Chapter XVI: A Cooking Memory 240 (8)

Of course there were absurd proposals made to us of all sorts and kinds. It was suggested by some wiseacres that we should instruct both the army and navy, to say nothing of the merchant service. I entreated to be allowed first to teach the ordinary middle-class cook of the British Empire, before I soared to the instruction of its gallant defenders. True, that same cook was a very shy bird to catch, and I really never caught her in the two short years of my management; but I am glad to know that my successor has since managed to attract and teach the exact class we always wanted to reach. The odd thing is, that the cooks generally did not want to be taught, and I have constantly known of lessons being declined, even when they were offered at the expense of the mistress. No reason whatever against the method of the school was given, and the refusal seemed to spring merely from a dislike to be taught: “Thank you, ma’am; I had rather not,” being the general formula. I know of one or two instances where an excellent teacher had been sent down from the school by special request to a small town some thirty miles from London, but when the various mistresses in the neighbourhood attempted to form a class of pupils from their own servants and at their own expense, they were met on all sides by flat refusals, and assurances that the cooks would rather give up their situations than join a cooking class. Those were among the early and the most disheartening difficulties of the school. If we could only have infused the desire for culinary knowledge, which seemed suddenly to take possession of the ladies, into the minds of their humbler sisters, how glad we should have been!

I cannot conclude this paper without telling of one of my own most confusing experiences, the problem of which has never been solved. One day I received a letter stating that the writer was most anxious to become a pupil of the school. It was from a young curate in a distant and out-of-the-way part of the north (I think) of England. I never read a more clever and amusing letter, describing his sufferings in the food line at the hands of the good woman who “did” for him in his modest lodging. He was evidently desperate, and professed himself determined to learn how to cook, so as to be independent of this dame. But although I assured him of my profound sympathy and pity, I had at the same time to decline him as a pupil, alleging that we did not teach men at all. Letter after letter followed this pronouncement of mine, each one droller than the last, though the poor man was evidently in deadly earnest all the time. He pleaded and besought in the most eloquent words, assuring me of his harmless nature and wishes, offering to send testimonials as to character, &c., from his bishop, or his rector’s wife, anything, in short, that I required to convince me of his worthiness. I had no time, however, to waste on so fruitless, though so amusing, a correspondence, and I had to cut it short, by merely repeating the rule, and declining peremptorily to go on with the subject. I had nearly forgotten all about it, when, one morning, some weeks later, my deputy-superintendent came into my office and said:—

“There is such a queer girl among the new pupils this morning.”

“Is there? What is she like?” I asked rather indifferently, for a “queer girl” was by no means unknown in the crowded classes.

“Well, she is so big and so awkward, as if she had never worn petticoats before, and has such huge hands and feet, and quite short hair with a cap, and, oh! such a deep voice. But she works very hard, and is rushing through her lesson at a great rate.”

“What is her name?” I asked, as a light seemed suddenly to dawn on me.

“Miss—Miss—oh, here it is,” said the deputy-lady, holding out the counterfoil of her book of receipts for fees. “She sent me up a post-office order for the fees some little time ago, but there was no room for her in any class until to-day.”

I looked at the name, rather a remarkable one, though I have quite forgotten it, turned to the letter-book, and, lo, it was the same as the curate’s! I did not say anything to my second in command, but made an opportunity for going into the kitchen where the “queer girl” would be at work. No need to ask for her to be pointed out, for a more singular-looking being I never beheld, working away with feverish energy. The cook who was giving the lesson told me afterwards that the dismay of that pupil was great at being first set to clean stoves and scrub tables, and that “she” had piteously entreated, in a deep bass voice, to be shown at once how to cook a mutton chop. The set of lessons were also much curtailed in that instance, for the queer girl did not appear after the end of that week, instead of going on for another fortnight.

There is every reason to believe that the National School of Cookery—in which I must always take a deep interest—is much nearer now to fulfilling its original design of constant and careful instruction in the difficult art of cooking than it was in those early but amusing days, and its many constant friends and supporters must rejoice to see how it has emerged from that chrysalis stage and become a self-supporting concern, doing steady excellent work in the most unobtrusive manner.

