a phenomenon--snow under the Equator!'
'No,' said Double Mouth, 'that's not snow, that's--ah, you rascal!'
and he rushed towards the companion.
'Well, what is it then?' asked the captain, rising in his hammock.
'What is it?' cried Double Mouth from the top of the ladder. 'It's
Jacko plucking Cataqua!'
The captain was on deck in two bounds, and with a shout of rage roused
the whole crew from their slumbers.
'Well!' he roared to Double Mouth, 'what are you about, standing
there? Come, be quick!'
Double Mouth did not wait to be told twice, but was up the rigging
like a squirrel, only the faster he climbed the faster Jacko plucked,
until when the rescuer reached the spot it was a sadly bare bird which
he tore from Jacko's vindictive hands and carried back to his master.
Needless to say that Jacko was in dire disgrace after this exploit.
However, in time he was forgiven and often amused the captain and crew
with his pranks.
When the 'Roxalana' reached Marseilles after a quick and prosperous
voyage, he was sold for seventy-five francs to Eugene Isabey the
painter, who gave him to Flero for a Turkish hookah, who in his turn
exchanged him for a Greek gun with Decamps.
_SIGNORA AND LORI_
Translated from _Deutsche Blaetter_, 1867. No. 10.
A gentleman living at Guestrow, in Mecklenburg, who was very fond of
animals, possessed a fine parrot, which had beautiful plumage, and
could talk better than most of his kind. Besides the parrot, he had a
poodle, called Signora Patti, after the great singer, whom the
gentleman had once heard when he was upon a visit to Rostock; after
his return home he bestowed the name upon his dear poodle.
Under the tuition of her master, the poodle began to be an artist in
her way. There was no trick performed by dogs too difficult for her to
learn. The parrot, whose name was Lori, paid the greatest attention
whilst the Signora's lessons were going on, and he soon had all the
vocabulary, which the Signora carried in her head, not only in his
memory, but on his tongue.
When the dog was told by her master to 'go to the baker,' then Lori
could croak out the words also. Signora Patti would hasten to fetch
the little basket, seat herself before her master, and, looking up at
him with her wise eyes, scrape gently upon the floor with her paw,
which signified: 'Please put in the money.' Her master dropped in a
few coins, the Signora ran quickly to the baker with the basket, and
brought it back filled with little cakes; placing it before her
master, she awaited her reward, a good share of the dainties.
Often, for a variety in the lessons, she had to go to the baker
without money; then her master simply gave the order, 'on tick!' and
the Signora, who knew that the cakes would be sent, obeyed the command
at once.
[Illustration: LORI REFUSES TO SHARE WITH THE SIGNORA]
The parrot made a droll use of these practisings, turning to account
his knowledge of speech in the slyest way. If he found himself alone
with the poodle, who was perhaps comfortably stretched on her cushion,
Lori would cry--imitating his master's voice--as if he quite
understood the joke: 'Go out!' Poor Patti would get up in obedience to
the order and slink out of the door with her ears drooping. And
immediately Lori would whistle, just in the tone used by his master,
and the Signora then returned joyfully into the room.
But it was not only for pastime that Lori exercised his gift; the
cunning bird used it for the benefit of his greedy beak. It began to
happen often to the master to find that his private account-book,
carefully kept in the smallest details, did not agree well with that
of his neighbour the baker. The Signora, declared the baker, had
become most accomplished in the art of running up a long bill, and
always, of course, at her master's orders. Only he, the master, when
he looked over the reckoning, growled to himself: 'My neighbour is a
rogue; he chalks up the amount double.'
How very much was he astonished, then, and how quickly were his
suspicions turned into laughter, when he beheld, through a half-open
door, the following absurd scene.
It was one fine morning, and Lori sat upon the top of his cage,
calling out in his shrillest tones: 'Signora, Signora!' The poodle
hastened to present herself before him, wagging her tail, and Lori
continued, 'Go to the baker.' The Signora fetched the little basket
from its place, and put it before her tyrant, scratching her paw on
the floor to ask for money.
