Kitabı oku: «The Bird Hospital», sayfa 4

CHAPTER V
CADY

One day when my hospital was so full of birds I did not know which way to turn, a little girl came in with a nice fat baby robin. I said: “I cannot take another patient, for my hospital is full to overflowing.” She begged so hard, and said: “I have taken it away from a cat three times. The father and mother bird have gone and left it, and I cannot make it eat.” I could not resist such pleading, and said: “I will feed it for a few days, then let it go.” But my few days lasted for a year and a half.

Just at that time I was having a very pleasant correspondence with Mrs. Stanton, so I said: “I am going to name the bird Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and call it Cady for short, so, if it turns out to be a boy, as she always wanted to be, the name will be all right.”

I had no trouble in making Cady eat, and of all the birds I ever had, he was the most interesting. He seemed to understand anything I said to him, and would talk to me by the hour. We had no difficulty in understanding each other’s language, but I expected every day to hear him say real words.

For many weeks he lived on crackers and milk, then Mocking Bird Food, with only two meal worms a week, for they are very rich. He loved them dearly, and it was very hard sometimes not to give in to him when he asked for more. He knew where they were kept, and often turned over the bottle and tried his best to get them out. He always played with a worm a long time before eating it. Then all at once he would give his head a good toss, and down the worm would go.

One day he treated a large rubber band in the same way he did his worm, and, before I realized there might be danger, it had disappeared. I was dreadfully frightened, and watched him carefully all day, but he seemed none the worse for a change in his diet.

I had him for a year and a half, and his food always consisted of the Mocking Bird Food, meal worm, and cracker and milk for his supper at five o’clock. He was so fond of the latter, I could not take it away from him entirely, and when five o’clock came, he always knew and made me understand it was time for his supper, and would not touch his other food, no matter how much he had in his dish. He grew to be very large and strong and the handsomest robin I have ever seen. He was very playful, and had many playthings and played with them like a dog. Corks were his special delight, and he had many sizes. A piece of embroidery he could put his bill through would amuse him many hours. He knew his name in a very short time, and, when a baby, if he heard my voice, or even saw me out in the yard, he would call just as birds do for their mother. He was full of mischief and very foxy. He never was caged, and lived on the floor and his perches.

I would often see him on the top perch, looking very intently over into one corner; then I knew he was like the little girl, “when I be’s still, I be’s thinking mischief.” In an instant he would turn and make a dive for one of the canaries. I had three canaries at that time, and one day I went into my room to find feathers all over the floor and many spots of blood, and Cady on the highest perch looking as innocent as a baby. After looking about, I found the dear little things in a most dilapidated condition. I was afraid Judy would die, for her wing was put out of joint, but she finally recovered.

Every morning when I took my bath, Cady would come into my dressing-room and have a visit, perched on the wash-stand or towel-rack, and tell me many stories. He was a great lover of water, but he would not take his bath alone, and I always had to play with him. He would wait for me until noon, or, in fact, all day. I gave him a large square willow-ware vegetable dish for his tub, which my friends thought much too good for him, but nothing was too good for Cady. He always insisted upon having fresh water for his bath, and never would take it in water that had stood in the pitcher overnight. Many times I tried to fool him, but he was too smart for me. When he was ready for his bath, he would go into my dressing-room and chirp, then come back to me, go back again, and keep it up until I got the water. Then the fun commenced. I began by taking water in my hand and throwing it at him. He would hop all over the room, come back to me for more, dance around first on one foot, then on the other, turn his back to me, then face me. After we had played enough in that way, he would hop into the water, and I would take a whole handful of water and throw over him, then he would begin work in good earnest, and such splashing you never saw.

He certainly was a sight when he had finished and hopped about the room with streams of water running off him. It took him a long time to make his toilet, for every feather had to be preened just so.

