Chapter III: Part 3

After Albert had been gone about an hour, I remember that I went up into his room, and sat down in his favorite seat, by the window. O, how still and lonely and mournful it seemed there! Near me hung my brother’s fencing-sword and mask, which he had used only the day before,--on the floor lay the game-bag, which he had always worn in hunting, and which he had flung out of his trunk, not having room for it. This brought my merry brother before me more clearly than any thing else. I took it up and held it a long time, mourning at heart, but I could not weep. Suddenly I heard a low whine in the hall, and Tom stole softly into the room. He came to me and laid his head in my lap; but when he saw the game-bag there, he set up a most mournful cry. Then I flung my arms about him, bowed my head down against his neck, and burst into tears. I forgot that he was a poor dumb brute, and only remembered that he loved my brother, and my brother loved him, and that he mourned with me in my sorrow. After this, it was very affecting to see Tom go every day, for a long while, to the gate, out of which he had seen his master pass for the last time, and then stand and look up the street, crying like a grieved child.

As you will readily believe, Tom is now dearer than ever to us all; we cannot see him without a sweet, sad thought of that beloved one so far away. I am not now at home, but I never hear from there without hearing of the welfare of the noble dog which my brother, in going, bestowed upon me.

SUPPLEMENTARY STORIES.

It is twenty years since the first part of this little volume was published. The dear children for whom those simple stories of my childhood were told are men and women now, and wonderful changes have taken place in all our lives and in all the world. But in growing old I have not lost any thing of my old love of pets; and I hope that my little readers of this time will understand and share that feeling. I hope that you, dear boys and girls, look on all innocent dumb creatures about you as friends, and have not only a kindly interest in them, but respect them for all that is lovely and wonderful in their brief existences, and as objects of the unceasing care and tenderness of our Father in heaven. Every smallest creature that lives represents a thought of God,--was born out of his great, deep, infinite life.

I hope you especially like to hear about dogs and cats, birds and chickens, for it is of them that I have a few new stories to relate, as true as they are amusing or marvellous.

FIDO THE BRAVE.

First I must relate the somewhat tragical history of a certain little shaggy brown-and-white spaniel belonging to some friends of ours in the country. He was a stray dog, and came to them in a very forlorn condition, and had evidently been vagabondizing about in the fields and woods for some days, for he was ravenously hungry, and his long hair was dirty, and stuck full of straws, briers, and burrs, till he bristled like a hedgehog. The first thing that the kind lady did, after feeding him, was to put him into a warm bath. Then she set herself to work to rid him of his encumbrances,--sticks, straws, briers, and burrs. It was a long time before she got down to the dog; but when at last she laid down scissors, scrubbing-brush, and comb, and deposited her poor _protégé_ on the floor, he was a good deal diminished in size, but looked really handsome, and very bright, quaint, and droll.

He took at once to his new home, and soon became a great pet, showing himself to be grateful, affectionate, and full of cleverness, fun, and fire. His pluck was beyond all question. Though not quarrelsome, he would, when in the least degree put upon, fight any dog in the neighborhood, whatever his size and breed, and he generally came off victorious. But he was altogether too rash and venturesome, given to worrying cows, horses, hogs, and old stragglers; rushing into all sorts of danger, and coming out, when he did come out, and was not brought out, with his little eyes dancing and his bushy tail in air, as though enjoying the risk of the thing, and the terror of his kind mistress.

Among other sportive tricks was a way he had of running before the locomotive when the train was coming in or going out of the station, near by the house of my friends. Nearly every day he could be seen frisking about it, dancing frantically up and down before it, and barking valorously. He really seemed to take a malicious satisfaction in defying and insulting that rumbling, puffing, snorting monster, that, big as it was, ran away from him as fast as possible.

“The pitcher goes often to the well, but is broken at last.”

One fatal day the little spaniel miscalculated the speed of his big enemy, and failed to get out of the way in time. He was all off the track but one hind leg, when he was struck by the locomotive and knocked into a ditch,--that one hind leg being pretty badly mashed, you may believe. The poor little fellow set up a great outcry, but the unfeeling engineer never stopped the train to attend to him, and the railroad folks kept the accident out of the papers. Fido made his way home all alone, dragging his mashed leg behind him. Though greatly shocked, his mistress did not scold him, but sent for a surgeon, who, after a careful examination, and consulting his books, decided that an amputation was necessary. Then the good, brave lady held her poor, dear pet on her lap while the dreadful operation was performed. She asked a gentleman of the family to hold him, but he had not the nerve. After the stump had been skilfully dressed, the little dog evidently felt better, soon ceased to bemoan his loss, and took kindly to a light supper. He rested well that night, and in the morning the doctor pronounced him better. His kind mistress nursed him faithfully till he was restored to perfect health. He never seemed to fret about his maimed condition, but hopped around on three legs as merry and active as ever. It was observed, however, that he gave a wide berth to railway trains, and howled whenever he heard the whistle of the engine, ever after. Still the fight wasn’t out of him. He was as jealous of his honor and as fiery and plucky as before his disaster.

