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 CHAPTER XXVII
A HUMMINGBIRD, AND NATIVE AND FOREIGN FINCHES

The bird that paid the briefest visit to my aviary was a hummingbird.
I had him for a day, then there was a rush of wings and he was
gone. My first experience with this interesting and tiniest member of
the bird race was in California. While sauntering one day about the
beautiful grounds of the Belmont School a lad said to me, “Come
and see a new bird’s nest.” He took me to a spot close to a rustic
bridge where, in the long blades of what we in the East call “ribbon
grass,” and only a few feet from the ground, a hummingbird had
fastened an exquisite, fairylike cup, made of the softest plant down.
There sat the mother bird on two pure white eggs, gazing calmly
at the schoolboy who, with a number of his friends, visited her daily.
One boy got into serious trouble for, with mistaken zeal, he tried to
feed bread-crumbs to the little mother, and brought down on his
head a severe reprimand from the older lads.
As I hung over the dainty nest I wondered whether the
hummingbird had had an eye for the beautiful, in choosing this spot
to bring up her nestlings. Just below her home, a small brook or
“creek” as Californians say, ran among great clumps of calla lilies.
Among the lilies, lived several frogs, and as we leaned over the
rustic bridge above them, we used to call “Little brother,” and rouse
one fat frog who would respond, “Lit-tle Bro-ther, Lit-tle Bro-ther,” till
the other frogs would take up the friendly refrain and send it
resounding away up the creek.
These schoolboys were the best boys that I ever saw to birds. Two
hundred of them went daily to and fro in the finely wooded school-
grounds, thirty-five acres in extent, and every one seemed to be
mindful of the head master’s strict injunction that no one should kill
any birds but a bluejay.
 All the song-birds were fearless, and rewarded the boys by
constant and exquisite music. The hummingbirds were the boys’
chief favorites, and early one morning when they found a number of
their pets chilled and benumbed on the ground they took them up,
administered sugar and water, and when the little creatures had
become quite warm, and the genial Californian sun was well up in
the sky, they gave them their liberty, and rejoiced to see these
brilliant jewels of the air darting thankfully away.
My next experience with a hummingbird was in Canada. During
our pleasant summer weather we always had, if in the city, window-
boxes full of nasturtiums, and to these boxes several hummingbirds
came daily. Whenever we heard the rapid vibration of our brilliant-
winged visitors conversation was hushed in the rooms inside.
One summer evening a man brought me a young hummingbird,
and said that his cat had caught it, but fortunately he had been able
to rescue it before any harm had been done. The little bird was cold
and feeble, and taking him in my hand I put his head against my
face. After the manner of young hummingbirds with their parents,
before they leave the nest, he put his tiny bill into my mouth and
thrust out an extremely long and microscopic tongue in search of
food.
He soon discovered that he was not with his parents. I had neither
honey nor insects for him. However, I did the next best thing, and
sent to a druggist for the purest honey that he had. In the
meantime, I put my tiny visitor on the window-boxes. The old
hummingbirds must have taken all the honey, for he seemed to find
nothing there to satisfy him until I put some of that the druggist
sent into the blossoms. I held them to his bill and he drank greedily,
then, after looking around the room, he flew up to a picture frame,
put his head under his wing, and went to sleep.
The next morning at daylight I looked up at the picture. The
hummingbird woke up, said “Peep, peep!” a great number of times,
in a thin, sweet voice, no louder than a cricket’s chirp, but did not
come down.
I got up, filled a nasturtium with honey, pinned it to a stick, and
held it up to my little visitor, who was charmed to have his breakfast
in bed. Finally he condescended to come down, visited other flowers
and had more drinks, then I opened the window and told him he
was too lovely and too exquisite an occupant for an aviary, and he
had better seek his brilliant brothers of the outer air.
He went like a flash of sunshine, and I have never regretted
releasing him, for I would rather have had an eagle die on my hands
than this tiny, painted beauty. Hummingbirds have been kept in
captivity when great care has been exercised in providing for them.