At that time I had a dear little boy sparrow named “Mack,” who was a beauty and very bright. When Cady took his bath, he always came down and took a shower bath. In the fall I began Cady’s music lessons, and every one laughed at the idea of my thinking I could teach him to sing with me. Every day after luncheon I spent an hour with him. I would put him on the back of a chair by the piano and play and sing a very catchy little waltz song, and I kept it up for weeks before he would sing at all, but I knew by his looks and actions he was taking it all in, so I was determined I would not give up. Finally one day he began to follow me with the sweet notes of a canary, and I hardly dared breathe, but went right on singing as if I did not hear him, and from that day on he improved with every lesson. Next I took the waltz song “First Love” from “Olivette,” and he showed great delight with the change, and entered right into the spirit of the song. We sung that for many weeks, always beginning our lessons with the first waltz song. Then for a change I thought I would try him with a waltz song, “May Blossoms,” which was entirely different in style and tone. He liked that best of all, and it was simply marvellous the way he sang it. He was always in such a hurry to sing it, he would often begin before the music. I began with the idea of giving him a prize when we had finished our lessons, but that did not suit him at all, and he gave me to understand that he must have one to begin on. He soon learned to take his position on the chair when I brought him into the parlour. I would begin to play, and sometimes, before he thought, he would sing a few notes, then he would remember his treat, and down he would hop into a chair, then over to another chair which stood in the back parlour, as he was afraid of a fur rug that lay between the doors, and would never put his claws in it. He would perch on the arm of the chair until I went to my tea-table and got a crumb of biscuit or cake and gave to him, then he would hop back the way he came, take his position, and begin to sing. After his lesson he always had a taste of honey and a drink of water out of a whiskey glass. He seemed very proud of his accomplishments, and was always more than willing to show off for visitors, – take a bath as well as sing for them.

One day he was in the back parlour and wanted to go into the front parlour. A gentleman was sitting with his legs crossed in the chair that was his stepping-stone, and what to do he did not know. Several times he hopped on to the first arm, then on to the floor, would look at the fur rug, but could not get up enough courage to go over it. Again, as he hopped on to the arm, his eye caught the toe of the gentleman’s shoe. In an instant he was on it and over into the front parlour, singing with great glee over his cunning feat.

One day in the spring, when I was giving him his lesson, a friend came in with a very large dog. Cady had never seen a dog before, and I was afraid he would die of fright and that his voice was ruined for ever. I could not get him to sing a note for many weeks. He showed the same fear every time I brought him down to the parlours. After he had finished moulting in the fall, he was more beautiful than ever. Every feather was perfect and shone like satin. I brought him down-stairs to show to a friend, and the first thing he did was to take his position on the chair by the piano and begin to chirp, and I knew he was asking me to play for him. For six months he had not sung a note, so you may imagine my delight when out poured the sweetest trills of the best bred canary. Like all robins, Cady was a very early riser, and during the summer he would wake me at five o’clock in the morning, and I would have no peace until I opened my blinds. Of course, it was very nice for Cady, but, oh, poor me! Never before or since have I ever gotten up so early, for sleep was out of the question. He would come down on my bed, perch on my shoulder, and send the sweetest trills right down into my ear, but I could not fully appreciate them at that early hour. If that did not take effect, he would peck my hands; if I put them under the cover, then my eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth.

I regret very much that Cady’s photograph was not taken when he was taking a sun bath. He would toss back his head, spread out his wings, lean against anything that was most convenient, and a lady with a train posing for her portrait could not have been more graceful. Every one said: “When winter comes, Cady will feel the cold,” but Cady had no intention of being cold, and a warm room was all the Florida he cared for.

Instead of a sun bath, he took a fire bath, and often before he went to sleep for the night he would perch on the back of a low chair by the fire, and drink in all the warm air he could hold.

