The Bird Hospital

I can tell you nothing of Taffy’s antecedents, as I found him one morning in our back yard almost starved to death, and about as thick through the body as a shingle. At first I thought he had dropped from heaven, but I soon learned from his sayings and doings that he must have been quite intimate with the inmates of the lower region. I tempted him with chicken, but it was some little time before I could put my hand on him; and, to tame any animal, you must be able to touch it with your hand. After two or three pats, he seemed to realize that I was a good friend. Soon I had him in the house, and for three years we have been devoted to each other. I have had a great many cats, but never one who had so much of the wild animal in him. All of my friends said I never could tame Taffy, and it was many weeks before I had much influence over him, and I never feel quite sure now whether I am to be loved or scratched, as he still has the temper and the actions of a tiger when anything goes the wrong way.

He usually lies down like a tiger, with legs straight out in front, tail straight out behind, and when I speak to him he will always blink his eyes and speak to me. If you touch him in passing, he will grab at your feet and spit and growl. He never mews when he wants anything to eat, but will chase me or my maid, and grab at our feet. If he does not like what is given him to eat, he will walk all about his plate, and scratch, as if he were covering it up.

I am the only one Taffy ever shows much affection for, but to me he is very loving. He will lie as long as I will let him with his paws about my neck and head on my shoulder. If he is sound asleep anywhere, and I begin to read aloud, sing, or whistle, he will get up directly, jump on my lap, put his paws about my neck, his face close to mine, and begin to purr. As he always looks very pleasant, I flatter myself he likes the tone of my voice.

When I had my bird, Little Billee, it would make Taffy simply furious if I put him out of my room and closed the door. One morning he was so ugly, my maid did not dare open the door to come in.

After that, when I wanted him to go down-stairs, I had my maid come to the bottom of the stairs and call, “Taffy!” then there was never any trouble. When he is in a tearing rage, I can always quiet him by taking tight hold of his paws, and kissing his eyes. I have told all of these things about Taffy so my readers will appreciate what I have been able to do with him. It is needless to say that when Little Billee went away, Taffy was the happiest cat in town. His devotion increased daily to me, and he lived in my room, only going down to get something to eat.

I think by this time you are very well acquainted with Mr. Taffy, and I will present Tricksey to you. Of all the canary birds I have ever seen, Tricksey is the prettiest, daintiest little bird you can possibly imagine. His colour is light yellow, with a much deeper shade between his wings, shading into almost an orange. His wings and tail are white, with just a line of yellow on some of the feathers. His eyes are unusually large and bright, and his little legs and claws are very pink, and so slender that they do not look strong enough to support his finely shaped body. He is really a very superior bird, and sings like an angel.

Tricksey had never been out of his cage when he came to me, but, before I had had him a week, he came out, perched on my finger, took things from my finger or mouth, would kiss me, and go all about my room on my finger, and very soon went all about the house with me. He was very fond of sweet apple, but I never let him have it inside his cage, but made him come to me for it. I kept a piece in a little dish on my table, and he soon found out where it was, and would help himself on the sly. I also kept on my table, in a little china cup, some hemp seed, which I gave to Tricksey as a great treat. Every time I would tap on the cup and make it ring, Tricksey would come out of his cage, down from a picture-frame, or wherever he was, for a seed.

One day he had had his one hemp seed, and teased for more, but I said, “No,” and he went flying about the room, having a fine time. Soon he flew back on the table, hopped over to the cup, gave it two or three taps to make it ring, then hopped on to the top, reached down and helped himself to two seeds.

Tricksey is a very vain little bird, and likes nothing better than to go over on my dressing-table, walk back and forth in front of the mirror, or sit on my pin-cushion and admire himself.