A conservatory or hothouse is a good place for them, for there they
get the sun’s rays which are absolutely essential to their well-being,
and they also find on the plants the nearest approach to their
natural food.
The objection to this method of keeping these fragile birds is that
their delicate frames are quickly injured by coming into contact with
hard substances during their rapid flight. The better way is to
enclose them inside a mosquito netting stretched on a frame. The
best way of all is never to confine them—to give them entire liberty,
for of all birds the hummingbird is the least suitable for a life of
languishing captivity.
Purple finches have been very favorite pets of mine. Those that I
have had have been quiet and amiable, and among the most good-
natured and obliging of my birds. The first time I heard them sing I
was enraptured. Their song was so sweet, so modest, so melodious.
One finch I possessed amused me greatly. He fell into a kind of
slavery to a siskin, who followed him and worried him until he at last
consented to help her make a nest, in which there were some fine
young ones that might have turned out promising hybrids if some
wicked, larger bird had not one day killed the neat, determined little
mother. I found her headless body beside her nest. She had died in
defense of her home. One of the gallinules had probably come along
and killed her when she refused to leave her nest.
Her death was a tragedy, but it left the hen-pecked finch free, and
he soon devoted himself to his best-loved bird—a female finch of his
own class. He adored this shy, second mate—the siskin had been a
bold little thing. I often opened the door of the veranda-room for
him and sat quietly in a corner while he led in the finch so that they
could be away from the rougher birds outside.
Picking up a little bit of wool or hair in his beak the finch would
elevate his head-feathers till they almost formed a crest, and would
extend his reddish wings and shake them till they looked like a
hummingbird’s. Then, making a pretty, coaxing noise, he would spin
round and round the room in a kind of skirt dance.
The female teased him a good deal by looking the other way and
pretending not to see him, but finally he persuaded her to make a
nest, where she laid eggs and hatched them, but the young ones
only lived a short time—I think because she was shy and easily
frightened from them.
She almost fell a victim to another tragedy, for one day, on
stepping to the veranda, I found her swinging from a branch by her
slender neck. I ran to her, and found that a long hair had become
fastened round her neck, and if I had not opportunely appeared she
would soon have strangled to death. Fortunately she seemed none
the worse for her adventure.
She was a brave little bird, and one habit of hers used to amuse
me immensely. She was a great bather, and enjoyed her baths
keenly during mild weather. Unlike many of my birds, who absolutely
would not bathe when the cold days came, she kept on, but as if
urged to her ablutions by a sense of duty she cried all the time she
was bathing.
“Wee, wee!” she would exclaim, as she splashed into the water,
then rose up tremblingly, “This water is dreadfully cold, but I must
bathe. Wee, wee!” and down she would go again. I kept the aviary
quite cool in the winter, but any birds that liked could sit near the
hot-water pipes.
Very different from our native finches are the little foreigners of
the same name. I am informed that there are thousands and
thousands of these tiny foreign finches brought to America from
Africa, Asia, and Australia. Some are only two and a half inches long,
some are four, few are as large as the average canary.
Many of these finches are bred in captivity, but in most cases they
are wild, and are caught by natives with more or less cruelty. Some
of the African finches are said to be stupefied by the smoke of fires
built under their roosting-places. They drop into blankets spread by
the cunning Negroes and are given to captains of vessels in
exchange for mock jewelry or rum.
On shipboard they are placed in boxes with wire fronts and their
little anxious faces rise tier on tier. The voyage is long, and
overcrowding and disease do their work. The wonder is that any
survive. Fancy the contrast between the splendors of the African
forest and the horrors of this crowded ship!
Upon arriving in America the bird-dealers take the tiny captives in
hand, open their filthy cages, put them in clean ones, and exhibit
them in their windows.
I do not believe that there is any overpowering desire on the part
of the American public to possess these fragile foreigners. However,
the bird-dealer must live, and when passers-by see the pale blue,
ruby, lavender, or orange-colored little beauties in the windows, they
buy them and kindly and ignorantly set about keeping them. Of
course, the birds in most cases die, but the Negro goes on getting
his rum, the captain gets his money, and the dealer makes a living.
