that the dear little bird with the reddish-brown crest
had been picked up dead on the floor of the aviary.
Poor baby--I cannot think of him without emotion, but to my joy I have
dreamed of seeing him well and happy and trotting about among his
former companions.
Some one speaks of birds “making sweet music in one’s dreams,” and I
often have the pleasure of seeing my pets about me during my sleeping
moments.
Next summer I hope my Brazil cardinals will be more successful in the
raising of young ones. I notice that year after year they get tamer and
more reasonable.
One morning last August I heard Red-top making a great noise about
daybreak. His usual habit during summer is to wake at the first streak
of day and begin singing in a whisper, and gradually to ascend into a
hearty song. This particular morning he was so noisy that I went to the
glass door and said, “You are making a great racket, my boy. Think of
the neighbors.”
Before I spoke to him he had been swelling out his throat, singing with
all his might, “Cheery, deary, wearie, dearie,” supposedly, to enliven
Touzle on her woven nest near him.
After I spoke to him, he put his crested head on one side, as if to
think over what I had said and remarked, “Hi, hi; that’s true!” then
went off to play with his mirror, singing in a lower key, and tapping
it briskly with his beak.
My birds all follow his example of singing before it is really light,
then, getting their breakfast later on, when they can see well.
Red-top amused my married sister one day by falling into a trap we set
for him. I wanted to catch him for some reason or other, and put some
of his favorite dishes into a large cage and tied a string to the door.
He watched me cunningly, and would not go in.
“Please take the string,” I said to my sister; “I believe he will go in
for you.”
I left him, and she said after I had gone he threw her a careless
glance, as if to say, “You don’t count, you never catch us,” and
immediately walked into the cage, whereupon she laughed at him and
pulled the string.
All my cardinals have been very strong birds, and never for one instant
lose their spirit. Whenever I catch one--Virginian or Brazilian--they
fight me, bite my fingers, and fall into a rage of resentment without
terror. They know I won’t hurt them, but they want me to know that they
are birds of too high lineage to be handled.
One day Red-top got one leg so tangled in a long bit of twine he was
weaving into his nest that he could not move. I had to call my sister
to help me cut him free, and he fought us all the time we were engaged
in our amiable task.
Another day he got whitewash in his eyes. That too made him angry, and
I telephoned to our physician, who told me to wash his eyes with warm
water, then put in sweet-oil with a medicine-dropper. The next day I
bathed them with boracic acid, and in a short time he was quite well.
So great a favorite with me is this charming bird that for his sake
I fall into a state of such sadness when I see his fellows in shop
windows that I can scarcely describe my feelings, lest I be taxed with
exaggeration. The suffering I experience is perhaps akin to that of
the devoted friend or relative of a bright and beloved child who sees
another child resembling him in a wretched and unhappy home.
For the sake of the first dear child you shudder as you witness the
sad case of the second. So with the Brazil cardinals. I most earnestly
hope that the time will soon come when the iniquitous traffic in
foreign birds will be stopped. We are protecting our native birds. Why
not extend our protection to the helpless, lovely, and interesting
foreigners? They too suffer, and beat their young lives away against
cruel prison-bars.
Here in this large and kind-hearted city of Boston I saw the other day
European goldfinches and linnets going up and down their cages, trying
the wires with their little beaks, pleading vainly for freedom. My
heart ached as I looked at them.
I often say to bird-dealers, “How thankful I am that you can no
longer sell native birds.” These men do not care. There are plenty of
other birds on the market. Now, if we can only free the unfortunate
foreigners, bird-dealers who really love birds will find occupation in
bird reservations and large aviaries, for I have come to the conclusion
that undomesticated birds should be confined only for some wise
purpose, or for scientific research.
I have already said that I ordered a mate for my red Virginian Ruby as
well as for Red-top. When she arrived I found that instead of being
a rosy-red bird like the male, she was of a dull brownish-vermilion.
However, she was a handsome bird, and in fine condition. She darted
from her traveling-cage, and the brilliant Ruby fell into the most
ludicrous state of amusement, ecstasy, and bewilderment. He acted like
a simpleton, flying to and fro after her, twisting his body from side
to side, spreading his tail and wings, elevating and lowering his fine
crest, singing at the top of his voice, then winding up with something
earnestly delivered that sounded like, “What a dear! what a dear!”
All this was going on at the same time that the naughty Red-top was
beating poor Touzle. I watched both pairs of birds, and Ruby’s bodily
contortions were so fantastic that I was overcome with laughter.