Tricksey came to me one afternoon, and Taffy knew nothing of his arrival until the next morning. When he came up-stairs and saw a little yellow bird in a house of gold, he was like the little girl’s Bunnie, who “was not a bit afraid, but awfully much surprised,” when she heard firecrackers for the first time. His eyes were like balls of fire, while his mouth opened and shut, making a hissing sound, and his tail going at the rate of a mile a minute. He walked into my room like a wild tiger, with an air as much as to say, “If this is Little Billee come back dressed in yellow, die he must,” and sprang at the cage. I took him firmly by the paws, looked straight into his big, angry eyes, and said in a soft, firm voice: “Taffy, this is Tricksey, and he is not to be eaten or hurt any more than my Little Billee who went away.” I let go of his paws; he walked out of my room and down-stairs without looking back. In about an hour I looked out into the hall, and there sat my dear old Taffy on the top step, looking very meek and wishful. I spoke kindly to him, and asked him to come in and see his new brother, Tricksey. After a few moments, he came in very slowly and went behind my bed. Soon he came from under the valance (the cage sat on a chair and I in front of it), never looked at the cage, jumped into my lap, put his paws about my neck, and began loving me. I took him to bed with me, and he never moved until Tricksey began to sing in a most delightful way, then he looked at him and listened very intently. I talked to him, and “softed his feathers,” and soon he snuggled down in my arm and went to sleep. When he got out of bed, he never glanced at the cage, but went directly down-stairs, and I felt I had made a good beginning. Every one said I could never teach Taffy not to catch Tricksey, and the reason his cat-ship did not kill Little Billee was because he was afraid of him and so carefully watched. I knew there was not a place in the house I could hang the cage where Taffy could not get at it if he made up his mind to do so. Of course, for days and weeks I felt anxious, and did not mean to leave them alone together. I never turned Taffy out of my room. If he went up to the cage and put up his paw, I would say: “Taffy, you must not put your paw on the cage,” and, as he always minds, he would take it right down, sit by the cage, and I would talk to him kindly. Fortunately, Tricksey was not at all afraid of Taffy.

Taffy always wears a yellow satin collar with bells all around. Often I would hear him coming up-stairs when I was lying down, and I would keep very quiet to see what he would do. Sometimes he would come over to the cage, look at Tricksey pleasantly, then lie down by the fire and go to sleep; more often he would lie down without even looking at him. But the moment he heard me talking to Tricksey, he would get up and come to me to be petted, and I always gave him a great deal. One day when Taffy was in another room, I let Tricksey out, and tried to be very quiet. I was sitting on the floor with Tricksey hopping about me. Before I hardly knew it, Taffy was in my lap, and soon I had Tricksey on my knee eating seeds. If I took the cage on my lap with Tricksey inside, Taffy would immediately jump up and crowd in between the cage and me.

Taffy was very much afraid the first time he saw Tricksey take his bath, and ran under the bed and peeped out from under the valance.

One morning the cage sat on the floor, and Tricksey was ready for his bath, when Taffy came in and sat close to the cage. Tricksey took a big drop of water in his bill and threw it into Taffy’s face. Taffy moved back a little, and looked all about to see where it came from. While he was looking, Tricksey went into his bath, and splashed the water all over Taffy’s face in a very roguish way. To say Taffy was surprised is speaking mildly. He turned to me with an angry cry and went out of the room. The next morning the same thing happened; but, instead of going out of the room, he went on the other side, out of reach of the water, but where he could see all that went on.

After that, he became so interested he did not mind if the water was splashed all over his face, and would sit as close to the cage as he could get. While Tricksey was eating his breakfast, he would lie down close to the cage and go to sleep. As I previously said, I never meant to leave Taffy in the room with Tricksey, but he was often there hours before I knew it. When I found him, he was always asleep in front of the cage or by the fire.

One morning, after the bath, I put the cage up in the window. Taffy did not seem to like it at all. He looked at me most wishfully, and began talking cat language, and I knew he was saying: “Please put Tricksey back on the floor.” I did so, and Taffy began to purr, lay down with his back close to the cage, stretched out, and went to sleep.

He had been lying that way for an hour when some visitors came. It seemed too bad to disturb Taffy, so I left him, and thought I would risk it.

Two hours passed before I went back, and you may imagine my delight when I found my two boys (so different in colour, size, and disposition) as happy as two kittens. Tricksey was singing merrily. Taffy had wakened, changed his position, and looked as if he felt very proud, being left to take care of his small brother. His eyes were as soft as velvet, and he spoke to me in a soft, cooing tone. Since then I have never felt there was any danger in leaving them together. I regret to say Tricksey has a strong will of his own, and almost as bad a temper as Taffy.