'On tick!' was Lori's prompt and brief remark; the Signora seized the
basket, and rushed out of the door. Before long she returned, laid the
basket, full of the little cakes, before the parrot, and looked with a
beseeching air for the reward of her toil.
But the wicked Lori received her with a sharp 'get out,' putting her
to flight, and proceeded to enjoy his ill-gotten gains in solitude.
_OF THE LINNET, POPINJAY, OR PARROT, AND OTHER BIRDS THAT CAN SPEAK_
The linnets be in manner the best birds of all others, howbeit, they
be very docible. Do they will whatsoever they are taught and bidden,
not only with their voice, but also with their feet and bills, as if
they were hands. In the territory about Arelate (Arles) there is a
bird called Taurus (because it loweth like a bull or cow, for
otherwise a small bird it is). There is another also named Anthus,
which likewise resembleth the neighing of horses; and if haply by the
approach of horses they be driven from their grass whereof they feed,
they will seem to neigh, and flying unto them, chase them away, and to
be revenged of them again. But above all other birds of the air, the
parrots pass for counterfeiting a man's voice, insomuch as they will
seem to parle and prate our very speech. This fowl cometh out of the
Indies; it is all the body over green, only it hath a collar about the
neck of vermilion red, different from the rest of her feathers. The
parrot can skill to salute emperors, and bid good-morrow: yea, and to
pronounce what words she heareth. She loveth wine well, and when she
hath drunk freely, is very pleasant and playful. She hath an head as
hard as is her beak. When she learns to speak, she must be beaten
about the head with a rod of iron; for otherwise she careth for no
blows. When she taketh her flight down from any place, she lighteth
upon her bill, and resteth thereupon, and by that means saveth her
feet, which by nature are but weak and feeble, and so carrieth her
own weight more lightly.
There is a certain pie, of nothing so great reckoning and account as
the parrot, because she is not far set, but here by near at hand:
howbeit, she pronounces that which is taught her more plainly and
distinctly than the other. These take a love to the words that they
speak; for they not only learn them as a lesson, but they learn them
with a delight and pleasure, insomuch that a man shall find them
studying thereupon, and conning the said lesson; and by their careful
thinking upon that which they learn they show plainly how mindful and
intentive they be thereto. It is for certain known that they have died
for very anger and grief that they could not learn to pronounce some
hard words; as also unless they hear the same words repeated often
unto them, their memory is so shittle, they will soon forget the same
again. If they miss a word and have lost it, they will seek to call it
again to remembrance; and if they fortune to hear the same word in the
meantime, they will wonderfully joy thereat. As for their beauty, it
is not ordinary, although it be not very lovely. But surely amiable
enough are they in this, that they can so well resemble man's speech.
It is said that none of their kind are good to be made scholars, but
such only as feed upon mast; and among them, those that have five toes
to their feet. But even these also are not fit for that purpose, after
the first two years of their age. And their tongue is broader than
ordinary; like as they be all that counterfeit man's voice, each one
in their kind, although it be in manner general to birds whatsoever to
be broad-tongued.
Agrippina the Empress, wife to Claudius Caesar, had a black-bird or a
throstle at what time I compiled this book, which could counterfeit
man's speech; a thing never seen or known before. The two Caesars also,
the young princes (to wit, Germanicus and Drusus,) had one stare, and
sundry nightingales, taught to parle Greek and Latin. Moreover, they
would study upon their lessons, and meditate all day long; and from
day to day come out with new words still, yea, and are now able to
continue a long speech and discourse. Now for to teach them the
better, these birds must be in a secret place apart by themselves,
when they can hear no other voice; and one is to sit over them, who
must repeat often that which he would have them to learn; yea, and
please them also with giving them such meat as they best love.
_PATCH AND THE CHICKENS_
On a farm up in Durham, there were six little chickens who were
deserted by the mother hen as soon as they were hatched. So the
farmer's wife put them in a basket and carried them into the cottage
to keep them warm by the fire.