One afternoon, while taking a quiet three-legged stroll some distance away from home, he encountered on the highway a big, surly bull-dog, who presumed on the spaniel’s diminutive size and crippled condition to insult him and rail at him. Brave Fido dashed at once at the ugly bully’s throat, and bit and hung on in the most furious and desperate way. It was a gallant fight he made, and it did seem for a while as though he must come off victorious, like David after his engagement with Goliah. But at last the infuriated bull-dog tore himself free, and then proceeded to make mince-meat of the poor spaniel. He tore his ears half off, and his eyes half out, and mangled his head generally, till it was disfigured to the last degree. Then he bit and chewed the left, the only _left_ hind leg, till one might say that he was next to a locomotive and a whole train of cars at the mangling business. At this desperate stage of the combat a woman came out of a farm-house near by, drove the bull-dog away with a poker, and took up poor Fido. As he had become insensible, she thought him dead, and flung him down in a fence corner, out of the way of travel, and there left him, meaning, let us hope, to have him decently buried in the morning. But Fido was not yet ready to give up this life. The cool evening dew revived him; brought him to his senses, in part at least. He could not yet see, but, guided by some mysterious instinct, he made his sure way, dragging himself by his _fore_ legs, which were only _two_ you know, across the fields to his home. His mistress was awakened in the night by hearing him scratching and whining at the door, and made haste to arise and take in the poor crippled, blinded, bleeding creature, who laid himself panting and moaning at her feet. I hope I need not tell you that she did not give him up. She prepared a soft bed for him in an old basket, washed and dressed his wounds, and though every body, especially the doctor, said he must die, that he was as good as dead then, she was sure she could fetch him round, and she did fetch him round amazingly.

But alas! Fido’s troubles were not over, even when he got so that he could hobble about on his three legs, and see tolerably well; for one cold morning, as he lay curled up in his basket near the kitchen stove, he was, I grieve to say, terribly scalded by a careless cook, who spilled a kettle of hot water over him. Even then his mistress refused to give him up to die, but dressed his burns with sweet oil, or applied a pain-killer, or “Dalley’s Salve,” and administered Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, perhaps,--anyhow she nursed him so skilfully and faithfully that she fetched him round again. He is no beauty nowadays, but alive, and alive like to be. It is my opinion that, like the great Napoleon, that dog bears a charmed life.

CAT TALES.

FAITHFUL GRIMALKIN.

Many years ago, when my parents lived in old Connecticut, my mother had a pet cat, a pretty graceful creature, frisky and arch and gay, though clad in sober gray. She was a favorite with all the large household, but especially attached herself to my mother, following her about everywhere,--“up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber,” accompanying her in her walks, hiding behind every bush, and prancing out upon her in a surprising, not to say startling, manner.

At last she grew out of kittenhood, laid aside, in a measure, kittenish things, and became the happiest, fondest, proudest feline mamma ever beheld. She caressed and gloated over her little, blind, toddling, mewing, miniature tigers in a perfect ecstasy of maternal delight. Just at this interesting period of pussy’s life our family moved from the old place to a house in the country, about a mile away. My mother was ill, and was carried very carefully on a bed from one sick-room to another. In the hurry, trouble, and confusion of that time, poor pussy, who lodged with her family in an attic, was quite forgotten. But early in the morning of the first day in the new house,--a pleasant summer morning, when all the doors and windows were open,--as my mother lay on her bed, in a parlor on the first floor, she saw her cat walk into the hall and look eagerly around. The moment the faithful creature caught sight of her beloved mistress, she came bounding into the room, across it, and on to the bed, where she purred and mewed in a delighted, yet reproachful way, quite hysterical, licking my mother’s hand and rubbing up against her cheek in a manner that said more plainly than words, “Ah! my dear madam, didst thou think to leave thy faithful Grimalkin behind? Where thou goest, I will go.”

She was taken into the kitchen and treated to a cup of new milk; but after a few moments given to rest and refreshment she disappeared. Yet she went only to come again in the course of an hour, lugging one of her kittens, which she deposited on the bed, commended to my mother’s care, and straightway departed. In an almost incredibly short time she came bounding in with a second kitten. She continued her journeys till the whole litter had been safely transported, over hill and dale, ditches and stone-walls, through perils of unfriendly dogs and mischievous boys, and the family flitting was complete.

After this, our noble puss was loved and respected more than ever. She dwelt long in the land, and her kits grew up, I believe, to be worthy of such a mother.

OBEDIENT THOMAS.

