The Bird Hospital

We did everything we could to frighten the cat to keep her away, but I would not hurt her or let any one else. One day the woman who was cleaning for me gave her a dreadful beating with a wet floor-cloth, and said: “Now, I guess you will go home and stay there.” I came out just as the cat was going and said: “Poor kitty.” She turned and fairly flew to my side, and from that day to this she has been devoted to me.

When I found she had fully made up her mind to come here and live, and nothing would keep her away, I said: “I will teach her not to kill my bird.” My friends all laughed in my face and said: “The idea of your thinking you can teach an ill-bred cat, who has never had any bringing up, the same as you taught an intelligent cat like Taffy.”

I soon found the cat was very affectionate, and that she loved me, and that is the best beginning you can have. I named her Dona Marina, as she was black enough for a Spanish lady. Her coat was black and shiny and her head and paws very small. In a few days she knew her name, so I felt she was quick to learn. From the day I gave the name to her, she has never been called anything else, and always answers me and will carry on long conversations with me. If she is up in my room and I go to the foot of the stairs and say: “Dona Marina,” she answers me. If I say, “Dona Marina, are you up-stairs?” she answers twice. I always invited her to come into my room when she came up-stairs, and, if she went after Blondell, I closed my door, then punished her by slapping her paws and talking to her, but never sent her out of my room. She soon understood she could stay there as long as she behaved herself, and spent many hours without me there. Still I was not quite sure of her, and every one said: “She will kill Blondell some day.” When I went out of the house, I sent her down-stairs and closed the door. That went on for many weeks, when one day I went to my room about four o’clock. Dona Marina had been asleep on my bed since luncheon with Blondell and no one else. It seemed a pity to wake her and make her go down, so I thought I would take the risk, and went out and left her. Several friends said they would not feel sorry for me at all if, when I went home, I did not even find a tail feather. I laughed and said I had no fear, as I fully trusted Dona Marina, but I trembled just the same, and, when I reached home at six o’clock, I went to the stairs and called in a shaky voice: “Dona Marina, are you up-stairs?” and when the answer came, “I am here,” I fairly flew up the stairs, and there, to my great joy, was Blondell happy in her cage and my little black lady stretched out full length on my bed, greeting me with loving eyes and a sweet song. Since that day I never gave her a thought. She sits on the table by the cage and looks at Blondell, never putting up a paw, and lies down and goes to sleep by the side of her.

Dona Marina very seldom walks on the floor; she simply flies through the air. She comes on a run from the kitchen, lands in the middle of the dining-room table, then jumps into a chair by the back parlour door, into a chair in the back parlour, into another chair, then on top of the table. If she is on her way up-stairs, she makes one grand leap, which lands her in the front parlour by the door going into the hall. She never pauses, but on she flies up the stairs into my room, over the top of the bird-cage, on to my work-table, and sits down, as if it were the only way to enter a room.

She is a very intelligent cat, and I often wish she did not know so much. Like all my pets, she is spoiled, and does everything she wishes to. Last spring she had her first kittens, and I, of course, was the trained nurse, and such a time as I had. As four babies were too many for me to have up-stairs, two were taken away at once and put in a pail of water. Then my trouble began. She took on so, and seemed to think I could bring them back, and would not give me any peace until I fished them out of the water, dried them on a towel, and brought them into the parlour. She took them at once up to my dressing-room. She had her bed in a nice basket, with linen sheets, in an old-fashioned chest. After a few minutes, I brought them down and she came for them. After taking them back three times, she found she could not bring them to life, and gave up. When I had gotten into bed, she came to me, talked, then went back to her babies. After keeping at me for a half-hour, and I did not make any move to get up, she came and took right hold of my chin. After she bit me three times, I thought I had better get up and see what she wanted. She soon made me understand she wanted the basket taken out and put on my bed, so no one could get her babies. I did so, putting a kimono on the foot and covering the basket. She got into the basket, and there was no more trouble. I did that for two nights, and then she seemed to think there was no more danger and she stayed in the chest.