XVII

BIRD NOTES

A great reaction of feeling in favour of the mongoose has set in since Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s delightful story of “Rikki-tikki,” in the “First Jungle Book,” presenting that small animal in an heroic and loveable aspect. But to the true bird-lover the mongoose still appears a dreaded and dangerous foe. It is well known that its introduction into Jamaica has resulted in nearly the extermination of bird life in that island, and the consequent increase of insects, notably the diminutive tick, that mere speck of a vicious little torment.

There are, I believe, only a very few mongooses in Barbados, and strong measures will doubtless be adopted to still further reduce their number; for no possible advantage in destroying the large brown rat which gnaws the sugar-cane can make up for the havoc the mongoose creates in the poultry yard, and, indeed, among all feathered creatures. It has also been found by experience that the mongoose prefers eggs to rats, and will neglect his proper prey for any sort or size of egg. He was brought into Jamaica to eat up the large rat introduced a century ago by a certain Sir Charles Price (after whom those same brown rats are still called), instead of which the mongoose has taken to egg and bird eating, and has thriven on this diet beyond all calculation. Sir Charles Price introduced his rat to eat up the snakes with which Jamaica was then infested, and now that the mongoose has failed to clear out the rats, some other creature will have to be introduced to cope with the swarming and ravenous mongoose.

It was therefore with the greatest satisfaction I once beheld in the garden at Government House, Barbados, the clever manner the birds circumvented the wiles of a half-tame mongoose which haunted the grounds.

Short as is the twilight in those Lesser Antilles, there was still, at midsummer, light enough left in the western sky to make it delightful to linger in the garden after our evening drive. The wonder and beauty of the hues of the sunset sky seemed ever fresh, and every evening one gazed with admiration, which was almost awe, at the marvellous undreamed of colours glowing on that gorgeous palette. Crimsons, yellows, mauves, palest blues, chrysoprase greens, pearly greys, all blent together as if by enchantment, but changing as you looked and melting into that deep, indescribable, tropic purple, which forms the glorious background of the “meaner beauties of the night.”

In this same garden there chanced to be a couple of low swinging seats just opposite a large tree, which I soon observed was the favourite roosting place of countless numbers of birds. Indeed, all the fowls of the air seemed to assemble in its branches, and I was filled with curiosity to know why the other trees were deserted. At roosting time the chattering and chirruping were deafening, and quarrels raged fiercely all along the branches. I noticed that the centre of the tree was left empty, and that the birds edged and sidled out as far as ever they could get on to its slenderest branches. All the squabbles arose from the ardent desire with which each bird was apparently filled to be the very last on the branch and so the nearest to its extreme tip. It can easily be understood that such thin twigs could not stand the weight of these crowding little creatures, and would therefore bend until they could no longer cling to it, and so had to fly off and return to search for another foothold. I had watched this unusual mode of roosting for several evenings, without getting any nearer to the truth than a guess that the struggle was perhaps to secure a cool and airy bed-place.

One hot evening, however, we lingered longer in what the negro gardener called the “swinggers,” tempted by the cool darkness, and putting off as long as possible the time of lights and added heat, and swarming winged ants, and moths, and mosquitoes. We had begun to think how delightful it would be to have no dinner at all, but just to stay there, gently swaying to and fro all night, when we saw a shadow—for at first it seemed nothing more—dart from among the shadows around us, and move swiftly up the trunk of the tree. At first I thought it must be a huge rat, but my dear companion whispered, “Look at the mongoose!” So we sat still, watching it with closest attention. Soon it was lost in the dense central foliage, and we wondered at the profound stillness of that swarming mass of birds, who had not long settled into quiet. Our poor human, inadequate eyes had, however, become so accustomed to the gloom by its gradual growth, that presently we could plainly observe a flattened-out object stealthily creeping along an out-lying bough. It was quite a breathless moment, for no shadow could have moved more noiselessly than that crawling creature. Even as we watched, the bough softly and gradually bent beneath the added weight, but still the mongoose stole onwards. No little sleeping ball of feathers was quite within reach, so yet another step must needs be taken along the slender branch. To my joy that step was fatal to the hopes of the brigand beast, for the bough dipped suddenly, and the mongoose had to cling to it for dear life, whilst every bird flew off with sharp cries of alarm which effectually roused the whole population of the ærial city, and the air was quite darkened round the tree by fluttering, half-awakened birds.