Now I want to give you an instance of filial respect and submission in a young cat. When we first came to Washington, nearly two years ago, I took to petting a handsome cat belonging to the relatives with whom we then lived. I fed and caressed her, and she became very fond of me, always running to meet me when I entered the garden which she haunted, or the barn in which she lodged. She was rather wild in her ways, and so stole a nest, in which she finally hid away some kittens, that she afterwards reared to be wilder than herself. These somehow disappeared, all but one, which, when he was about half grown, I undertook to tame. It was a difficult, tedious job; but I persevered, and at last found him a more affectionate, docile pet than ever his mother had been. She had seemed fond of him in his wild, unregenerate days, but as soon as he became domesticated, and I began to show a partiality for him, she grew very severe with him, scratching his face and boxing his ears whenever she saw me caressing him. I soon noticed that when she was near he was shy, pretending not to be on intimate terms with me; while, if she was out of the way, I had only to call his name, to have him come galloping up from the furthest part of the long garden, to rub against me, to lick my hand, and show every feline fondness and delight. Now we live at another house, and I seldom see my pets, mother and son; but they are loving and constant still, proving that the poet Coleridge didn’t know every thing when he talked about “the little short memories” of cats.

Master Thomas has grown large and strong, and is accounted a gallant young fellow by all the young pussies in the neighborhood. But while toward cats of his own sex he is fierce and combative, he is just as meek and deferential to his mother as he was in his tender kittenhood. The other day I encountered him in the old garden, and was surprised to find how stalwart he had become. I stooped to caress him, and he seemed as susceptible to gentle overtures as ever, arched his back, switched his tail, and purred rapturously. Suddenly the mother cat stole out from behind a tree, and confronted us. “Good morning, madam,” I said, for I always talk to cats and dogs just as I talk to other people. “You have a fine son here; a handsome young fellow, that favors you, I think.” But she wasn’t to be softened by the compliment. She walked straight up to him, and boxed him first on one ear and then on the other, quite in the old motherly way. As for him he never thought of resenting the old lady’s act, or opposing her will, but drooped his lordly tail, and hastily retreated. Now that is what I call good family discipline.

This city of Washington is a place where the wits of people are sharpened, if anywhere, and perhaps even cats and dogs become uncommonly clever and knowing here. Only yesterday I was told of a Washington cat which had just been found out in a wonderful trick. Observing that, when the door-bell rang, the one servant of the household was obliged to leave the kitchen, she managed to slyly ring the bell, by jumping up against the wire, and invariably, when her enemy, the cook, went to the door, she would slip into the kitchen, and help herself to whatever tempting article of food was within reach. At last some one watched, and caught her at her secret “wire-pulling.” Poor puss retired with a drooping tail and a most dejected aspect, evidently realizing that the game was up.

Another cat I know of was of so amiable and benevolent a disposition that she actually adopted into her own circle of infant kits a poor, forlorn little foundling of a _rat_. As her nursling he grew and thrived, seeming quite as tame as the others; and when a mischievous boy set a rat-terrier on him, and so finished him, cat and kittens really seemed to mourn for their foster son and brother.

KATRINA AND KATINKA.

Once on a time--no matter when--in a certain beautiful city--no matter where--there lived two lovely twin sisters, with the brightest eyes, and the cunningest little roly-poly figures, and the slenderest ears with the softest pink satin lining, and the spryest motions imaginable. They were brunettes in complexion, with white breasts and tail-tips, and they were kittens. Katrina and Katinka were their names, if I remember rightly,--maybe I don’t, but anyhow they _might_ have had those names, which, to my thinking, are very pretty and appropriate for kittens.

Well, these same twin pussies were singularly fond of each other, and more singularly good to each other. They never called names, or scratched, or spat in each other’s pretty faces, or pulled each other’s little smellers, or quarrelled over their meals. They were so marvellously alike that it was always difficult to tell them apart; and when they slept, as they always did, hugged close in each other’s arms, you couldn’t have told to save you where one kitten left off and the other kitten began.

They not only slept, ate, and played together, but, as they grew older, took their strolls for health and recreation and their mouse-hunts in the same close and loving companionship. They were very curious and wide-awake little bodies, and liked to see all they could of the great, busy world; so every pleasant afternoon, when there was much driving and walking up and down the fine street on which they lived, they could be seen strolling down the long walk to the gate, always exactly side by side,--“neck and neck,” as the horse people say,--as even in their pace, and as perfectly matched in their action, as ever were a pair of trained ponies in Hyde Park. Reaching the gate, they would pause and stand quite still for a half-hour or so, gravely gazing through the palings at the passers,--pedestrians, equestrians, and drivers of fast horses,--like a pair of dear little brigadiers reviewing their brigades marching by. Then, with the air of having discharged a public duty to the entire satisfaction of the community, they would wheel exactly together, and again, precisely neck and neck and tail and tail, trot gently homeward.