The first autumn I had Cady, I was told I must clip his wings, for he was never caged. A friend came one day, and we clipped several of the birds’ wings, but my heart was broken when it was done, for they all felt so ashamed, especially Cady. At that time I had the Princess of Wales, and she was a most inquisitive little lady. She would follow Cady about, look him all over, get him into a corner, examine his wings, and lift up with her bill the one that had been clipped. The next autumn, when Cady’s new feathers came in, they were so beautiful I did not have the heart to clip his wings again. But he was getting so unruly, chasing my other small birds, flying through the air and picking them up as if they were flies, that I did not know what to do with him. I knew I must clip his wing or cage him, and I knew the latter would simply kill the poor bird. Each day I would get ready to cut it my courage would fail, and I would put it off until the next, and, like all things we keep putting off, there came a day when I would have given all I possessed if I had clipped his wing in the beginning.

Cady was afraid out-of-doors. One day he fell out of my bedroom window, and waited for me to come and get him. He often stood in my bedroom window, but never seemed to care to go out. If I took him into the yard, he would fly back into the house if the door was open.

One day I took him quite a walk to see a friend. He perched on my wrist (as my finger was too small), did not offer to get off, and seemed very much at home in the friend’s house, so I never thought of his going away. When he began his lessons in the autumn, his wing was all feathered out, and he could fly everywhere. Instead of hopping from chair to chair for his treat, he would fly out into the dining-room, light on the dining-room table and wait for me to come.

One Sunday morning I had been giving him a longer lesson than usual, for he was singing better than I had ever heard him. All at once he stopped short, flew as usual into the dining-room, where the door was opened on to the piazza, and out of it he went, soaring way up in the air. It was a glorious day, and when he lighted in a tall tree up the street, I could hear him singing with delight. If I could have had the street to myself, I am sure I could have gotten him, but it was just the hour when the children were returning from Sunday school, and I could not keep them away. Twice he came within a few feet of me, then the boys or the rustle of the leaves frightened him away. For weeks he was about, and I spent many hours trying to get him to come to me. He always answered my call, but seemed afraid to fly down to me.

I would not have taken hundreds of dollars for him, and whatever became of him I know not, but I fear he perished when winter came, as he knew nothing about migrating.

CHAPTER VI
SOME TRANSIENT PATIENTS

A young meadow-lark was brought to me one morning by a small boy, whose dog had chased it and broken its leg. I had never had any experience in setting bones, but, as there is always a first time, I thought I could at least try, even if I did not succeed. I found it was not a very easy thing to do alone, but, after trying a number of times, I managed to get my toothpick splint on securely. For several days the leg seemed to be doing nicely, and I felt quite proud of my work and sure the leg was knitting. All at once the bird began to smell very badly, and in a few days it died, so I think it must have been hurt internally.

Another morning I had an orchard oriole brought to me. He, like the Prince of Wales, had been shot. One wing was broken and there was a deep flesh wound underneath. I did not expect to save him, but, after a few days, the wound healed and he was perfectly well, except the broken wing, which did not bother him. He seemed very happy, even if he could only fly a very little, and spent most of his time hopping about on the floor. His favourite perching-place was on the top of a candle on my dressing-table.

One morning he came over to my bed and woke me by pecking my hands. As it was too early for me to wake, I put him on the floor and went to sleep. When I got up, I could not find my pretty Duke. He had never been in my dressing-room, but that morning the light must have attracted him, as my room was dark, and in trying to hop on the edge of the water-jar he fell in.

You can imagine my horror when I saw him in the water dead, with his lovely feathers all spoiled, and I felt I had been a careless nurse.

A cousin brought to the hospital from the country a young snipe. She was so afraid it would get away, she put it into a shoe box which was too small, then tied the cover down tight, without making one hole to let the air in. Consequently, when she arrived, the bird was just gasping and almost dead.

I had never seen a young snipe before, and I was so anxious to save it. It was a beauty. Of course, it was all legs and feet, but they were really beautiful in shape, and the colour like the soft shade of green in young twigs. I worked over it four hours, hoping I might bring it back to life, but it was beyond me. It was a most pitiful sight to see it take so long to die.