One night she insisted upon my getting up at three o’clock. I thought she must be hungry, and went into my dressing-room and saw that there was no milk in her dish. I also felt there was a great change in the weather and saw the ground was covered with snow, so I put down the windows, then went down-stairs after the milk. When I came back, I found Dona Marina in the basket with her kittens, looking very happy. I offered her the milk, and she said: “No, thank you. It was too cold for my darlings, and all I wanted was the window put down.” I could have choked her with a good will.

When it was time for her children to learn to get out of the basket, she lifted them out and put them on the floor, and asked me to take the basket. One was black as coal, and the other maltese. The black one we named “Ping,” and the gray one “Pong,” and they were very different in all their ways.

My trials began when their mother thought they needed something more than milk. Every one said: “You want to look out for Blondell, now Dona Marina has her kittens,” but she went outdoors for all of her game, and the dear baby birds she used to bring in almost broke my heart. She would bring them to me first, but, if they were not dead, they were wounded so they soon died.

One day she carried a large fish up to them just as the man brought it in the paper. When they were four weeks old, she thought they ought to sleep on the foot of my bed instead of in their basket. I was determined I would not give in to her, but, after keeping me awake until after two o’clock one night, I said: “Go bring your babies, and we will all go to sleep.” After that they slept on the foot of my bed until they were given to a very nice little girl when they were two months old.

Dona Marina mourned for them for two weeks, and would carry up food in mouthfuls and look all over for them.

Two months ago Dona Marina presented me with four more babies, which was a little more than I had bargained for. Two were taken from her before she hardly had time to count, so she did not make as much fuss as she did the first time.

A little girl came to see them, and said: “Why don’t you name them after their mother?” I said: “I do not think it would be nice to call them both Dona Marina.” She said: “Oh, no; call one Dona and the other Marina.”

Dona is twice the size of Marina, is black and white, and looks like a little circus pony. Marina is most beautifully marked. Her head, back, and tail are black, face black, also her legs, white whiskers, and a tiny white line between the eyes. Under her chin white about as wide as your finger, then broadens and goes half down the neck, broadens out again, narrows at the breast bone, broadens again, and goes all the way down. She has four white paws, so you see she has a very swell black and white costume.

Marina is full of mischief, but very affectionate. Dona is much more quiet and dignified, but is also affectionate, and loves to have me take him on my shoulder.

They were born in the same basket, and Dona Marina went through the same performance about taking them out when it was time to have the basket on the floor, also the same performance about sleeping on the foot of my bed, and, of course, I had to give in to her.

At the present time Marina is on my lap and Dona on my shoulder. They have full sway of the house, and what they cannot do is not worth doing.

One day when I came in, I thought there must have been an army of children in the parlours, by the sight that met my eyes. All the books from the lower shelf of the bookcase were on the floor. They had gotten up on the magazine table and thrown all the magazines on the floor. Sofa pillows were everywhere but where they ought to be. A large corn-cob in the front parlour, and corn-husks here, there, and everywhere, with scraps of paper in every direction, and Dona and Marina fast asleep in the empty scrap-basket, while their mother lay curled up in an easy-chair.

During the day they go outdoors and all over the house, but when the house is lighted, they seem to think up-stairs is the place for them.

We have had great fun catching flies. They come and ask me to help them. I take my handkerchief, and, when I get a fly in it, they come and take it out, and sometimes there is quite a fight to see which gets it.

I was in hopes to have had many interesting things to tell about Dona and Marina, but a friend came for them to-day, and I could not say “No” again, as I had promised them when they were wee babies, but I shall miss them greatly, and I feel very sad and lonely to-night without my baby pets.

CHAPTER IX

BOBBINETTE AND BOBBY – TWO ORPHANS

Those who have been fortunate enough to have read that charming little story of “Bobby and Bobbinette,” by Mrs. Talbot, will know where I found these names. Instead of being two New York children, they are two Seneca Falls robins, but the names fit as if made to order, as they are just as different as the original Bobby and Bobbinette. Bobbinette rules Bob with a rod of iron, and he meekly does as he is bid.