So they lived on, in and for each other, almost as much united as if they had been a pair of small feline female Siamese twins, amiable, loving, and virtuous, and grew in knowledge and stature up to a comely young cathood. At last it happened that a very interesting event occurred to the twin sisters at precisely the same time,--they became happy mothers, were blessed with three or four fine kittens apiece. But alas! before the little strangers had got fairly to feel their legs, before they had got their eyes open, all save one mysteriously disappeared from each nest. It was one fatal morning when the twin sisters had slipped out of their happy attic apartment for a little air,--to take their “Constitutional” in a trot down the long gravel walk to see how the world would look to them now they were mothers,--that this kit-napping occurred. When they returned to their families, they found them strangely thinned out; but they were mothers for all that, and did not seem to fret much, or abate their maternal pride a jot.

You see the ruling power in the human household in which they were domesticated, and who was to them as a providence, had ordered a little hydropathy for their poor, feeble, sprawling, blind darlings,--beginning with what is called in water-cures “the heroic treatment,” a cold plunge; and it didn’t agree with them,--it never does with any but the healthy and hardy patients,--so it was they never came back. But under the blue waves they sleep well, though never a mew or a purr comes bubbling up to the surface to tell the spot where they lie on beds of tangled sea-grass. “_Requies-cat in pace_,” as old tombstones say.

The next mournful event in this true family history was the untimely death of Katrina’s one darling. This had proved to be but a frail flower of kittenhood; very pretty she was,--“too sweet to live,” people said. Her constitution was defective, her nervous system was extremely delicate. Before she was a week old she had something alarmingly like a fit of _cat_alepsy. Suddenly, while imbibing nourishment, with her fond mother purring over her, and two or three children looking on in smiling sympathy, she gave a piteous wild mew, rolled over on her back, and stuck up her four little legs and laid out her little tail stiff as a poker! On the ninth day of her little life she opened her blinking blue eyes on this great wonderful world, in which she had as good a right to be as you or I; but she didn’t seem to like the looks of things, for she soon closed those small eyes again, and never opened them more. Life was evidently too hard a conundrum for her poor, weak little brain, and she gave it up.

Of course Katrina was greatly afflicted, but she did not abandon herself utterly to grief. Had not her sister a kitten left? and had not they two always had every thing in common? So as soon as the sympathetic children had buried her dead out of her sight under a lilac-bush, she went straightway to Katinka, and, with her full consent, began to divide with her the duties and joys of maternity. All three just cuddled down together in one nest; from mamma or auntie Master Catkin took nourishment, just as it suited his whim or convenience, and, as you might suppose, he grew and thrived astonishingly. So equal and perfect was this partnership in the kitten, that it was impossible for a stranger to tell which of the two cats was the real mother. One day all three were brought down to the parlor to amuse some visitors. Both mammas seemed equally nervous about having the baby kitten handled, and presently one of them caught it by the neck,--the cat’s usual, immemorial way of transporting her young,--and started with it for the attic; when, to the surprise and immense amusement of all present, the other caught hold of the tail, and so the two bore it away in triumph.

After this I am afraid the children gave the little kitten rather more travelling than he liked. It was such fun to see the two anxious cats following him, mewing, and at the first chance catching him up, and lugging him home in that absurd manner. Generally the real certain true mother seized on the head, but sometimes she was magnanimous enough to yield the post of honor to the aunt, and take to the tail herself.

So things went on for a few weeks, and then there happened to this estimable cat-family another sad event,--for this is a tragedy I am writing, though you may not have suspected it,--Katinka died! What of has never yet been decided; physicians differed about it, and the coroner could not make it out. But this much is certain, Katinka died. The grief of Katrina was and is very affecting to behold. She mopes, she mews, and her slender tail, which she used to carry erect with such a jaunty air, droops dolefully. She takes no longer the “Constitutional” trot down the walk to the front gate. Life seems to have grown dull and wearisome to her, and the pleasures of mouse-hunting and tree-climbing appear to have lost their zest. If she remembers at all the halcyon period when much of her precious time was spent in a dizzy round of gayety, in a swift pursuit of a ball of cotton, or a futile pursuit of her own tail, it is in sad wonder that she could ever have been so merry and thoughtless. She grows thin, neglects her toilet, and often refuses food; but when the children offer her catnip, she turns languidly away. If she were acquainted with Shakespeare, she would doubtless say,--“_Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?_” “_Throw physic to Bose and Jowler,--I’ll none of it!_”

Friendly cat-neighbors call in occasionally, but they cannot console her. All the petting of the household fails thus far to make her cheery and playful as once she was. She is fed on the very “milk of human kindness,” but grief has licked the cream off.