There they were discovered by a smooth-coated terrier, named Patch,
who was at that time very sad because her little puppy had just died,
and she began to look after the chickens as if they were her own
children. The little chicks also turned to her quite naturally for
care and protection.
She used to treat them very gently, and would sit and watch them feed
with the greatest interest. She would curl herself up, and then let
them climb about her, and go to sleep between her paws. Sometimes she
did not seem to consider the floor comfortable enough for her adopted
family, and would jump on to a wooden settle which stood in the
kitchen, and then with her feet she would pat the cushions into a cosy
bed, and very carefully would take one chicken after another in her
mouth, and place them on the softest part.
Soon the time came for the chickens to be sent out into the world.
One day when Patch was out for a walk they were taken to the farmyard.
When the poor little dog returned she was quite broken-hearted, and
ran whining about the cottage. Then, as if seized with a sudden
thought, she walked out of the door, and in a very short time she
reappeared, followed by her feathered family, and again they took up
their abode in the cottage. Every morning Patch used to take them out
for a walk, and it was a most amusing sight to see the little terrier
followed by a procession of six stately hens.
At last their living in the house became such an inconvenience to the
farmer's wife that poor Patch's children had to be killed.
For some time Patch was very unhappy, and would still go into the
farmyard to look for her six chickens.
_THE FIERCE FALCON_
From _Wild Sports of the Highlands_. By C. St. John.
There are not nearly so many stories about birds as about dogs and
cats, because birds can fly away, and it is more difficult to know
what becomes of them. Perhaps, properly speaking, stories about birds
have no business in a 'Beast Book,' but as long as the story is
interesting, it does not do to be too particular.
A good many years ago, a gentleman named St. John was exploring the
high hills near the source of the Findhorn, in Inverness-shire, when
he found a young falcon which was being reared as a pet by a shepherd
boy, who gave her trout to eat. There was not much beauty about the
falcon when Mr. St. John first saw her, for her plumage was
dark-brown, with long-shaped spots on the breast, but in spite of that
he took a fancy to her, and persuaded her master to sell her to him.
When, however, she had passed her second birthday, and might be
considered grown up, she put on all her finest feathers, and was very
much admired by everyone. Her throat became a lovely soft cream
colour, and the brown on her back changed into a lovely dark grey,
while on her bosom, each little feather was crossed by a bar. But
lovely though she was, Mr. St. John felt her to be a great care, for
she was very strong as well as very brave, and would never think twice
about attacking dogs or even people, if they offended her. As for the
fowls, she soon made such short work of _them_, that her master was
obliged to chain her up in the kitchen garden, which had hitherto
formed the property of a tame owl. Luckily for the owl, the falcon at
once made friends with him, and he was even allowed to finish up any
of the falcon's dinner which she did not want herself.
Matters went quite smoothly for some weeks, and Mr. St. John was
beginning to flatter himself that his pet was quieting down, and
becoming quite a home bird, when one day a duck, tempted by the sight
of the garden, whose gate had been carelessly left open, advanced a
few steps along the path. Seeing nothing and nobody (for being
daylight, the owl was asleep and the falcon too cunning to move) the
duck became bolder, and walked merrily on, pecking at anything that
took her fancy, and making funny little noises of satisfaction,
unconscious of a pair of bright eyes that were watching her from
behind a bush. Indeed, so absorbed was the duck in her afternoon tea,
that she never even saw the falcon steal softly out and soar a little
way up into the air, and suddenly swoop down with great force, and
before the victim had time to be frightened she was dead, and her body
was carried away in the falcon's claws, to serve for her supper.
Now the duck was the mother of a large family, all newly hatched, and
it would have fared very badly with them in their babyhood, had it not
been for the kindness of a guinea-fowl, who adopted them as her own,
directly she heard that they were left orphans and helpless. The
guinea-fowl, indeed, was quite glad of the chance, because she had a
warm heart, and had mourned sadly for her husband, who had been lately
condemned to death on account of a series of horrible murders he had
committed among the young chickens. So the good creature thought the
duck's sad accident quite providential, and at once set about filling
her place. Like many other mothers, instead of making the little
ducklings fall into _her_ ways, _she_ fell into theirs, and never left
their sides, except on urgent business. And they had, even then, only
to call to her if they saw great clumsy animals such as dogs or
children coming their way, and down she would rush in a frightful
hurry, half scrambling, half flying over bushes and palings, and
making furious pecks at the children's legs, if they ventured too
close to her little ones.