At different times I had three wee baby birds brought in to me, but they all died. Tricksey was very jealous of them, and when he saw me feeding them, he would become very angry, beat his wings against his cage, and beg for me to let him out. One day I put one of the little strangers on the floor and let Tricksey out. He flew at the waif and tore feathers out of the top of his head. I took the poor little frightened thing in my hand. Tricksey flew on my finger and pecked him. I put him in my other hand, and Tricksey flew at him more angry than ever. Then I put him on the floor, and Tricksey was so happy he flew on my head, hopped about my shoulders, and kissed me in the mouth. In the middle of the performance in walked dignified Mr. Taffy, with a look which plainly said: “What more are you going to bring into this room?” He sat by my side looking at the newcomer, and, before I knew what he was going to do, reached out his paw, and gave him a good slap, which sent him off my lap on to the floor.

Early in the fall, before I had any fire in my room, I would bring Tricksey down in the morning and keep him until evening, and for two weeks Taffy never went near my room during the day, but stayed down there with Tricksey. The first day I had a fire in my room, I did not bring Tricksey down as usual. After I gave Taffy his luncheon, I missed him, but did not go to my room until five o’clock, and there was faithful Taffy sound asleep close to Tricksey’s cage, and now he stays in my room all day. He has plainly shown that, if Tricksey stays there, he stays, too.

I find that animals want to be treated very much like children. The more intelligent they are, the easier it is to influence them, and the quicker they are to read you. First give them a great deal of love and kindness, always be firm, very patient, and above all never deceive them in the most trivial thing.

CHAPTER III

DEWEY

One morning my mother called to me, saying: “Here comes Charlotte with a bird.” I wondered at first whether my little friend was bringing me another sparrow, but, when I saw him, I could not help exclaiming: “What a perfect beauty!” And the way he cuddled down in my hand immediately won my heart.

He was straightway named Dewey, but what kind of bird he was, I never found out. Some people said he was an oriole, others a meadow-lark, while others not a meadow-lark, but some kind of a lark. Again he seemed a little like a blue jay, and, in fact, had points like a dozen different kinds of birds. When he was first brought to me, he was evidently about six weeks old, quite large and fluffy, but very much of a baby, for he knew nothing about feeding himself.

His tail was long, olive on top, yellow underneath; wings black, with cream colour on the edges: on the lower feathers just a line, on the upper ones quite a little wider, at the top short yellow feathers, making lovely little scallops; head and back olive-brown; rump more on the yellow, with a tinge of blue under the wings, and belly only tinted. As he grew older, he kept changing, and when nine months old his breast was light orange, belly light yellow, head and back deeper olive, rump deeper yellow. At one time he broke his tail off, and when it came in, the upper feathers were black, with yellow a quarter of an inch at the rump, while the under feathers were yellow and black. On his head were almost invisible stripes of black, and on his neck pretty broken, wavy ones. His eyes were large and bright, and his bill, so every one said, was the handsomest they had ever seen, it was so very long, and pointed as a needle. Underneath it was ivory-white, and on top black, with a white star at the head. But the admiration of all were his legs and claws, as he kept them so clean, and they were a beautiful blue, just the shade of malachite. He was seven inches long, and when nearly a year old began getting black spots over his eyes and on his throat. Now, what kind of a bird was he? Do you know? At any rate, I know he was a little rogue, and an imp for getting in mischief.

When he was given me, I installed him right away as an inmate of my hospital, where I then had two birds, Tricksey, a beautiful canary, and Cervera, a dirt-coloured sort of bird, with big, staring eyes and a bill almost as large as his head, which was perfectly flat. He was about the size of the canary, but only had his baby feathers and one tail feather. Surely, he was not a handsome bird, and I could not blame Dewey for never liking him.

When night came, I tried putting Dewey in the cage with Tricksey and Cervera, but Cervera pecked at him so much, and made poor Dewey’s life so miserable, I had to take Cervera out, and make him sleep in a basket by himself. Tricksey and Dewey, however, became great friends, and immediately put their wings close together and went to sleep.