She seems to find her only consolation in her care and affection for the motherless catkin, and in his fondness for her. I am sorry to say that he does not show a very deep sense of his loss; perhaps he is too young to realize it. His good aunt seems sufficient for all his needs, and he thrives finely, is fat and jolly, and full of all kittenish pranks and mischievous tricks. Poor Katrina will have a time with him, I fear, as he is sadly petted and indulged. Such a lazy rascal as he is too,--don’t earn the salt of his porridge, that is, if he took it salted,--and, though quite old enough to “go on the war path,” has never yet killed his mouse, or brought home a rat’s scalp, or a ground-squirrel’s brush, or as much as a feather from a tomtit’s wing. Ah! of all the darlings in the world, an aunty’s darling is the likeliest to be spoiled.

This is all I know about this curious cat-family. I hope, dear children, that my true story may not sadden you, for I really wish you, one and all, the merriest of merry Christmases, and the happiest of happy New Years.

All I can say in the way of a moral to my little story is: How beautiful is love! even when shown in the fortunes and sorrows of cats and kittens, how beautiful is love!

FEATHERED PETS.

OUR COUSINS THE PARROTS.

These strangely interesting birds, according to natural history, belong to the second bird family, the _Psittacidæ_. I never knew how many wonderful and splendid varieties this family contained until I saw living varieties of all, or nearly all, in the known world, in the Zoölogical Gardens of London, where they are kept in a great gallery,--a beautiful parrot paradise, all by themselves. They were a wonder to behold, but a perfect astonishment to listen to. The confusion of tongues was something almost distracting. The Tower of Babel, in its talkingest day, never approached it, I am sure. A large sewing-circle of elderly ladies might come nearer the mark. The colors of their plumage I have no words to describe. They fill my memory with tropic splendors whenever I think of them, to this day.

’Tis strange that but one species of parrots was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans,--the Parakeet of India,--at least up to the time of Nero. That gentle prince, with his amiable love of pets, is said to have sent emissaries far up the Nile to collect new varieties for the gratification of his royal whim and dainty appetite; for, when the poor little captives ceased to amuse him by their conversational powers, he ate them. I hope they lay hard on his stomach, and made him talk in his sleep!

The early Portuguese navigators found parrots at the Cape of Good Hope, and at other points on the African coast; and the very first creatures that welcomed Columbus to the isles of the New World were Parakeets. The Macaws of South America are very handsome birds, but not remarkably tractable or agreeable. They are fond of old friends, but are fierce to strangers, and have a singular dislike to children. The gray and scarlet parrot, called the Yaco, is a charming bird for a pet. It is clever and docile, and learns readily to talk, preferring to imitate the voices of children. The Cockatoos of New Guinea are very pretty and graceful pets. They do not like to be caged, but may be safely allowed to have the range of the premises, as they will immediately come when called; thus setting an excellent example to rebellious children. The green parrot, most common in this country, is a native of Africa.

Dear old Dr. Goldsmith, whose Natural History is all out of fashion now, except with us old folks, tells some amusing stories about parrots. Among these is an anecdote of a famous fellow, belonging to King Henry the Seventh, Queen Elizabeth’s grandfather. This bird, sitting on his perch in the palace-yard at Westminster, used to hear the talk of gentlemen who came to the river to take boats. And one day, while overlooking the busy traffic of the Thames, he fell from a tree into the water; and while there, floating helplessly, he cried: “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!” A waterman rescued him, and took him to the king, demanding his twenty pounds. The king, who was not remarkably generous, hesitated about giving so large a sum; but finally agreed to leave the amount of the reward to the parrot. That ungrateful fellow, who sat on his perch, still shaking the water from his feathers, when appealed to, turned his head slyly on one side, and said, “Give the knave a groat” (about fourpence). I hope, children, you won’t doubt the truth of this story; it isn’t good to get into sceptical habits of mind in early life.

For many years there lived in the porter’s lodge of the old Pennsylvania Hospital a distinguished and venerable citizen,--a parrot of rare cleverness and intelligence. This famous bird belonged to the porter, and was one of many feathered pets, the chief favorite and familiar. A remarkable affection and sympathy existed between these two friends; yet I am sorry to say their relations were not altogether pleasant and peaceful. Innumerable were their quarrels and make-ups. The bird was very knowing, and almost supernaturally gifted as a talker, especially, like some human orators, in the language of railing and taunting. The old man, his master, had one deplorable weakness,--he would occasionally drink too much whiskey; so much that, getting quite beside himself, he would leave his lodge and his innocent feathered family, and go off on a desperate spree, which sometimes lasted for days. Now, Master Paul Parrot thought this weakness, through which he suffered in loneliness and neglect, very reprehensible and not to be winked at, and when the fit of dissipation was coming on his master, it is said, would remonstrate with him, in a friendly way, like a very Mentor. When this proved in vain, and he saw the misguided old man leave the lodge for some of his disreputable haunts, he would endeavor to put a good face on the matter, would hop about on his perch in great excitement, and call out to the other birds: “The old man has gone on a spree!--on a spree! He won’t be back for a week! Let’s have a time. Ha, ha!”