One bright morning in May, as I came into the yard, I saw Dona Marina sitting on the front piazza charming a nice, plump baby robin, who was perched on a water-pipe not three feet away. She was opening and shutting her mouth, making that hissing sound, and her large green eyes were fairly glued to the robin’s black ones. Just as she was ready to spring, I called out sharply: “Dona Marina, you wicked cat, don’t you dare catch that baby bird.” She turned around in the most leisurely way, and came to meet me with the air of the innocent.

If I had not seen her with my own eyes, I never should have suspected she had the least designs on the bird. The mother bird was calling and screeching with rage in a tree near by. As soon as Dona Marina’s back was turned, the frightened bird hopped down, and went around in the back yard as fast as her baby legs could carry her.

After telling Dona Marina just what I thought of her conduct, I went after the baby, and finally caught her. But, when I brought her back to the street, there was no mother bird anywhere to be seen or heard, and she evidently thought her darling had gone down Dona Marina’s throat.

I then told the little stranger that she was in the hands of the head nurse of “The Bird Hospital,” and would receive the best of care. I at once put her into a nice little cot, and covered her, as it is best to keep wild or strange birds in the dark for at least two days, until they get used to you and their environments.

My new patient was very hungry, so I had no trouble in getting her to take the cracker soaked in milk. The third day I put her into a canary cage (but covered), as I thought I better try and teach her to stay in a cage some of the time, and not always have her liberty, as the dear departed Cady did. She behaved unusually well, and I kept her in that for several days, taking her out many times to stretch and flop her wings.

I was then fortunate enough to have a large parrot cage loaned me. She showed great delight when I put her in, as she had plenty of room to go about, and did not show the slightest desire to get out. I knew she could if she wished, as the brass wires were very wide apart.

I was detained down-stairs, and it was later than usual when I went up to put her to bed in her cot. As I went into the room, I saw there was no baby bird in the cage.

I called out: “Oh, my baby has gone,” and a very mournful peep came back to me, which plainly said: “I am over here in this dark corner.” She had evidently tried to find me, but did not know the way down-stairs. That was the first and last time she ever ran away.

Blondell and Dona Marina had been the only occupants in the hospital for three years, with the exception of a few stray patients who only lived a very short time.

At first Dona Marina did not know what to make of the robin. She knew it was entirely different from Blondell, and watched it hopping all over the floor with the greatest interest, as Blondell usually stayed in her cage. For a few days I watched her very carefully when the robin was on the floor, but she soon understood she was not to touch it, and would lie on the rug and go to sleep, while the robin played about her.

Two weeks after I rescued the robin from the jaws of death, I saw another baby robin in the back yard. The floodgates of heaven were opened wide, and the rain coming down in perfect torrents. I could not see or hear any father or mother bird, but there was a large white cat who had his eyes upon her. I spent most of my time for an hour with one eye on the bird and the other on the cat. At last I succeeded in frightening the cat away, and, as it grew dark, the bird flew up on to the grape-vine, then into a small tree. It had not stopped raining one minute, and I could not bear to think of that dear baby up in a tree all night alone, with a prospect of the white cat making his breakfast upon it.

When it became quite dark, I took a chair out under the tree, stood up on it, reached up and put my hand over the bird. I soon found it had good lungs, and also found it was a beauty, so did not mind being covered with mud and getting almost as wet as the bird. I felt sure it was a male bird, and that the first one was a female, as that was so much lighter in colouring.

I dried orphan number two, and put him to sleep in a cot, just as I did orphan number one. The next morning I told her all that I have told to you, then brought the little stranger and put him inside the cage, expecting she would be more than pleased to have a relative for a companion, but, alas, no. I never was more mistaken in my life. She put up all the feathers in her crest, looking like a wild “Indian,” spread her wings, and was not only ready to fight, but pitched right in. The little stranger was more afraid of her than he was of the white cat, and it did not take him many seconds to get out between the bars, and fly to me for protection. But, after a few days, they became good friends, and slept every night in the cage side by side in the swing.

Then came a great discussion, “What shall I name the robins?” but it was settled for me by having the little book I spoke of sent me.

When Dona Marina saw robin number two, she acted as if she thought there were getting to be more robins in the hospital than she cared to see, but when number three arrived, her eyes grew larger than ever, and she seemed to say: “Will they never cease coming?”