I believe the average person would rather have a canary than a
finch. The canary is used to this climate and the finch is not. Why
not have all this traffic in caged birds supervised by humane
societies? I do not wish to reflect upon the character of all bird-
dealers. Many of them are honest men, and some of them I know
really love their birds. There are, however, many dealers who are in
the business solely to make money, and as long as they are
permitted to do as they please, birds will suffer.
Humane societies are not money-making concerns. The members
usually consist of the most altruistic citizens of any place. They wish
to do what is for the good of their village, town, or city. It would
certainly be better for the birds and better for the public to have
them regulate this traffic.
I had only two pairs of foreign finches. I would buy no more when
I learned how they were captured. The first were cutthroats, and
dear little birds they were, so devoted to each other and so
surprised to find that the bird world was not full of good little
creatures like themselves. When other birds boxed their ears they
would fly to each other, rub each other’s heads, and murmur
consolation.
They were fawn-colored birds, delicately mottled on the breast,
with dark-brown spots. The male only had the red stripe across the
throat, that gives him his dreadful name. They were very tame, and
often while I stood close to them the male, as if struck by a sudden
thought, would jump up, dance up and down on his tiny feet,
turning his body from side to side as he did so, and sing a hoarse
little song. The song and dance were so comical that I frequently
burst out laughing, but his feelings never seemed hurt, and he soon
broke out again.
In the intervals between his dancing he would press close to his
diminutive mate—she was much smaller than a canary—and carried
on his favorite occupation of gently rubbing her head with his beak.
Once, when she was struck by a large bird, I saw her fly right to
him, and it was very pretty to observe the intensely affectionate,
sympathetic way in which he went all over her head with his tiny
beak, as if to say, “Which is the sore place?—let me rub it for you.”
They were so devoted to each other that they invariably kept
together when flying from one part of the aviary to the other, so that
one day I was surprised to see them separated. I looked about and
found that they had made a nest over some hot-water pipes. These
little birds are very prolific, and hatch young ones freely in captivity.
A lady is reported to have had from one pair in three years, as many
as forty-five broods—altogether over two hundred and forty eggs,
from which one hundred and seventy-six were hatched. I hoped very
much that I might have some tiny cutthroats, but the nest was in
too warm a place, and the eggs did not amount to anything.
A new bird, on going into an aviary, usually chooses a pet place
for sleeping and resting, and keeps to it. The little cutthroats chose
their place in some fir trees near the doves. The doves pushed them
about a little, but the cutthroats soon learned to avoid them.
The only birds that conquered the doves were the Java sparrows.
These sparrows are nice little birds, but I never had a high opinion
of their intelligence, until I saw how they dominated these same
stubborn doves.
They never bothered the doves in summer, but every winter the
Javas persisted in sleeping between them on cold nights. On going
into the aviary after dark, I would see one Java tucked between the
doves, and another on the outside of one of them.
The clever little things had discovered that the doves’ bodies were
warm and comforting. I was puzzled to know how they maintained
their footing, for the doves gave resounding slaps of their wings to
any little bird who went too near them.
One night I discovered the Javas’ trick. When the dove lifted its
wing to strike, the Java slipped under it and missed the force of the
blow. After a time the dove got tired of beating, and the Java went
to sleep. There were many other birds in the aviary, but the Javas
never attempted to sleep near any of them but the ringdoves or the
white doves.
After I had had Father Cutthroat nearly a year, he vanished
mysteriously, and poor Mrs. Cutthroat in her desolation behaved very
badly. She would slyly watch my Bengalese finches—two other tiny
birds that looked like fawn and white butterflies—and as soon as
they made a nest she would drive them from it, and lay eggs herself
in the usurped place.
This excited the Bengalese birds. The male would dance up and
down and sing his little song that sounded like, “Hardly able, set the
table; hardly able, set the table!” But if he approached the nest,
Widow Cutthroat would rise, lean over the edge, sway to and fro,
and make a hissing noise like a little snake.
