_Miscellaneous Anecdotes._--At a public exhibition of birds, some years
ago, in London, a canary had been taught to act the part of a deserter,
and flew away pursued by two others, who appeared to apprehend him. A
lighted candle being presented to one of them, he fired a small cannon,
and the little deserter fell on one side, as if killed by the shot.
Another bird then appeared with a small wheelbarrow, for the purpose of
carrying off the dead; but as soon as the barrow came near, the little
deserter started to his feet.
"On observing," says Dr. Darwin, "a canary-bird at the house of a
gentleman in Derbyshire, I was told it always fainted away when its
cage was cleaned; and I desired to see the experiment. The cage being
taken from the ceiling, and the bottom drawn out, the bird began to
tremble, and turned quite white about the root of the bill; he then
opened his mouth as if for breath, and respired quick; stood up
straighter on his perch, hung his wing, spread his tail, closed his
eyes, and appeared quite stiff for half an hour, till at length, with
trembling and deep respirations, he came gradually to himself."
A few years since, a lady at Washington had a pair of canaries in a
cage, one of which, the female, at last died. The survivor manifested
the utmost grief; but upon a looking-glass being placed by his side, so
that he could see his image, he took it for his departed friend, and
seemed at once restored to happiness. The details of the story are
given in the following lines:--
Poor Phil was once a blithe canary--
But then his mate was at his side;
His spirits never seemed to vary,
Till she, one autumn evening, died;--
And now upon his perch he clung,
With ruffled plumes and spirits low,
His carol hushed; or, if he sung,
'Twas some sad warble of his wo.
His little mistress came with seed:--
Alas! he would not, could not, feed.
She filled his cup with crystal dew;
She called--she whistled:--'twould not do;
The little mourner bowed his head,
And gently peeped--"My mate is dead!"
Alas, poor Phil! how changed art thou!
The gayest then, the saddest now.
The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,
Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave;
Or, if thou hadst some softer spell,
Thine ear had stolen from the shell
That sings amid the silver sand
That circles round thy native land,
'Twas only when, with wily art,
Thou sought'st to charm thy partner's heart.
And she is gone--thy joys are dead--
Thy music with thy mate is fled!
Poor bird! upon the roost he sate,
With drooping wing, disconsolate;
And as his little mistress gazed,
Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.
In vain she tried each wonted art
To heal the mourner's broken heart.
At last she went, with childish thought,
And to the cage a mirror brought.
She placed it by the songster's side--
And, lo! the image seemed his bride!
Forth from his perch he wondering flew,
Approached, and gazed, and gazed anew;
And then his wings he trembling shook,
And then a circling flight he took;
And then his notes began to rise,
A song of triumph, to the skies!
And since--for many a day and year,
That blissful bird--the mirror near--
With what he deems his little wife,
His partner still--has spent his life:
Content, if but the image stay,
Sit by his side, and list his lay!
Thus fancy oft will bring relief,
And with a shadow comfort grief.