Part 18

I was comparatively petless over there, for I could not well drag large cages of birds about after me, when it was difficult enough to convey chickens and ducks across the somewhat stormy channel, so I hailed with delight the offer, made by a little island boy, of a half-fledged hawk, as tame as it is in a hawk’s nature to be. There was no question of a cage, and I am sure “Alonzo” would not have submitted to such an indignity for a moment, so he was established on a perch in a sheltered corner of the upstair verandah outside my bedroom door. I fed him at short intervals—for he was very voracious—with raw meat, and he took rapid gulps from a saucer of water; but he sat motionless on his perch all day, only coming on my hand for his meals. This went on for two or three weeks, when one morning at earliest daylight I heard an unusual noise in the verandah, and just got out in time to see my little hawk spreading his wings and sailing off into space. He had, however, been wise enough to devour all the meat left in readiness for his breakfast. Of course I gave him up for lost and went back to bed thinking sadly of the ingratitude and heartlessness of hawk nature. I certainly never expected to see my bird again, but a few hours later, as I was standing in the verandah, I stretched out my hand as far as I could reach, when lo! the little hawk dropped like a stone from the cloudless blue and sat on my arm as composedly as if he had never left the shelter of his home. It is needless to say that the return of the prodigal called forth the same rapturous greeting and good dinner as of yore. After that it became an established custom that I should every evening put a saucer of chopped-up raw meat on a table in the verandah just outside my window, and a pannikin of water to serve for the hawk’s early breakfast, but he foraged for himself all day, coming back at dusk to roost in the verandah. It was curious to watch his return, for he generally made many attempts before he could hit off the exact slope of the roof so as to get beneath it. After each failure he would soar away out of sight, but only to return and circle round the house until he had determined how low to stoop, and then like a flash he darted beneath the projecting eaves. Apparently it was necessary to make but the one effort, for there was no popping in and out or uncertainty, just one majestic swoop, and he would be on his perch, as rigid and unruffled as though he had never left it.

When our delicious summer holiday was over, and the day of return to the mainland fixed, it became an anxious question what to do with the hawk. To take him with us was of course out of the question, but to leave him behind was heart-rending. Not only should I miss the accustomed clatter of saucer and pannikin at earliest streak of dawn, but not once did I ever hold my hand out during the day that he did not drop on it at once. He never could have been far off, although no eye could follow him into the deep blue dome where he seemed to live, poised in the dazzling sunshiny air. But “Alonzo” settled the question for himself a couple of days before we left, by suddenly deserting his old home and leaving his breakfast untouched. We watched in vain for his return on two successive evenings, nor did he drop on my hand for the last two days of our stay. I then remembered that on the last evening he had come home to roost I had noticed another hawk with him, and rather wondered if he intended to set up an establishment in the verandah. But I suppose the bride-elect found fault with the situation, and probably said that, though well enough for a bachelor, it was not suitable for the upbringing of a family, and so the new home had to be started in a more secluded spot, and the sheltering roof knew its wild guest no more.

I am afflicted with a cockatoo! I can’t “curse him and cast him out,” for in the first place I love him dearly, and in the next he is a sort of orphan grandchild towards whom I have serious duties and responsibilities. And then he arrived at such a moment, when every heart was softened by the thought of the Soudan Campaign with its frightful risks and dangers. How could one turn away a suppliant cockatoo who suddenly and unexpectedly presented himself on the eve of the Battle of Omdurman, with a ticket to say his owner had gone up to the front and he was left homeless in Cairo? It would have been positively brutal, and then he was the friendliest of birds! No shyness or false pride about _him_. He had already invited my pretty little cook to “kiss him and love him,” and was paying the housemaid extravagant compliments when I appeared on the scene. To say he flew into his grandmother’s arms is but feebly to express the dutiful warmth of his greeting. In less than ten minutes that artful bird had taken complete possession of the small household, and assumed his place as its head and master. Ever since that moment he has reigned supreme, and I foresee that he will always so reign.