In spite of her apparent devotion to a particular nest, she never
kept to it, and as soon as the Bengalese pair made a new one, she
would take it from them. I excused her bad conduct on the plea that
she was grieving over the loss of her devoted mate. Where could he
be? I looked high and low in the aviary below, and the roof-veranda
above—if he were dead I would at least find his body. It was
impossible for him to escape through the fine wire netting.
Flying Squirrels
Page 273
 Finally, his body or skeleton did appear, in a sudden and
unexpected manner. It was immediately below the box of my flying-
squirrels. These squirrels had been in the aviary for a long time.
They were beautiful little creatures with soft, silky fur and very large
eyes. I had got them with the intention of taming them but,
unfortunately, they only came out of their box at night. I often went
in and looked long and earnestly at them as they ran and jumped
about searching for food, but I did not attempt to play with them as
I would have disturbed my sleeping birds.
Their favorite haunt was, of course, the roof-veranda, but I soon
found out that they could not sail horizontally, but only downward. A
favorite sport with them is to run to the top, of a tree, flying down to
the near-by branches of a lower one, run to the top of this, and then
fly down to another. Jumping or springing squirrels would really be a
better name for them.
They were very quiet in their movements, and I do not think the
birds minded them any more than they did the few mice that I could
not keep out of the aviary. The mice were really very amusing, as
they crept quietly from place to place, searching for the scraps of
food the birds had left. They were not afraid of me, and I often
smiled as I held up my lantern and saw them climbing over tree
trunks and branches, as naturally as if they too were birds, and
occasionally stopping short, and peering at me with their beady
eyes.
I guessed that the cutthroat had been exploring, and in searching
for a new place for a nest had been led by his curiosity to enter the
squirrels’ open doorway. Resenting the intrusion, they had probably
jumped at him and killed him. I knew that red squirrels would kill
birds, and being now suspicious of these gray gymnasts, I had a
carpenter come and fasten their box outside instead of inside the
netting. Naturally, they did not stay in it, and I hope ran either to the
gardens or the park, where they would find numbers of red squirrels
to play with them.
 CHAPTER XXVIII
JAPANESE ROBINS AND A BOBOLINK

I have not up to this time said much about the birds in my collection
that were usually most remarked by strangers. They were the
Japanese robins, or Peking nightingales.
I had heard of these red-billed, orange-breasted little birds with
their large black eyes, and shortly after I began keeping birds had
one sent to me. He was indeed a beauty, and in excellent condition,
and had traveled as comfortably as a bird can travel in a good-sized
cage with plenty of food and a sponge in his drinking-cup, so that if
the water were spilt, he could suck the moisture from it.
I took him into my study, and in trying to slip him from his
traveling-cage into a larger one, for I always like to keep new
arrivals in quarantine for a few days, he escaped from me.
Now I was to see some of the lightning-like movements that the
bird books spoke of. I closed the doors and he went around the
room like a streak of light. I thoroughly believed what I had heard—
that no cat can catch this robin, unless he chooses to be caught, and
that he can clear a room of flies in a few minutes. Now he was this
side of me, now the other. I had to keep turning my head to follow
the swift motions of this little acrobat. As I watched him I admired
more and more the red and orange of his costume, and the ring of
white around his wonderful eyes that gave him a distinguished and
foreign appearance. I had read of his rich, throaty song, his mellow
calls, and listened anxiously for the first sounds to issue from his
pretty throat.
To my dismay he suddenly began to scold me, uttering hoarse,
chattering, grating noises. I saw that he was excited and angry. This
was not singing. It was scolding. I put him in the aviary the next
day, and stopped staring at him. He hid for some time in a fir tree,
then he came out, began to be at home, never acted shy or strange
again, and sang nearly all day long a song that was all my fancy had
imagined it.
I was intensely interested in this foreigner that never for an
instant lost his foreign look, his foreign ways, and yet who seemed
more at home than any native bird in my aviary. He kept up his
inconceivably yet gracefully rapid movements. He would start at one
end of the aviary, snatch a morsel from a food-dish, peck at a bit of
fruit, turn a kind of somersault in the air, and land in a water-pan,
where he would take a partial bath, and then dart off again. I never
saw him take a complete bath, though he would be in the tub forty
times a day. He was always in too much of a hurry to finish.