He paid no attention to me. He was altogether taken up with the
vivacious and handsome Virginia, who would not allow him to come near
her. She flew from one end of the aviary to the other, switching her
tail from side to side, avoiding him systematically, and making him
sleep away off from her when night came.
This shyness did not last. Soon the two were very great friends, and
flew about together all day long. Ruby’s delight in the companionship
of one of his own kind took the form of feeding her. He kept the
choicest morsels he found and put in her beak, almost exercising
self-denial, for at the time of her arrival I did not have a sufficient
supply of his favorite insect food in the aviary. If there was only one
worm, Virginia got it.
I don’t know whether she appreciated his devotion or not. She was a
restless creature, very unlike Touzle, who was quiet and reposeful.
Virginia never kept still for any length of time, unless it was the
nesting season. Then she sat quietly on her nest, day after day, and
week after week.
I had some curious experiences with her, and every season it was the
same thing. She made a nest, laid eggs, sat patiently on them till they
hatched out, then began to feed the young ones until the day that I
found them either on the ground, or laid out in a row on a window-ledge.
I got to dread the sound of young Virginians chirping in the nest. They
were rarely allowed to live more than a few days, and it was painful to
find the plump, dead bodies, well-shaped and looking well-nourished.
What killed them? I shut up one suspect after another. The gallinules,
the mockingbird and Ruby himself. Red-top would not dare to go near
his enemy’s nest. Not until two years ago did I discover that Virginia
herself lifted them out.
This was a blow to the mother-love theory, but I gave her the credit of
thinking that the young ones died in the nest, and not being able to
endure the sight, she took them out. They were rarely mutilated. They
had been carefully carried in her powerful beak.
One day I was shocked to find three young ones about ten days or a
fortnight old squirming on the window-ledge. This was downright murder.
I revived one, kept him for part of the day, then he died. These were
fine young birds with feathers starting.
I puzzled more and more. There was plenty of food in the aviary, and
Virginia herself was in fine condition, for she would make three or
four, or even five nests a year. This last summer she murdered four
sets of young ones. I took a fifth lot from her, but they died on my
hands. I had one theory after another to account for this slaughter but
none of them was satisfactory. Feeling that another bird-lover might be
more successful with her in the nesting season, I sent her this autumn,
with Ruby, to a skilled curator of birds, and next summer I shall await
results with interest.
I shall miss her and Ruby immensely for, strange to say, the Virginian
female possesses a song almost equal to that of the male bird. When she
was upstairs and Ruby down below, and they sang to each other, I often
sat in my study listening to them and thinking of Mary McGowan’s lines
with regard to the red cardinal:
No slumber songster he, with vesper warblings low,
But bold his every note, and full and strong:
In his clear ringing pledge, hear him unstop the flow,
Then gurgle forth the red wine of his song.
Virginia never became very tame, but Ruby reminded me of a dog, in
his ways. One night I shut him in the furnace-room for some reason or
other, but he fretted to get back to Virginia, and after dark I went
downstairs with my small candle lantern, for I had to be careful what
sort of a light I carried among the dry spruces and firs of the aviary.
Ruby was pressed against the wire door. He spoke to me, and I held
the lantern close to him and guided his feet back to Virginia. Too
impatient to wait he hopped on ahead, and I followed quickly, trying to
keep the swinging light steady.
He was so reasonable, so sure of me, so grateful for what I was doing,
that I could scarcely refrain from seizing his pretty red body in my
hands and caressing him as I do my pet pigeons whom I often wake from
their sleep.
When he got near Virginia he climbed into a tree with a satisfied
“Tsip!” and I left him.
He was an exquisite night singer; indeed, one of his names is the
American nightingale, and one summer I had to request him to descend to
the basement to sleep, as his loud night-singing disturbed a delicate
neighbor. He was a very mischievous bird, and one day when I was
carrying a hammer and nails about the aviary, he espied a match in the
box, and darting down, flew off with it for his nest. I pursued him for
a long time before I could persuade him to drop the dangerous plaything.
It is a great delight to me to reflect that these lovely cardinals
can no longer be bought in the birdstores. How any one can enjoy the
sight of this bright red bird, with his wild, free spirit hopping to
and fro in the narrow confines of a cage, is as much of a mystery to me
as the wearing of his dull and lifeless skin in a hat. We must educate
our children into the conviction that a dead bird is as grotesque an
ornament as a dead mouse or a dead frog.
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