It was plain now to see the reason of the proceedings which had so puzzled me, and once more I felt inclined to—as the Psalmist phrases it—“lay my hand on my mouth and be still,” in wonder and admiration of the adaptable instincts of birds. How long had it taken these little helpless creatures to discover that their only safety lay in just such tactics, and what sense guided them in choosing exactly the one tree which possessed slender and yielding branch-tips which were yet strong enough to support their weight? They were just settling down again when horrid clamorous bells insisted on our going back into a hot, lighted-up house, and facing the additional miseries of dressing and dinner. Though we carefully watched that same tree and its roosting crowds for many weeks, we never again saw the mongoose attempt to get his supper there, so I suppose he must also be credited with sufficient cleverness to know when he was beaten.

A Toucan does not often figure in a list of tame birds, and I cannot conscientiously recommend it as a pet. Mine came from Venezuela and was given to me soon after our arrival in Trinidad. It must have been caught very young, for it was perfectly tame, and, if you did not object to its sharp claws, would sit contentedly on your hand. The body was about as big as that of a crow, but it may be described as a short, stout bird, with a beak as large as its body. Upon the shining surface of this proboscis was crowded all the colours certainly of the rainbow, blended in a prismatic scale. The toucan’s plumage would be dingy if it were not so glossy, and it was of a blue-black hue with white feathers in the wings and just a little orange under the throat to shade off the bill, as it were. Some toucans have large fleshy excrescences at the root of the bill, but this one and those I saw in Trinidad had not.

The toucan was, however, an amiable and, at first, a silent bird. He lived in a very large cage, chiefly on fruit, and tubbed constantly. But the curious and amusing thing was to see him preparing to roost, and he began quite early, whilst other birds were still wide awake. The first thing was to carefully cock up—for it was a slow and cautious proceeding—his absurd little scut of a tail which was only about three or four inches long. This must in some way have affected his balance, for he never moved on the perch after the tail had been laid carefully back. Then, later in the evening, he gently turned the huge unwieldy bill round by degrees, until it too was laid along his back and buried in feathers in the usual bird fashion. By the way, I have always wondered how and why the myth arose that birds sleep with their heads _under_ their wings? A moment’s thought or observation would show that it is quite as impossible a feat for a bird as for a human being. However, the toucan’s sleeping arrangements resulted in producing an oval mass of feathers supported on one leg, looking as unlike a bird as it is possible to imagine. When he was ruthlessly awakened by a sudden poke or noise, which I grieve to state was often done—in my absence, needless to say—I heard that he invariably tumbled down in a sprawling heap, being unable to adjust the balance required by that ponderous bill all in a moment.

For many months after his arrival the toucan was at least an unobjectionable pet and very affectionate. He used to gently take my fingers in his large gaudy bill and nibble them softly without hurting me, but I never could help thinking what a pinch he might give if he liked. His inoffensive ways, however, only lasted while he was very young, for in due course of time he began to utter discordant yells and shrieks, especially during the luncheon hour. This could not be borne, and the house-steward—a most dignified functionary—used to advance towards the cage in a stately manner with a tumbler of water concealed behind his back which he would suddenly fling over the screaming bird. The toucan soon learned what Mr. V.’s appearance before his cage meant, and always ceased his screaming at the mere sight of an empty tumbler. These sudden douches, or else his adolescence, must have had a bad effect on his temper, for he could no longer be petted and played with, and any finger put within reach of his bill suffered severely. Then he got ill, poor bird, and the Portuguese cook was called in to doctor him. But the remedies seemed so heroic that I determined to send the toucan away. I could not turn him loose in the garden on account of his piercing screams, so he was caught when asleep, packed in a basket, and conveyed to the nearest high woods, where he was set at liberty, and I can only hope he lived happy ever after, as a less gaudy and beauteous variety of toucan is to be found in those virgin forests.

As might naturally be expected, there are many beautiful birds in the large botanical gardens of Trinidad in the midst of which Government House stands. It used to be a great delight to me to watch the darting orioles flash past in all their golden beauty, and some lovely, brilliantly blue, birds were also occasionally to be seen among the trees. I was given some of these, but alas! they never lived in captivity, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts I always let them out of the cage. The ubiquitous sparrow was there of course, and so was a rather larger black and yellow bird called the “qu’est-ce que dit?” from its incessant cry.