When the old porter came home, this naughty bird would be very apt to mock and taunt him, calling out: “So you’ve come back,--have you? O, how drunk you are! Now we’ll have a row.” And there always was a row; for the indignant porter never failed to beat Mr. Paul, for his impudence, soundly. Then the bird, seeking the dignified retirement of the darkest corner of the lodge, sulked and muttered, till, the old porter’s good-humor returning, he made friendly overtures. The two were reconciled, and “every thing was lovely” again.

At length the poor old porter died; and as his successor was no bird-fancier the feathered family at the lodge was broken up and dispersed. The clever parrot was kindly treated in a new home; but he never seemed happy. He evidently missed his old master,--missed his caresses and his scoldings. Or perhaps he found the steady goings-on of a moral household too dull for his taste, for when I went to see him, I found him as glum, stupid, and morose as an old politician who had had his day. All he would say was, “O you goose!”

There is another curious parrot in Philadelphia, in a store kept by a maiden lady whose voice is so exceeding shrill and parrot-like that it is difficult to tell when she leaves off talking and the parrot begins. One day, as a customer was examining an article on the counter, Miss Polly called out: “What are you doing with that? Put it down! put it down!” The lady looked round very indignantly for the offender, saying: “Well, ma’am, I must say you have a very impudent child.”

There is in the same city another parrot, who recites a verse of an old song in a most distinct and triumphant manner:--

“O pretty Polly,
Don’t you cry,
For your true-love
Will come by and by.”

There is in Brooklyn, New York, a parrot that sings many of the popular airs correctly, and with as much expression as many fashionable singers give to them. This bird is singularly social and affectionate, and has a horror of being alone. He will sometimes awake in the middle of the night, and arouse the household by crying: “O dear! I am all alone!--all alone! Somebody come to me!”

I have heard much of a clever parrot once kept by some relatives of ours on an old place in a quiet little village. Mistress Polly had free range of the house and yard, and throughout the town was as well known as the oldest inhabitant. Through all the pleasant weather she haunted the tall trees in front of the house, climbing to the highest branches, and from there superintending the affairs of the neighborhood, and making astronomical and meteorological observations. In the spring and autumn she watched from these lofty perches the flight of great flocks of pigeons and crows with intense but decidedly unfriendly interest. She would scream and scold at them in a most insolent and defiant manner, evidently criticising the order of their march and all their manœuvres and evolutions, for all the world like a newspaper editor finding fault with the conduct of great armies. Doubtless she was astonished and disgusted to see the great host sweep steadily on, following their leader, paying no heed to her shrieking, railing, and evil prophecies. Yet she was never so absorbed by her duties on the watch-tower that she failed to come to her meals. These she took with the family, perched on the back of a chair or the corner of the table. She was very fond of coffee, and was always provided with a cup. She would take it up by the handle with her claws, and drink from it without spilling a drop. A terrible gossip and busybody was she, talking perpetually and doing all the mischief that lay in her power. She was the terror and torment of all cats and kittens; for, wary and watchful as they might be, Polly was always surprising them by attacks in the rear, and cunning ambuscades and flank movements. Nothing more still and soft-footed could be imagined than her approaches; nothing more sly, sudden, and sharp than the nips she gave with her horrid hooked bill. A cat’s extended tail was especially tempting to her. She generally fought the battle out on that line. “In maiden meditation fancy free,” this parrot roamed about the yard, and laughed and railed at patient sitting hens, and the proud mothers of newly hatched chicks and ducklings. Sometimes she would follow a brood about, sneering and advising, until the poor mother was in an agony of worriment. At last she came to grief in this way. A spirited speckled hen, with a fine brood of young ones, tired of being snubbed and of hearing her offspring depreciated, and shocked at seeing the domestic virtues set at naught by a flaunting foreign fowl of infidel sentiments, turned upon her, sprang upon her back, and began pecking and tearing at her sleek plumage like mad! The feathers fell all around, like a shower of green snow; and the parrot began screaming with all her might: “Let up! Let up! Poor Polly! Poor Polly!”

Her mistress came to the rescue, and Polly skulked away to her cage, where she remained several days, sullen and deeply humiliated; but when she emerged from her retirement she gave the hens and chickens a wide berth.