But he certainly is the most mischievous and destructive of his mischievous species. Nothing is safe from his sudden and unexpected fits of energy. I first put him in a little conservatory where he had light and air, and the cheerful society of other birds. This plan, however, only worked for two or three days. One Sunday morning I was awakened by ear-piercing shrieks and yells from Master Cockie, only slightly softened by distance. These went on for some time until I perceived a gradual increase of their jubilant note, which I felt sure betokened mischief, so I hastily got myself into a dressing-gown and slippers and started off to investigate what trouble was “toward.” It was so early that the glass doors were still shut, and I was able to contemplate Master Cockie’s manœuvres unseen. The floor of the little greenhouse was strewn with fern-leaves, for gardening, or rather pruning, had evidently been his first idea. The door of his travelling cage—which I had left overnight securely fastened—lay flat on the pavement, and Cockie with extended wings was solemnly executing a sort of _pas seul_ in front of another cage divided by partitions, in which dwelt a goldfinch and a bullfinch side by side. Both doors were wide open and the bullfinch’s compartment was empty, but the goldfinch was crouched, paralysed with terror, on the floor of his abode. He evidently wanted to get out very badly, but did not dare to pass the yelling doorkeeper, who apparently was inviting the trembling little bird to come forth. The instant the artful villain perceived me, he affected perfect innocence and harmlessness, returning instantly to his cage, and commencing his best performance of a flock of sheep passing, doubtless in order to distract my attention. How could one scold with deserved severity a mimic who took off not only the barking dogs and bleating sheep, but the very shuffle of their feet, and the despairing cry of a lost lamb. And he pretended great joy when the bullfinch—more dead than alive—at last emerged from the shelter of a thick creeper where he had found sanctuary, asking repeatedly after his health in persuasive tones.

I gave up the cage after that and established him on a smart stand in the dining-room window; for I found that the birds in the conservatory literally could not bear the sight of him. A light chain securely fastened on his leg promised safety, but he contrived to get within reach of my new curtains and rapidly devoured some half-yard or so of a hand-painted border which was the pride of my heart. Then came an interval of calm and exemplary behaviour which lulled me into a false security. Cockie seemed to have but one object in life, which was to pull out all his own feathers, and by evening the dining-room often looked as though a white fowl had been plucked in it. I consulted a bird doctor, but as Cockie’s health was perfectly good, and his diet all that could be recommended, it was supposed he only plucked himself for want of occupation, and firewood was recommended as a substitute. This answered very well, and he spent his leisure in gnawing sticks of deal; only when no one chanced to be in the room he used to unfasten the swivel of his chain, leave it dangling on the stand, and descend in search of his playthings. When the fire had not been lighted I often found half the coals pulled out of the grate, and the firewood in splinters. At last, with warmer weather, both coals and wood were removed, so the next time Master Cockie found himself short of a job he set to work on the dining-room chairs, first pulled out all their bright nails, and next tore holes in the leather, through which he triumphantly dragged the stuffing!

At one time he went on a visit for some weeks and ate up everything within his reach in that friendly establishment. His “bag” for one afternoon consisted of a venerable fern and a large palm, some library books, newspapers, a pack of cards, and an armchair. And yet every one adores him, and he is the spoiled child of more than one family.

XVIII

HUMOURS OF BIRD LIFE

“Birds in their little nests agree.”

Dr. Watts, though doubtless an excellent and estimable divine, must have had but little experience of the ways and manners of birds when he wrote this oft-quoted line. Birds are really the most quarrelsome and pugnacious creatures amongst themselves, though they are capable of great affection and amiability towards the human beings who befriend them.

I have always been a passionate bird-lover, and have had opportunities of keeping, in what I hope and believe has been a comfortable captivity, many and various kinds of birds in different lands. My first experience of an aviary on a large and luxurious scale was in Mauritius, many years ago, and was brought about by the gift of a magnificent and enormous cage, elaborately carved by Arab workmen. It was more like a small temple than anything else. But the first steps to be taken were to make it, so to speak, bird-proof, for the ambitious architect had left many openings in his various minarets and turrets, through which birds could easily have escaped.

Regarded as a cage it was not a success, for it was really difficult to see the birds through the profuse ornamentation of the panelled sides. However, I stood it in a wide and sunny verandah, and proceeded to instal the birds I already possessed in this splendid dwelling. I had brought some beautiful little blue and fawn-coloured finches from Madeira, and I had a few canaries. Gifts of other birds soon arrived from all quarters; a sort of half-bred canary from Aden—there were a dozen of those—and many pretty little local birds. I made them as happy as I could with endless baths, and gave them, besides the ordinary bird seed, bunches of native grasses, and even weeds in blossom, which they greedily ate. The little Aden birds would not look at water for bathing purposes. They came from a “dry and thirsty land, where no water is,” and evidently regarded it as a precious beverage to be kept for drinking. They had to be accommodated with little heaps of finely powdered earth, in which they disported themselves bath-fashion, to the deep amazement of the other birds.