Still, not all her love nor all her courage would have prevented the
guinea-fowl falling a victim to the falcon, if once the bird had got
loose, and as it was, the falcon continued to do a good deal of damage
to the creatures about the farmyard. A cock, who had hitherto crowed
very loudly and declared himself king of the birds, was foolish enough
to give battle to our falcon. An hour after, a few feathers were all
that remained of _him_, and as to the pigeons, if they ever happened
to get within the length of her chain, their doom was certain. At last
the gaps in the poultry yard became so serious that Mr. St. John made
up his mind that the falcon must be fastened up in a still more
out-of-the-way place, and while he was altering her chain away she
flew. Of course he thought she was gone for ever, and he watched her
circling about the house with a very sad heart, for he still was fond
of her, though she was such a very bad bird, and gave him so much
trouble; but as it was getting dark, he had to go in, and stealing a
last look at her as he entered the house, he saw her settling down for
the night, in the top of a tall tree.
For five days no more was seen or heard of the wanderer, and it was
not until the fifth morning that Mr. St. John observed her, high in
the air, fighting fiercely with some hooded crows. He stood out on the
grass, where there was nothing to hide him, and whistled loudly. In an
instant the falcon heard him, busily engaged though she was, and
wheeled down to her old master, perching on his arm, and rubbing her
beak against him. She did not seem to have been softened or improved
by her taste of liberty, for she showed herself quite as ready as of
old to attack everything within reach of her chain, first killing
them, and then pulling off their hair or plucking out their feathers,
before she began her meal. The only animal which she could not
swallow was a mole, and one day she swooped down on a Skye terrier,
and it would certainly not have escaped alive, had not its master come
to the rescue. But it is time we thought of something nicer than this
dreadful bird.
_MR. BOLT, THE SCOTCH TERRIER_
Jesse's _British Dogs_.
All children who know anything of dogs or cats will have found out
very soon that the ugly ones are generally far cleverer and more
sensible than the pretty ones, who are very apt to think too much of
themselves, and will spend a long time admiring themselves in the
glass, just as if they were vain men and women. Perhaps it is not
altogether their fault if they are stupid, for when they are shaped
well, and have fine glossy coats, their masters and mistresses spoil
them, and give them too much to eat, so they grow lazy and greedy and
disobedient, and like better to lie on the hearth-rug than to do
tricks or jump over fences.
Now, luckily for himself, Mr. Bolt, the hero of this story, was quite
a plain dog. There could be no doubt about it; and those who loved him
did so because he was useful and good company, and not because he was
elegant or graceful. Bolt was a large Scotch terrier, rough and hairy,
with a thick sort of grey fringe, and great dark eyes looking out from
underneath the fringe. His tail and his legs were very short, and his
back was very long, so long that he reminded one of a furniture van
more than anything else.