In these gardens the orioles built their large clumsy nests of dried grass without any precaution against surprises; but I was told that in the interior of the island, where snakes abound, the “corn-bird”—as he is called up-country—has found it expedient to hang his nest at the end of a sort of grass rope some six feet long. This forms a complete protection against snakes, as the rope is so slightly put together that no wise serpent would trust himself on it. Sometimes the oriole finds he has woven too large a nest, so he half fills it with leaves, but after heavy rains these make the structure so heavy that it often falls to the ground, and from this cause I became possessed of one or two of these nests with their six or eight feet of dangling rope. Anything so quaint as these numerous nests swinging from the topmost branches of lofty trees cannot well be imagined. It is impossible to reach them by climbing or in any other way except shooting away the slender straw rope, which rifle-feat might surely rank with winning the Queen’s Prize at Bisley!

It has always interested me to examine birds’ nests in the different colonies to which the wandering star of my fate has led me, and I have observed a curious similarity between the houses made with and without hands. For instance, take a bird’s nest in England, where human habitations are solid and carefully finished, and you will see an equal finish and solidity in the neatly constructed nest with its warm lining and lichen-decorated exterior. Then look at a bird’s nest in a colony with its hastily constructed houses made of any slight and portable material. You will find the majority of birds’ nests equally makeshift in character and style, just loosely put together anyhow with dried grass, and evidently only meant for temporary use. I saw one such nest of which the back must have tumbled out, for a fresh leaf had been neatly sewn over the large hole with fibre. In strong contrast, however, to such hastily constructed bird-dwellings was a nest of the “schneevögel” which came to me from the foot of the Drakenberg Mountains in Natal. Beautifully made of sheep’s wool, it had all the consistency of fine felt. It was a small hanging nest, but what I delighted in was the little outside pocket in which the father of the family must have been wont to sit. The mouth of that nest was so exceedingly small that at first I thought that no bird bigger than a bee could possibly have fitted into it, but I found that it expanded quite easily, so elastic was the material. One could quite picture the domestic comfort, especially in so cold and inhospitable a region, of that tiny _ménage_.

I always longed to make a journey to the north-west of Western Australia expressly to see the so-called “bower-bird” at play. This would have necessitated very early rising on my part, however, for only at dawn does this bird—not the true bower-bird, by any means—come out of his nest proper, and lie on his back near the heap of snail shells, &c. which he has collected in front of his hastily thrown-up wind-shelter, to play with his toys. It is marvellous the distance those birds will carry anything of a bright colour to add to their heap, and active quarrels over a brilliant leaf or berry have been observed. A shred of red flannel from some explorer’s shirt or blanket is a priceless treasure to the bower-bird and eagerly annexed. But the wind-shelter of coarse grass always seemed to me quite as curious as the heap of playthings. The photographs show me these shelters as being somewhat pointed in shape, very large in proportion to the bird, and with an opening something like the side-door in a little old-fashioned English country church. This habit of hastily throwing up wind-shelters is not confined to this bird only. I was given some smaller birds from the interior of Western Australia, and at the season of the strong north-west gales—such a horrible, hot wind as that was—I found my little birds loved to have a lot of hay thrown into their big cage with which in a single morning they would build a large construction resembling a huge nest, out of all proportion to their size. At first I thought it was an effort at nest-building, but as they constantly pulled it to pieces, and never used it except in a high wind, it was plain to see that their object was only to obtain a temporary shelter.

Next to the brilliant Gouldian finches, which, by the way, were called “painted finches” locally, I loved the small blue-eyed doves from the north-west of Australia better than any other of my feathered pets. These little darlings lived by themselves, and from the original pair given to me I reared a large and numerous family. They were gentle and sweet as doves should be, of a lovely pearl-grey plumage, with not only blue eyes, but large turquoise-blue wattles round them, so that the effect they made was indeed blue-eyed. They met with a tragic fate, for I turned some eight or ten pair loose in the large garden grounds of the Perth Government House. Alas! within a week of their being set at liberty not one was left. They were much too confidingly tame to fend for themselves in this cold and cruel world. Half-wild cats ate some, hawks pounced on others, but the saddest of all the sudden deaths arose from their love of me. Whenever I was to be seen, even inside the house, a dove would fly to me and dash itself against the plate-glass windows, falling dead in the verandah. They did not seem able to judge distance at all, and it was grievous to know they met their death through their devotion to their mistress and friend.