But how those birds quarrelled! At roosting-time they all seemed to want one particular spot on one particular perch, and nothing else would do. All day long they quarrelled over their baths and their food, and the only advantage of the ample space they enjoyed was to give them more room to chase each other about. They all insisted on using one especial bath at the same moment, and would not look at any other, though all the baths were exactly alike. One fine day a batch of tiny parrakeets from a neighbouring island arrived, and I congratulated myself on having at last acquired some amiable members of my bird community. Such gentle creatures were never seen. With their pale-green plumage and the little grey-hooded heads which easily explained their name of “capuchin,” they made themselves quite happy in one of the many domes or cupolas of the Arab cage. In a few days, however, a mysterious ailment broke out among all the other birds. Nearly every bird seemed suddenly to prefer going about on one leg. This did not surprise me very much at first, as the mosquitoes used to bite their little legs cruelly, and I was always contriving net curtains, &c., to keep these pests out. At last it dawned on me that many of the canaries had actually only one leg. An hour’s careful watching showed me a parrakeet sidling up to a canary, and after feigning to be deeply absorbed in its own toilet, preening each gay wing-feather most carefully, the little wretch would give a sudden swift nip at the slender leg of its neighbour, and absolutely bite it off then and there. Of course I immediately turned the capuchins out of the cage with much obloquy, but too late to save several of my poor little pets from a one-legged existence.

I had also several parrots and cockatoos, but they had to be kept as much as possible out of earshot, for their eldritch yells and shrieks were too great an addition to the burden of daily life in a tropic land.

There was one small grey and red parrot, however, from the West Coast of Africa, which was different from the ordinary screaming green and yellow bird. This was certainly the cleverest little creature of its kind I have ever seen. Dingy and shabby as to plumage, and with a twisted leg, its powers of mimicry were unsurpassed. It picked up everything it heard directly, and my only regret was that it appeared to forget its phrases very quickly. Before it had been two days in the house it took me in half-a-dozen times by imitating exactly the impatient peck at a glass door of some tame peacocks, who always invited themselves to “five o’clock-er.” I used to go to the door and open it; of course to find no peacocks there, for they were punctuality itself, and never came near the house at any other time. After the pecks—exactly reproduced as if on glass—came an impatient note, followed by the exact cry of an indignant peacock. I believe that grey parrot had the utmost contempt for my mental powers, and delighted in victimising me.

I was a constant sufferer in those days from malarial fever, and when convalescent and comfortably settled on my sofa in the drawing-room, the parrot would first gently cough once or twice, then sigh, and finally, in a weak voice, call “Garde, Garde.” This was to a functionary who lived in the deep verandahs, and whose mission in life seemed to be the regulating of the heavy outside blinds made of split bamboo. The next sound would be the awkward shuffling of heavy boots (for the “Garde” usually went barefoot, except when in uniform and on duty), followed by “Madame.” Then my voice again, “Levez le rideau.” “Bien, Grande Madame.” Then you heard the creak of the pulleys as the curtain was raised, followed by the Garde’s tramping away again, all exactly imitated.

The A.D.C.’s way of calling his “boy” (generally a middle-aged man) was also faithfully rendered, beginning in a very mild and amiable voice, rising louder as no “boy” answered, and finally a stentorian “boy” produced a very frightened and hurried “’Ci, Monsieur le Capitaine, ’ci.” I grieve to say this performance generally ended with a confused and shuffling sound as of a scrimmage.

There used also to be an orderly on duty outside the Governor’s office, who, once upon a time, was afflicted with a violent cold in his head. This malady, and his primitive methods of dealing with it, made him a very unpleasant neighbour, so his Excellency requested the Private Secretary to ask for another orderly _without_ a cold in his head. Of course this was immediately done, and the desired change made, but not before Miss Polly had taken notes. Next day I was startled by the most violent outburst of sneezing and coughing in the verandah, followed by other trying sounds. I next heard a plaintive and deeply injured voice from the Governor’s office—it must be remembered that every door and window is always wide open in a tropic house.

“I thought I asked for that man to be changed.”

This brought the Private Secretary hurriedly out of his room, to be confronted by a small grey parrot, who wound up the performance by a sort of sob of exhaustion, and “Ah! mon Dieu!” the real orderly standing by, looking as if he was considering whether or no he ought to arrest the culprit.