I was very glad one day to have the pleasure of looking over a chimney swift, but, as it was an old bird and not hurt in the least, I felt it would be cruel to keep it in the hospital. It was so frightened it did not fly off from my hand for five minutes after I took it out-of-doors.

One day a very tender-hearted little boy, with big tears in his eyes, came and asked me to take in a tiny baby bird not three inches long from end of bill to tip of tail. It was gray with white breast, long pointed white bill, and very large eyes. Its pretty little head was drawn back like a person having spinal meningitis, and it was making a mournful peep. When I took it into my hand, I did not think it could live but a few moments, but it did four hours, suffering all the time, and it seemed as if its pitiful peep would drive me wild. I managed to get a little milk down its throat, but I could not find the cause of the head being drawn back, as there was no sign of any bruise. Finally I saw a black speck sticking out of its bill. I began to pull, and kept on until I had pulled out a quarter of a yard of coarse horsehair. I knew then there was something on the other end, and that the bird could not live with whatever it was in its throat. I gave a quick pull, and you can imagine my surprise when out came a piece of hard white shell, triangular shape, all wound around with the hair. No wonder the little thing peeped, and that its head was drawn back, with that sharp point sticking into its throat. The mother must have rammed it down her baby’s throat, thinking it was some goody.

After I had removed the shell, the little sufferer seemed so relieved; the peeping stopped, and it would try to flop its wee wings when it saw me with the milk. I was in hopes I was going to save it, but it did not have the strength to rally, and it went where all good birdies go.

For a week I had a dear baby robin, who came down-stairs every night to look me up when it was time for him to go to bed in his basket. I had a wild pigeon at the time who delighted in pecking any small bird who came to the hospital. He gave the robin a hard peck on the back of the neck, I suppose striking a nerve, for soon the head began to draw back, and in a few hours he died. Theodore Roosevelt, the wild pigeon, was in the hospital two long years, receiving constant treatment, from burns which he had received by being caught in electric wires.

Then I had a large white domestic pigeon that was taken away from a dog who was tearing him to pieces. Such a sight as he was, covered with blood and mud, when I took him in. The feathers were all torn out of one wing, and he could not stand on his feet. The first thing I gave him a bath in warm water and soap, then found several flesh wounds, which I powdered with talcum powder (never put anything greasy on a bird), and put him in a cot, where I kept him as quiet as possible for several days. He was not at all timid, ate from my hand, drank water from a whiskey glass, as if he had always been fed in that way, never even trying to stand up or get out of his cot. I felt quite encouraged when, after a week, he could perch on my wrist for a few minutes, so I knew that there were no bones broken, but I was afraid that he was never going to have the use of one of his claws, for the toes all turned under when he tried to put it down, but patience and care were my reward, for it got entirely well. You could fairly see the new feathers grow in his wing, and he was delighted when he could flop his wings and exercise. It was very interesting to watch him when he first began trying to walk. I would put him down on the floor. He would lift the lame foot very high, and throw the claws out before putting it down, to prevent the toes turning under. I expected he would want to fly away when he found he was made whole again, but he did not seem to have the slightest desire. He became quite a pet, and when I spoke to him, he would bow his head and say, “Coo-wee, coo-wee, coo-wee,” but he was too large a bird for the house, and he now lives with many of his kind, where he has the best of care.