In the morning, when the birds were let out on the floor, it was amusing to see Cervera mimic everything Tricksey did. If Tricksey took a drink, Cervera would, and would follow everywhere he went. When Dewey saw Taffy coming into the room for the first time, every nerve quivered with fright, as he did not know what that huge striped thing with shining green eyes was. Tricksey stood near Dewey, and I feel sure he whispered in his ear: “You need not be at all afraid; that is only Taffy, the cat, and we are the best of friends,” for after that he never had the least fear of Taffy. Taffy jumped into my lap, the three birds stood on the table, and I fed them by turns their bread and milk.

I soon found Dewey was a great mischief. One morning I left him loose in my room, and, on my return, what a sight greeted my eyes! He had taken all the pins and anything he could pick up, and thrown them on the floor. He had overturned a basket filled with ribbons and lace; some of the ribbons he had left on the floor, while with others he had decorated his cage, and in the cage I found a pair of heavy sleeve links, which he had thrown in his drinking-cup, while on the floor of the cage were two large coral hairpins, two shell pins, some studs, and another pair of cuff-buttons.

For a moment I stood speechless, then said: “You rogue of a bird, how shall I punish you?” But I did not have the heart to punish him, and, taking him in my hand, kissed him again and again.

When Tricksey had the asthma very badly, sometimes a little whiskey on some sugar would relieve him. It was funny to see Cervera manœuvre to get Tricksey off the perch, so he could eat the sugar and whiskey himself. Tricksey, however, I am sorry to say, grew worse instead of better, and one morning I was awakened early by his hard breathing. I took him off his perch, and found his claws ice-cold. He lay in my hand a few moments, pitifully gasping for breath, then threw back his pretty head, and all was over. We were heart-broken, and shed many tears, for we were powerless to bring back to life that little bird we loved so dearly.

I really felt sorry for Cervera. I believe he missed Tricksey, and for days seemed to be looking for him. One evening, like a flash, he flew out of the window, and I was never able to find him again. From then on, I could give more time to Dewey, as he was my only visitor left in the hospital.

One day, when I had him in the dining-room, I gave him a piece of sweet apple, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. The next morning Dewey was missing, and I looked for him everywhere up-stairs, as he had never gone down-stairs by himself, but he was nowhere to be found. At last I happened to go down in the dining-room, and there, quiet as a mouse, he sat on the sideboard, eating his fill of apple. After that, when he wanted anything down-stairs, he went for it himself.

He loved grapes better than any other fruit, and, no matter where he was, if I only said, “Dewey, would you like a grape?” he would fly to me, light on my finger, and go with me into the closet for one. One morning I again thought he was lost, but he was found safely in the dark closet eating a grape. When he wanted one, he would hop back and forth on the back parlour table, then on top of a high-back chair, and tease until one was given him. He liked best to have me hold a grape in my right hand, while he perched on my left, when he would suck all the rich, sweet juice next the skin first, then he would take the pulp over on a table and knock it until all the seeds came out before he ate it.

He liked flies, too, but spiders were his especial treat, and when he saw me with my handkerchief done up in my hand, he seemed to know what was inside, and would light on my finger, open the handkerchief, and take Mr. Spider out. He liked bananas, too, and would go to the fruit-dish and open one by himself.

Often in the morning at breakfast, he would perch on the plate or finger-bowl beside me, and eat his bit of orange. Usually I had my orange in my room, and sometimes Dewey would get so impatient he would fly over to the bed, back to the orange, and beg me to get up. He always took a drink out of the finger-bowl, and in the autumn, although he was put to bed by five o’clock, at seven he would be awakened and taken down to the dining-room for dessert.

One night he evidently became tired of waiting, and by himself went into the dining-room very quietly. We heard a great splashing, and the first thing we knew he had plunged into a finger-bowl and was having a bath to his heart’s content, soaking everything as well as himself. Of course, it was very cunning, but, after he had done it for three nights, we decided two baths a day were too much for him. Dewey, however, had made up his mind that if he could not take a bath in the finger-bowl at night, he would in the morning, and, as he refused to go near his old bath-tub, I had to give in to him, and the bowl was given him for his own.