He seemed to have quite a talent for mischief, and one day I could
not help smiling as I saw him play a roguish trick on my robin Bob.
He watched her leave her nest and get out of sight, then he darted
to the eggs, settled down on them with a blissful expression of
countenance and shut his eyes, as if to say, “How lovely to have
something to care for!” Another flash of thought then struck him. He
sprang up, gave one of the eggs a good sharp peck that made a
hole in it, and scampered off to avoid reprisals from the wrathful Bob
who screamed if any one meddled with her eggs.
Nearly all the time this robin flew about the aviary he kept up a
gurgling, blissful song, and so fascinated was I with him that I sent
away for a mate. She soon came. I had found a bird-dealer who
really seemed to love his birds, and who never sent me a poor one
or a sick one. When Mrs. Jap arrived, my friend, the first bird, nearly
lost his head. I have said that when I got him he went around the
room like a streak of lightning. If it were possible for one to see two
streaks in one I now was the favored individual.
He, the enterprising happy bird, had been living as a stranger in a
strange land. Here now was a beloved little sister, right from his own
dear land. What was he to do about it? Intense joy so urged him on
that he could not stop long enough to speak to her. The fastidious,
exquisite little female, in the intervals of cleaning her plumage,
disarranged by travel, kept calling to him in a voice as rich as his
own, “Where, oh where, oh where are you, my dear, oh!
 “Here I am, oh! here I am, oh! here I am, oh!” he would respond
like a melodious flashlight, and finally he sobered down and she,
having finished her toilet, began to fly with him. From that day to
this they have been inseparable companions, chasing each other’s
bright wings about the aviary, bathing, eating, drinking—not
together usually, but one after the other in a hurried, graceful
fashion. One amusing trick they had was to fly swiftly by my head
and brush my ears with the tips of their wings.
When tired of playing, singing, and eating, they occasionally
settled down for a nap. I used to think they were fast asleep, when
lo! the male would wake up with a start, as if he had forgotten
something, and would begin to rub his companion’s head with his
red bill. The female also woke up, turning her head round and round
for him to shampoo every part of it, then after he had finished she
did her duty by going over his head.
At night they used to sleep close beside each other, and always
raised their pretty heads when I went near them with my lantern.
They were never afraid of being captured, for I did not have to
doctor them or handle them in any way. They had excellent
appetites, and the immense amount of exercise they took kept them
in fine condition.
They were never vicious birds, but sometimes they exhibited a
mischievous inclination to chase the smaller inhabitants of the aviary.
I never knew them to kill a bird, except the aggravating yellow
warbler.
When I left home this autumn I pondered long over my duty
toward these two beauties. I had had them for some years, and they
had thoroughly explored my aviary, darting about the lower one,
soaring up the elevator, around the roof-veranda, and down again.
They liked me, but had no real love for me as some of my birds
seemed to have. So, knowing that they could be happy elsewhere,
and knowing also that I could not leave too many birds at home, I
chose these two happy, debonair creatures for exile.
I sent them to the kind curator of a large aviary, where I hear they
are perfectly well and happy, as I knew they would be. Long may
they live! No brighter, smarter little bird exists than the Japanese
robin.
A very dear little bird that I had in my aviary was a bobolink. He
was a sober-looking bird when I got him, for he was in his winter
dress—yellowish brown with dusky wings and tail. When spring
came he blossomed out into a new suit with trimmings of cream and
white—and how he sang! I never had a bird that took more pleasure
in his own society. He would get by himself in a corner, safely out of
the way of quarrels, and sing a captivating tangle of song, till he was
exhausted and had to refresh himself by a hearty meal.
He ate and drank and sang, and every time I think of him I call up
a picture of a pretty bird leaning forward with distended throat from
which issues a flood of melody.