Several parrots, the pets and companions of religious persons, have been distinguished by their piety, or what passed for such. These have usually belonged to devout Catholics. I have read of one, named _Vert-Vert_,--the inmate of a convent in France, and taught by the holy nuns,--who was esteemed a most blessed and miraculously gifted bird. His fame spread far and wide. Many made pilgrimages to the convent to be edified by his pious exhortations; and at last the nuns of another convent, in a distant province, solicited the loan of him for a few months, for the good of their souls. He went forth as a sort of feathered apostle, followed by the prayers and blessings of the bereaved sisters, and looking very solemn and important. But, unfortunately, on his journey, he was compelled to spend a night on a steamer; and being kept awake by such new scenes, and perhaps a little sea-sickness, he listened too much to the unprofitable and profane talk of the sailors and some soldiers who were on board. And so it happened that, when he reached the convent, where he was received with great joy and impressive religious ceremonies, instead of edifying the good sisters with exhortations and chants, delivered in a grave, decorous manner, he horrified them by shouting like a rough old sea-captain and swearing like a major-general, while he assumed the most knowing, rollicking air imaginable. Those saintly women stopped their ears, and fled from him as though he had been a demon-bird, and he was immediately sent home in utter disgrace. There, through fasts and penances, he was brought round to more correct habits and behavior; but he never became the shining light he had been before his sudden fall. No more pilgrimages were made to his perch. Though grown a sadder and a wiser bird, it was impossible to tell whether he most sorrowed for his fault or regretted the wicked world of which he had had a taste. Still he made a good end, I believe, within the convent’s hallowed cloisters.

A certain pious cardinal in Rome once gave a hundred crowns in gold for a parrot that could repeat the Apostles’ Creed. Another religiously trained parrot once served as a chaplain on board of a ship,--actually reciting the service for the sailors, who listened and responded with becoming solemnity. I have never seen a clerical parrot; but I have seen clergymen who suggested parrots. By the way, the parrot would make a very economical sort of minister. After the first cost of the bird, his education, and a respectable cage or parsonage, there would be no demands on the congregation for increase of salary. As he would have no scruples about repeating old sermons, he would not desire new fields of labor. Parrots seldom have any family, so he would expect no donation-parties. They never have dyspepsia, so he would require no trips to Europe. He would not, I fear, be very popular in the sewing-circles and Dorcas societies,--for he would talk down all the ladies.

* * * * *

A dear young friend of ours has a lovely pair of turtle-doves, that are constantly making love to each other, these soft spring days, in that delicious, drowsy honey-moon coo, “most musical, most melancholy.”

Awhile ago the disastrous experiment was tried, of putting these doves into the cage with a parrot. Miss Polly did not fancy her dainty visitors in the least. She glared at them as they cuddled together in a corner, eying her askance, and murmuring in the sweet dove dialect,--Madame Columba very timidly, and Monsieur in a tender, reassuring tone. Miss Polly abominated such soft, love-sick voices, and such a parade of matrimonial bliss and affection just exasperated her; so she pitched into them, scolding fearfully at first, but soon coming to blows with her wings, then to scratching and pecking with her steel-like claws and fearful, hooked bill. When the hapless pair were rescued, it was found that the husband, who had fought gallantly to protect his wife, had met with a serious loss, in the upper part of his bill, which had been quite bitten off by that inhospitable old termagant, who had doubtless thought thus to put an end to his billing and cooing.

The poor fellow lost some glossy feathers in this encounter. They have been replaced, but the broken beak has never been restored. Thus maimed, he is only able to drink from a perfectly full cup, and his loving mate invariably stands back till his thirst is satisfied. She also feeds him when he has difficulty in eating, and always carefully plumes him, as he can no longer perform that service for himself. Indeed, she attends to his toilet before her own. No fond wife of a disabled soldier could surpass her in watchful care and devotion. What a touching little lesson is this, of tender, faithful love! I wonder if he would have done as much for her. Let us hope so.

THE BENEVOLENT SHANGHAI.

I have long wished to record the admirable behavior of a certain Shanghai rooster, once belonging to a relative of ours in the West. This fowl was old, but he was tender; he was ugly, but he was virtuous, as you shall see. One of the hens of his flock died suddenly and mysteriously,--of too many family cares, perhaps, for she left a brood of twelve hearty, clamorous young chickens. One of the children, the poet of the family, said:--

“Grandfather Shanghai
Stood sadly by,
And saw her die,
With a tear in his eye.”