It is surprising how few children have seen a bird take a bath, so I often had little visitors come in to see Dewey at his ablutions. One afternoon he wanted a second bath so badly that he went into the dining-room, got into a finger-bowl without any water, and positively would not get out until water had been put in and he had his bath. Just to try him once, I put the bowl on the floor in front of Taffy, but it did not bother Dewey in the least; in he went just the same. There was a bowl of Wandering Jew on the dining-table, and several times he took a bath in the centre of it. It was indeed a beautiful picture, but when I found he was tearing the vine to pieces, I decided it was not so pretty, and I gave Dewey many lectures for it; but he heeded them not, and, if taken away, would walk (for he could walk as well as hop) all over the table on the ends of his toes, and look everywhere but toward the bowl. Then, when no one was looking, he would grab a piece of the Wandering Jew and fly with it to the top of a picture. One day he trimmed all the pictures, and there was none left in the bowl, so after that he had to look for new mischief.

The next day he could not be found for a long while, and where do you suppose I at last found him? Sitting in the midst of some huge white chrysanthemums. If he had been sitting there quietly, no harm would have been done, but the imp had been busy every minute, looking for delicious black bugs, and to get them he was obliged to tear out all the petals.

Once he tasted some wine, and liked it so well that whenever any one came in and had some cake and wine, he would fly down on their plate, take a bite of cake, hop up on the wine-glass and take a sip of wine. In the autumn we had some very fine cider, and whenever any one came in, we would offer them some. One day Dewey saw some on the luncheon-table, and, hopping on the edge of the glass, took a taste. One taste did not seem enough for him, however, and he liked it so well that after that I gave him some each day in a whiskey glass. He was a regular little gourmand, and liked all kinds of fresh fruit and preserves, but wine jelly and whipped cream was the best of all.

Sometimes I used to take him down to dinner with me, when I would give him his own little table-cloth, and have a plate for him by my side. He would usually take a little of everything, and chicken and cranberry jelly seemed especially to tickle his palate. Sometimes he did not behave very well, and he would go tiptoeing across the table to my mother’s plate, hop on the edge, and see if she had anything he liked. When dinner was ready to be served, he would often fly over to the sideboard, make holes in all the butter balls, then he would take some mashed potato and boiled onions and put them to cool in a big hole he had made in an apple.

Few people know that birds are ever sick to their stomachs. Dewey had been in the habit of eating a little shaved hickory-nut, that was put in a half-shell and kept in a dish on the back parlour table. When he came down-stairs, he would usually take a taste, and it seemed to agree with him. For a change one day, I gave him some chestnut, and when I came in the room a little later, I found him huddled up in a corner, trying to go to sleep. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was not well, for he never acted that way in the daytime. I put him back in his cage, and sat down beside him. He would close his eyes and open his bill, and I thought he was dying until all of a sudden he opened his bill very wide, and out came the chestnut in a lump half an inch long and one-quarter wide.

My writing-desk was a favourite place of his. He would get into the drawers, pigeonholes, and ink, and pictures and all sorts of small things he would throw on the floor. Once he stole several dimes and pennies, and he could lift a silver dollar, and often would carry a coffee-spoon all about the room, so you see he had a very strong bill.

If anything was lost, I always blamed it on Dewey. One day I looked high and low for my thimble. I asked Dewey where it was; he pretended not to hear me, but, as I was going into my dressing-room, he dropped it down on my head from the top of the portière. He would often perch on a basket on top of the bookcase in the writing-room. One day I left a new white veil there, and when I went to look for it, I found Dewey had improved it greatly in his own estimation. There were about ten little holes right in the front of it, some round and some star shaped.

As he grew older, he would not sleep in his cage. For a few nights he insisted on sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the top of the curtain, where I put a piece of soft flannel over some cotton on the ledge and on the wall, so he would not take cold. If it was very cold, he would go behind the frill of the curtain out of every one’s sight, but, if it was warm, he would turn around so his tail would hang over the outside. When I would come in in the evening, he would open his eyes and nod to me, and, if not too sleepy, would come down and sit on my hand. He would never chirp or peep, and when he hid and heard me call, “Dewey, Dewey,” he would not answer, but would fly down on my head, shoulder, or hand.