A dozen miles to windward, opposite the flourishing port of Freemantle, Western Australia, lies a little island with a lighthouse on it, known on charts and maps as Rottnest. It is astonishing what a difference of temperature those few miles out to sea make, and on this tiny islet was our delightful summer home, for one of the earliest governors had built, years before, a little stone house on a charming site looking across the bay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII

HUMOURS OF BIRD LIFE

“Birds in their little nests agree.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I must not loiter too long over my West Australian aviary, in spite of the great temptation to dwell on those dear distant days. I brought a small travelling-cage of Gouldian and other lovely finches from the neighbourhood of Cambridge Gulf home with me. What I suffered with that cage during a storm in the Bay of Biscay no tongue can tell. However, they all reached London in safety, and in due time were taken out—also with great personal trouble and difficulty—to Trinidad. Here they were luxuriously established in four large wired compartments over the great porch of Government House. No birds could have been happier. The finches had one compartment all to themselves, so had the canaries; whilst the laughing jackass, another Australian magpie, and a beautiful Indian hill mynah occupied a third compartment, the fourth being brilliantly filled by troupials, morichés, and sewing crows from Venezuela, besides many lovely local birds of exquisite plumage.

In each compartment stood large boxes and tubs filled with growing shrubs, whilst creepers, brought up from the luxuriant growth at the pillars below, were twined in the fine meshes of the netting. Of course there were perches and nests, all sizes and at differing heights. It was really one man’s business to attend to them, but they were beautifully kept. Every morning the grasscutter brought in a large bunch of the waving plume-like seed of the tall guinea grass; and they had plenty of fresh fruit, in which they greatly delighted. Of course they quarrelled over it all, and a fierce battle would rage over half an orange, of which the other half was utterly neglected.

The canaries led a commonplace existence and had only one adventure. I had noticed that for some few weeks past the numbers of these little birds seemed rather to diminish than increase at their usual rapid rate. But I saw so many hens sitting on nests very high up that I accounted for the small number in that way. However, one day a perch fell down, and the black attendant went into the cage with a tall ladder to replace it. Presently I heard a great scrimmage and many “Hi! my king!” and other agitated ejaculations, which soon brought me to the spot. It was indeed no wonder that my poor little birds had been disappearing mysteriously, for there was a large, well-fed, but harmless snake. It must have got in through the mesh when quite young and small, but had now grown to such stout proportions that escape through the wire netting—which would only admit the very tip of my fourth finger—was impossible, and it was easily slain. The snake was found coiled on a ledge too high up to be easily perceived from below.

Soon after that episode the little finches underwent a sad and startling experience. One morning the coachman brought me in a beautiful little bird of brilliant plumage which I had never seen before. It had been caught in the saddle-room, and was certainly a lovely creature, though unusually wild and terrified. However, I was so accustomed to new arrivals soon making themselves perfectly at home and becoming quite tame, that I turned the splendid stranger into the finches’ compartment with no misgivings, and went away, leaving them to make friends, as I hoped. About half-an-hour later I passed the tall French window, carefully netted in, which opened on the corridor, and through which I could always watch my little pets unperceived. My attention was attracted by two or three curious little feathered lumps on the gravelled floor. On closer examination these proved to be the heads of some of my especial favourites, which the new arrival (a member of the Shrike family, as I discovered too late) had hastily twisted off. Besides these murders he had found time to go round the nests and turn out all the eggs and young birds. My dismay and horror may be imagined, but I could not stop, for luncheon and guests were waiting. I hastily begged a tall Irish orderly who was on duty in the hall to catch the new-comer and let him go. Now this man loved my birds quite as much as I did, and seemed to spend all his leisure-time in foraging for them. They owed him many tit-bits in the shape of wasps’ larvæ or the nursery of an ants’ nest nicely stocked, or some delicacy of that sort. There was only time for a hurried order, received in grim silence, but when I was once more free and able to inquire how matters had been settled, all I could get out of O’Callaghan was: “I’ve larned him to wring little birds’ necks.”

“Did you catch him easily?” I inquired.

“Quite easily, my lady, and _I_ larned him.” This in a voice trembling with rage.

“What have you done to him?” No answer at first, only a murmur.

“But I want to know what has happened to that bird,” I persisted.

“Well, my lady, I’ve larned him;”—a pause; “I’ve wrunged _his_ neck.”

So in this way rough and ready justice had been meted out to the wrong-doer very speedily.