One likes to have parrots walking about quite tame, free and unfettered, but it is an impossibility if a garden or any plants are within reach, for the temptation to go round and nip off every leaf and blossom, and even stem, seems irresistible to a parrot or a cockatoo.

Soon after I went to Western Australia, in 1883, I was given a pair of beautiful cockatoos called by the natives “Jokolokals.” They did not talk at all, but were lovely to look at, and as they had never been kept in a cage and were reared from the nest, they were perfectly tame and their plumage most beautiful, of a soft creamy white, with crest and wing-lining of an indescribable flame tint. I never saw such exquisite colouring, and they looked charming on the grass terraces during the day, and for a while roosted peaceably in a low tree at night.

But one morning, early, I was told the head-gardener wished to speak to me, and he was with difficulty induced to postpone the interview until after breakfast. I tremble to think what the expression of that grim Scotch countenance would have been at first! It was quite severe enough when I had to confront him a couple of hours later. The Jokolokals had employed a long bright moonlight night in gardening among the plants with which the many angles and corners of the wide verandahs were filled, and such utter ruin as they had wrought, especially among the camellias! Not only had every blossom been nipped off, but they had actually gnawed the stems through, and few pots presented more than an inch or two of stalk to my horrified eyes. After that—on the principle of the steed and the stable-door—the beautiful villains were put in a large aviary out of doors, and revenged themselves by awaking me every morning at daylight by fiendish yells. The gardener’s cottage was out of earshot.

I had also a very large cage of canaries, in which they lived and multiplied exceedingly. In a country where there are no song-birds a canary is much prized, and every year I gave away a great many young birds. There was also another large cage with small (and very quarrelsome) finches, including many brilliant Gouldian finches from the North-west (they call them Painted finches there), a tiny zebra-marked finch, and many different little birds kindly brought to me from Singapore and other places.

However, to return for a moment to the cockatoos. The large white Albany cockatoo, which has a very curved beak and wide pale-blue wattles round the eye, talks admirably, and is easily tamed if taken young. In spite of its ferocious beak it is really quite gentle, and mine—for I had several—were only too affectionate, insisting on more petting and notice than I always had time to bestow.

There were often garden-parties in the lovely grounds of the Government House at Perth, and at one of the later ones some of my guests came to me complaining, as it were, of the weird utterances of the Albany cockatoo, who lived with other parrots in a kind of wire pagoda among the vines. “What does he say?” I asked laughingly. “He wants to know if we like birds,” was the answer. So I immediately went down to the cage, and was at once asked by the cockatoo in a very earnest voice, “Do you like birds?” Alas for the want of originality in the human race! He had heard exactly that remark made by _every_ couple who came up to the cage, and had adopted it. My little son taught that bird to call me “Mother,” and it never used the word to any one else. If I ever passed the cage without stopping to play with or pet the cockatoos, I was greeted with indignant cries of “Mother,” which generally brought me back, and the moment I opened the door the big cockatoo would throw himself on his back on the gravel floor, that I might put the point of my shoe on his breast and rub his back up and down the gravel. I never could understand why they all loved that mode of petting.

But the Australian magpie is one of the most delightful pets, and can be trusted to walk about loose, as he does not garden. “Break-of-day-boys” is their local name, and it fits them admirably. At earliest dawn only do you hear the sweet clear whistle which is their native note. They learn to whistle tunes easily and correctly, but nothing can be compared to their own note. They are exactly like the English magpie in appearance, only a little larger. I had a very tame one, which had been taught to lie on its back on a plate with its legs held stiffly up as if it were dead. I have a photograph of it in that attitude, and no one will believe me when I assure them the bird was alive; not even its open and roguish eye will convince them. I only wish the sceptics had been by when I clapped my hands to signify that the performance was over, and Mag jumped up like a flash of lightning and made for the nearest human foot, into the instep of which she would dig her bill viciously. It must have been her idea of revenge, for she never did so at any other time; and she scattered the spectators pretty swiftly, I assure you.

Dear, clever Mag was lost or stolen just before we left Perth. I intended to have brought her to England, but one morning I was informed by the sentry that he could not see her anywhere, and she always kept near him. Further and anxious inquiries elicited that she had been observed following a newspaper boy near the back-gate. The police were communicated with, and the result was my being confronted at all hours of the day and night by an indignant and rumpled magpie tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, who loudly protested that we were absolute strangers to each other. And so we were, for among the numerous arrests made of suspicious characters among magpies, not one turned out to be my poor Maggie.