I was unusually busy when a friend came with a box. I said: “I hope you have not brought anything for me to take care of, as I am almost frantic now.” She said: “Only a baby robin.” I held up my hands and exclaimed: “But I already have two.” She said: “I did not know what else to do with it. It fell out of the nest, and I could not take care of it, and I knew you would.”

The poor little thing could not even stand up, and all it knew was to open its big bill and cry for food. Of course I was simply obliged to keep it.

Few people have the slightest idea of the care and trouble of a wild baby bird. I did not want it to starve to death, so every few moments I put cracker and milk down that yawning cavity. The last thing before I got into bed at twelve o’clock I fed it, and I got up and fed it every two hours during the night. I was almost in hopes it might die, but, when morning came, it was as lively as a cricket. I at once named the third orphan Bèbè, and for two weeks it gave to me the greatest pleasure, as well as constant care.

Bobbinette and Bobby simply hated the little stranger, and would not have the slightest thing to do with her. If I put her into their cage, they would immediately chase her out. She would fall on to the floor, as she could not fly, and get out of their way as quickly as her weak little legs could carry her. Every little while during the day, I would put her into her little white cot for a nap, and she would go to sleep at once.

Every day she grew stronger, and before many days could run about as fast as Bobbinette and Bobby, but she could not fly.

At that time Dona Marina gave birth to two beautiful kittens, consequently she was in the hospital most of the day as well as the night. At first I was afraid Dona Marina might hurt Bèbè, as Bèbè could not fly, and was usually on the floor when she was not taking her nap.

All there was to do was to make Dona Marina fully understand she was not to hurt or even frighten Bèbè.

I put Dona Marina on a chair, then put Bèbè beside her. By the way Bobbinette and Bobby cocked their pretty heads and puffed out their breasts, I knew they were thoroughly enjoying hearing me tell Dona Marina how very naughty they had been to Bèbè, and that she must be very kind to the little stranger, help take good care of her, and make her happy. Dona Marina nodded her wise little head, and blinked her intelligent eyes at me, smelled Bèbè all over, but never offered to bite her. In cat language she said she would always be kind, and try to take the place of her lost mother, and she kept her promise. From that day they were together almost constantly, Dona Marina lying on a chair or on the floor (when she was not giving her babies their dinner, as it was too warm weather to stay with them all the time), with Bèbè playing all about her.

When Bobbinette and Bobby felt very good-natured, they would ask Bèbè to play with them on the floor, but never would let her go inside their cage. If Dona Marina was trying to take a nap, they would hop all about her, chirp as loud as they could, and tell Bèbè to go and pull her tail, which she often did. Dona Marina would open her eyes, smile at her, close them, give a good stretch, and go to sleep again.

When Bèbè would hear Dona Marina and me coming up the stairs, she would run out into the hall to meet us, hop along by Dona Marina’s side into the dressing-room, hop on to the edge of her dish, and drink milk with her, and Dona Marina never gave her a cross look.

We feel sure if Bèbè had lived until the cot with the kittens in it was put on the floor, she would have gotten right in and gone to sleep with them. But dear Bèbè’s life was far too short for me, but plenty long for Bobbinette and Bobby.

One afternoon while I was out, Bèbè must have felt badly, and went down-stairs to look for me. She found her way into my mother’s room and woke her with her peeping. My mother spoke to her, but she knew it was not the voice she was accustomed to, and tried to find her way back. She was dreadfully frightened when she was finally caught, for she also knew it was not the hand that fondled her. When I returned, I saw at once there was something wrong with my baby bird, as a very bad odour was coming from her breath. I did all I could, put her to bed, and she seemed all right. The next morning she grew worse again, and in a few moments was nothing but a ball of pretty lifeless feathers. I felt sure she died of blood poison from the angleworms that were forced down her throat before she was brought to the hospital. The mother birds always kill the worms before feeding to their birdlings.