But, clever though he was, Bolt had his faults, and the worst of them
was that he was very apt to take offence when none was intended, and
was far too ready to pick a quarrel, and to hit out with all his
might. He probably owed some of this love of fighting to the country
in which he was born; for, although a Scotch dog by descent, he was
Irish by birth, and his earliest home was near Dublin. As everybody
knows, the happiest moment of an Irishman's life is when he is
fighting something or somebody, and Bolt in his youth was as reckless
as any Irishman of them all. He was hardly a year old when he turned
upon his own mother, who had done something to displease him when they
were chained together in a stable, and never let her throat go until
she was stone dead. Cats, too, were his natural enemies, whom he
fought and conquered when no dogs were at hand, and sometimes he would
steal out at night from his master's bed, where he always slept, and
go for a chase by the light of the moon. Early one morning a fearful
noise was heard in the house, and when his master, unable to bear it
any longer, got out of bed to see what had happened, he found a
strange cat lying on the stairs quite dead, and the house-cat, with
which Bolt was barely on speaking terms, sitting in a friendly manner
by the side of the conqueror. It is supposed that the strange cat had
been led either by motives of curiosity or robbery to enter by some
open window, and that the house-cat, unable to drive him out, had
welcomed Bolt's ready help for the purpose. Fighter though he was by
nature, Bolt had inherited enough Scotch caution not to begin a
quarrel unless he had a fair chance of victory; but he was generous,
and seldom attacked dogs smaller than himself, unless he was forced
into it, or really had nothing better to do. He always began by
seizing his enemy's hind leg, which no other dog had been known to do
before, and he had such a dislike to dogs whose skins were yellow,
that not even the company of ladies, and the responsibility weighing
upon him as their escort, would stop Bolt's wild rush at his yellow
foe. He hated being shut up too, and showed amazing cleverness in
escaping from prison. If that was _quite_ impossible, he did the next
best thing, which was to gnaw and destroy every article he could in
any way reach. One day when he had behaved so oddly that his family
feared he must be going mad (children have been known to frighten
their parents in a similar way), he was chained up in a little room,
and, feeling too angry to sleep, he amused himself all night with
tearing a Bible, several shoes, and a rug, while he gnawed a hole
through the door, and bit through the leg of a table. In the morning,
when his master came to look at him, he seemed quite recovered, and
very well pleased with himself.
As you will see, Bolt had plenty of faults, but he also had some very
good qualities, and when he did not think himself insulted by
somebody's behaviour, he could show a great deal of sense. One night
the cook had been sitting up very late, baking bread for the next day,
and being very tired, she fell asleep by the kitchen fire, and a spark
fell out on her woollen dress. As there was no blaze, and the girl was
a heavy sleeper, she would most likely never have waked at all till it
was too late, only luckily for her, the smell reached Bolt's nose as
he was lying curled up on his master's bed, near the door which always
stood open. Before rousing the house, and giving them all a great
fright, he thought he had better make sure exactly what was wrong, so
he ran first down to the kitchen from which the smell seemed to come,
and finding the cook half stupefied by the smoke, he rushed back to
call his master. This he managed to do by tearing up and down the
room, leaping on the bed, and pulling off all the clothes, so that the
poor man was quite cold. His master was much astonished at the state
of excitement Bolt was in, and feared at first that he had gone mad,
but after a few minutes he decided that he would get up and see what
was the matter. Bolt went carefully before him into the kitchen and
sat down by the side of the sleeping girl, turning his face anxiously
to the door, to make sure that his master should make no mistake. So
in a few seconds the fire was put out, and the girl escaped with
nothing worse than a slight scorching.
I might tell you many stories of Bolt and his funny ways, but I have
only room for one now. After some time his mistress and her daughter
left the house in which Bolt had spent so many years, and took
lodgings in Dublin. Bolt went with them, but when they all arrived,
the landlady declared she did not like dogs, and Bolt must be placed
elsewhere. Now this was very awkward; of course it was out of the
question that Bolt could be left behind, yet it was too late to make
other arrangements, so after some consideration he was sent back to
some lodgings near by, where his master had formerly lived, and where
they promised to take great care of him. His young mistress called
every day to carry him off for a walk, and she often tried to get him
to enter the house she herself was living in, but nothing would
persuade the offended Bolt to go inside the door. He would sit on the
step for some time, hoping she would be persuaded to return with
_him_, but when he found _that_ was hopeless, he walked proudly back
to his own rooms. His mistresses stayed in that house for nearly a
year, and in all that time Bolt never forgot or forgave the slight put
upon him, or could be induced to enter the house. Indeed, his feelings
were so bitterly hurt, that even when they all set up house again, it
was months before Bolt could be got to do anything more than pay his
family a call now and then, and sometimes dine with them. So you see
it is a serious thing to offend a dog, and he needs to be as
delicately handled as a human being.
_A RAVEN'S FUNERAL_