I loved my dear Bob o’Lincoln, and found out all I could about
him. I was delighted to hear that there was a law against the
capture of this gayest of songsters, and was interested to know that
his kind has quite a wide range—from Utah to Nova Scotia, and from
Manitoba to the Amazon. Bobolinks like the North in summer, but
sensibly prefer the South in winter, where they have the name of
reedbirds or ricebirds. Exasperated farmers down South shoot poor
Bob because he and his numerous progeny stuff themselves in fields
of rice and oats. However, if it were not for Bob and other
insectivorous birds, the grain might never ripen, for in the spring and
summer they must subsist largely on the insects that are worse
enemies of man than are the birds.
I kept Bob a year or two. The second summer I had him on my
farm I listened one day to the wild bobolinks down in the meadow,
pouring out their bird hearts in delicious harmonies, then I opened
the door of the room where Bob was and recommended him to join
those merry fellows in the alders by the river. He sat for an hour or
two as if deliberating, then he flew off in a leisurely way, and I saw
him no more, but I know quite well that he would join his wild
cousins, and when the autumn came, would fly south with them.
I have several other birds in mind that I should like to write about,
but I think the story of my pets is already long enough. I shall be
satisfied if I have made birds a little more interesting to persons who
already love them, and if I cause a few to become interested, who
have cared nothing for them. They are exquisite creatures, and the
more one studies them the more he finds to admire in them, and the
greater number of points of resemblance are there discovered
between them and human beings.
There are cruel birds and kind birds, intelligent birds and stupid
birds—birds that perhaps do not converse, but that certainly
communicate to each other impressions and sensations in a kind of
language of their own, and birds that scarcely converse at all. Yet
after all, their intelligence is not our intelligence. One gets birds to a
certain point, and they go no farther. However, they are eminently
suitable as friends and companions for man.
Why is it that we have been so cruel to them? Why is it that the
first thought of a bird in the mind of a boy is usually associated with
the thought of a gun? Our little brothers and sisters of the air were
created for us. They ask only for the privilege of toiling unremittingly
for us. Their busy little beaks are from morning till night at the
service of their brother man.
We have got to learn better how to appreciate their services. If we
do not, there are dark days in store for this nation, for if the birds
perish from the face of the earth naturalists tell us that man will
perish too.
There are three things we must do—we must take energetic
measures to protect, first, our children; secondly, our birds; and
thirdly, our forests.
Statisticians tell us that industrial slavery is ruining many children
who should become healthy mothers and fathers of families. They
also tell us that the lack of protection of insect-eating birds is taking
from the pockets of this nation every year the almost inconceivable
sum of eight hundred millions of dollars, and that the present
frightful waste of wood if not checked, will cause us to be without
timber, outside the national forests, in from twenty to forty years.
What are we going to do about it?
Are we to sink still further into the gross, short-sighted
materialism of our age, or are we to wish for an awakening and
quickening of the old American spirit—the spirit of one small
shipload of persons that was, however, strong enough at one time to
dominate this continent?
“We are our brothers’ keepers,” said our stern and honest Pilgrim
ancestors. “We are our brothers’ keepers,” we, their children, must
learn to echo—keepers even to the beasts of the field and to our
little brothers and sisters of the air, that have a right to exist and to
lead their own lives, and to demand from us created beings of a
higher order protection, sympathy, and goodfellowship.
 Transcriber’s Notes
Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up the paragraphs.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after
careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of
external sources. Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

The following corrections have been applied to the text:

Page Source Correction

67 ... her some gunineapigs to play ... ... her some guineapigs to play ...
100 ... one?” a asked. ... one?” I asked.
100 ... picked up I strange ... ... picked up a strange ...
113 Their appetities amused ... Their appetites amused ...
150 SUKEY AND HER FOSTER PIGEON SUKEY AND HER FOSTER-PIGEON
159 I took here there, ... I took her there, ...
165 “I tried her ... I tried her ...
199 ... and sunroom, where ... ... and sun-room, where ...
205 ... am here,” I am ... ... am here, I am ...
219 ... the French voyons!” ... the French “voyons!”
230 ... to get accquainted with ... ... to get acquainted with ...
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY PETS ***

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