One morning I saw a baby sparrow on a piazza, and a cat just ready to spring at it. I got in ahead of the cat, and brought her home with me. I wish all of the people who say they hate the English sparrow could have known this one, whom I named “Monie.” She was a perfect little beauty, and full of all sorts of antics. Every feather shone like satin, and her colouring was the soft shade of brown you see in otter fur. She loved to tease the other birds, especially the canaries. She would go inside the cage when they were on top and bite their claws and try to pull them through the bars. Then she would hang with one claw caught on the top of the cage and go through all sorts of performances. I had a box which rested on a low table, divided off into two compartments, one filled with gravel and the other with food. In the centre of one side was part of a broomstick, with any number of perches all sizes on it, and a platform over the other side where a brass cage stood. The box and perches, being painted light green, made a pretty sight when the perches were filled with many birds of different size and colour. There was a platform that rested on the window-sill, where Teddy, the pigeon, liked best to stay. He would walk back and forth or sit there most of the day, looking out of the windows. When, he wanted to walk in the gravel or get something to eat, he would walk down the little steps into the box with a great deal of dignity.

Monie always insisted upon perching on one of the largest perches, and very often she would fall on to the floor, and, as her wing was clipped, she could not get back in the box until I picked her up. At that time there were some mice who came and ate with the birds. Taffy did not seem to think they had any right there, and often tried to catch them. Twice he picked Monie up off from the floor, thinking she was a mouse, and brought her down-stairs. When he saw me, he came right up to me and let me take her out of his mouth, as if he was glad to get rid of her. The next time I missed her, I looked ten minutes, then I heard Taffy ring his bells, and he kept it up until I found him behind a heavy curtain, lying down with his paws under him, and holding Monie very carefully in his mouth. I put out my hand and he laid her in it, and she was not hurt in the least. After that I tried my best to make Monie sleep on a smaller perch, but she was as wilful as she was pretty, and no other perch seemed to suit her. Her wilfulness caused her death, for she fell off in the middle of the night when the room was dark. Taffy picked her up and she squealed like a mouse. As he held her tighter, she squealed louder, and Taffy thought he had a mouse sure. I jumped out of bed, but, by the time I got a light, he had choked her to death. When he saw that he had Monie instead of a mouse, he put her into my hand, and no person could have shown more grief.

Late one evening a small boy came to the door and asked if I did not want to buy a white rat. To get rid of the boy, I bought the rat, thinking I would give it to our boy the next morning, but he was so bright and cunning, I named him Billy Watt, and kept him many months. He was a most interesting pet and very much like a squirrel in all of his ways. Taffy thought it was “adding insult to injury” to ask him to be polite to Billy Watt, but he soon understood he was to treat him as politely as the birds.

One day Billy Watt bit Monie so the blood came. I took him in one hand, Monie in the other, and let her bite his nose, ears, and paws, and it frightened him almost to death when he found a bird could bite as well as a rat, and he never touched her again.

It was hard to make people believe, who did not see it, that Taffy would sleep for hours in my room, with birds flying around and Billy Watt asleep in a basket near by.

The largest patient I ever had was a turkey-buzzard, and the smallest full-grown bird a Parola warbler.

When Taffy beheld Mr. Buzzard perched on the back of a chair, his wrath knew no bounds. He did not spring at him, simply sat down in front of him, and by the growling and spitting you would have thought there were a dozen of cats instead of one.

One day our neighbour’s crow came to visit us, and insisted upon sitting in Taffy’s chair, which did not suit his Royal Highness at all. He stood upon his hind legs with his front paws on the chair, and smelled Mr. Crow all over, but Mr. Crow did not mind in the least and would not move, so Mr. Taffy jumped into the chair and curled himself up by the side of the crow, and they spent the day together.

Once I read with the greatest interest an article about a Parola warbler, and felt I would like very much to know the authoress, and tell her there was another person who had come in as close contact with one as she did. One can read dozens of beautiful descriptions of these daintiest of fairies, but no one can have the slightest conception of their beauty, or half appreciate them, until they have held one in their hand. Mine was caught by a cat, but it lived all day, so I had plenty of time to study every exquisite feather.

I hope the day may come when I shall be fortunate enough to see another, but they are very rare, especially in Central New York.

The Parola warbler was the first bird that opened John Burroughs’s eyes to the beauty of birddom.