After Bobbinette had been in the hospital a week, as a great honour, I presented Cady’s blue and white china bath-dish to her. She acknowledged the compliment by going right in and taking a nice bath. When Bobby arrived, he did not even wait to be asked to make use of the bath-tub, but took possession at once. After that, Bobbinette positively refused to take her bath in it. Every day when I offered it to her, she would hop on to the edge, then fly away, go into the cage, scold, and try to make me understand what she meant. If I held the dish up to her, she would hop on, take a drink, and away she would go.

This went on for two weeks, then all at once it flashed through my stupid brain that she had no intention of taking a bath in the same dish Bobby did.

I immediately went down-stairs, and came back with an oval white vegetable dish, and said: “Bobbinette, how would you like this for your very own?” She was wild with delight, and could hardly wait until it was filled; in fact, got in before the water was put in. I assure you she took a good long bath to make up for the two weeks she had been without.

The next morning, when I put the blue dish down for Bob and the white one for Bobbinette, that impertinent and presuming fellow had the face to go over to Bobbinette’s dish and say: “I think I will try the white one for a change,” and hopped on with a very grand air; but he hopped off much quicker than he hopped on, for Bobbinette flew at him and took feathers out of the top of his head. When she sees him, she will never let him go near her dish, but often she does not see him, and, if I am not there, he will take part of his bath in hers, then the rest in his own.

Lately I have made it a point to be there until he finishes, for I cannot supply a new dish for Bobbinette every few days.

They like to have me play with them by throwing the water at them, just as Cady did, and, if I sing and keep time by rapping the dish, Bob will sing with me.

Bob would take a bath twice a day if I would let him, but Bobbinette sometimes does not take one for two or three days. You see she got into bad habits the weeks she went without.

It had rained most of the time before Bobbinette and Bobby came to the hospital to live, and no doubt they had been soaked to the skin many times. When it was too late, I found I ought not to have let them bathe, for they both had bad colds. I did not know what the matter was until they began to cough, sneeze, and make all sorts of disagreeable noises. They would have driven any one who was nervous about wild, and they really annoyed me, who am not, and kept me awake many nights. I had never had birds act as they did, for they were different from a bird with the asthma. Some of my friends who knew about chickens said they had the “pip,” others the “gapes,” and told me to do this, that, and the other thing, but they kept growing worse instead of better. Finally I wrote to my old standby, George Holden, and asked what to do, as I felt it was high time to have a good counsel. They had already been eating his bird food. He wrote to me: “Do not pay any attention to the noise the robins make, add more carrot to their food, give them plenty of green food, and let them have all they want to eat; keep them warm, and they will come out all right.” I followed his advice, and, after many trying weeks, they entirely recovered. This case was the longest, except Teddy’s, the hospital ever had.

When Bobby moulted, his feathers came in as fast as they came out, but Bobbinette must have had a high fever, for, when some of hers came out, no new ones came in. From her shoulders to the top of her head she did not have a feather for two months. She would scratch her head and pick her wings most of the time.

One day I looked her over carefully, and found the under part of her wings red and inflamed, while on the top of her head was a crust similar to the milk crust babies have.

I immediately rubbed dry sulphur all over her head and under parts of her wings, and kept it up for two weeks. By the time it was warm weather, and their colds seemed cured, I let them have their bath again, and how much they enjoyed them only they can tell. Then the crust began to leave Bobbinette’s head, as well as all of her crest feathers, until only three remained, and for weeks no new ones came in. It was very amusing, when Bobbinette became very angry and began to scold, to see those three feathers stand straight up as proud as if there were three dozen.

Bobby is always dignified and rarely loses his temper or ruffles his plumage, while Bobbinette very often gets mad, scolds you, strutting about with breast feathers all puffed out, and the feathers on her head standing up and her tail going like a little wren. If Bobby is taking a drink of water, and Bobbinette wants some, she never says, “By your leave,” or waits a second, but coolly takes him by the feathers of his head and puts him away, and takes possession of the water. But Bob is much more destructive than Bobbinette. They eat off of pretty Vantine china, and drank their water out of thin whiskey glasses until Bob broke four by taking them up in his bill and dropping them down on his bath-dish to hear them make a ringing sound. Now I make them use a little earthen jar, that is good and strong, and only favour them with a glass to drink their milk out of when they go down to the parlour for their singing lesson.