Perhaps he received her last instructions,--her dying bequest. If so, never was a legatee more burdened with responsibilities; for from that hour the good rooster adopted all those chickens, and devoted himself to them. When the fowls were fed, he guarded their portion; he watched over them when hawks were hovering near; he scratched and fought for them and stalked around after them all day, and at night, after leading the other fowls to roost, he would descend from the old pear-tree, gather those poor sleepy little things under him, and do his best to brood them. His legs were so long and stiff that it was a difficult job. First he would droop one wing down to shelter them; then, seeing that they were exposed on the other side, would let down the other. Then, finding that he could not keep both down at once, he would try to crouch lower, and would sometimes tip himself entirely over. It was a laughable sight, I assure you. But somehow he managed to keep them warm, to feed them, and bring them up in the way they should go; and I hope they always loved him, and never made fun of their gaunt, ungainly old guardian, when they grew up, and went among the other young people of the farm-yard, especially when chatting with the foreign fowls, the proud Spanish hens, and the pretty Dorking pullets.

THE GALLANT BANTAM.

I have observed that while the Bantam pullet is a quiet, modest, little pantaletted lady, the Bantam cockerel always makes up in big feeling for what he lacks in size. A gentleman farmer owned a Bantam of this sort, that was always full and bubbling over with fight. He would go at any gentleman-fowl in the yard, with beak and spur. He would defy the fiercest old gander, and challenge the biggest “cock of the walk” to mortal combat. At last he grew so uncomfortably quarrelsome, and presented such a disreputable appearance,--having had the best part of his tail-feathers torn out, and his spurs broken off,--that his master was obliged to put him out to board with a nice old lady who had no fighting fowls for him to contend with. It was hoped that he would be content to tarry in that Jericho until his tail-feathers should be grown; but one day, when his master paid a visit to his good neighbor, he found the little Bantam with his head badly swollen, and with a patch over one eye and across his beak, placed there by the kind old lady. He had gone outside the yard, and picked a quarrel with a strange rooster, only about six times his size, and been pretty badly punished.

A short time after, a big turkey gobbler was added to the feathered community of that farm-yard, the old lady not dreaming of the Bantam cock daring to make hostile demonstrations against such a potentate. But she had done our little hero injustice. As soon as he saw the mighty spread the arrogant old fellow was making, he just gathered himself up, and “went for him,” if I may use a slang expression, which I know boys, at least, will understand only too well.

The big gobbler looked down upon him at first in contemptuous astonishment, as much as to say, “What fooling is this?” But when he saw that the fiery little fellow was in earnest, he just struck him one blow with his terrible wing, and--well, the gallant Bantam went “on his raids no more.” He was served as another savage Turkey served poor Crete. This is a world of tragedies and downfalls.

On a late visit to the Central Park, we noticed, among the collection of fowls there, a Bantam cock, of the very smallest pattern, that yet seemed to have a big, gallant heart. We saw him in one of his soft moments, when, in fact, he was making love. He had been very ambitious in selecting the object of his adoration, for he was actually paying his addresses to a full-sized Shanghai hen, who was in a large cage, separated from him by a light lattice. He would strut up and down before her, ruffling his fine feathers, and making eyes at her. Sometimes he would dance up sideways, declaring his passion with a soft, musical murmur, that sounded like “coort, coort,” which it would seem she could hardly resist; but she did,--not so much as a feather on her breast was stirred by his appeal; she regarded him in placid disdain. Indeed, it was almost as funny to watch the tiny, strutting little creature making love to that superior fowl, as it would be to see Commodore Nutt courting Miss Swan, the giantess.

“So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of knight like the young Lochinvar?”

THE DISOWNED CHICKS.

I have a friend living in the very heart of the big city of Chicago, who owns several hens of rare varieties, and a flock of young chickens of remarkable promise. She keeps them in her back-yard, which they utterly devastate, not suffering a green thing to live, making it look like a small copy of the Desert of Sahara. Yet she says keeping them reminds her of the country! She is a very poetic and imaginative lady. It is very likely that a hand-organ reminds her of music, and fish-balls of the mighty, briny deep.

One of this good lady’s hens is a handsome, stately fowl, dressed in gray satin, and wearing a top-knot that is like a crown of silver. She has one chicken, almost full-grown,--the last of many lively children, the victims of rats and the pip. Of him she is very fond. There was, at one time, great danger that he would be spoiled,--for she toiled for him all day, trotting about everywhere with him “at her apron-strings,” so to speak; and she actually broods him at night, though, do the best she can in spreading herself, she can’t take in all of his tail, unless she lets his head stick out somewhere. Thus he is content to sleep ingloriously, when he ought to be roosting on some lofty perch, ready to greet the first streak of dawn with a brave crow, prophetic of the day.

A few weeks ago another hen, a young pullet, dressed gayly every day in gold and brown, with a gorgeous top-knot, came, one morning, triumphantly out from under the porch, with a large flock of charming little chicklings, who toddled along after her, and glanced up at the sky, and round on the earth,--that vast sandy plain of the back-yard,--in a most knowing and patronizing manner. Nobody would have guessed it was their first day out of the shell. They were not going to show their greenness,--not they.

For a while those downy, yellow, cunning little roly-poly creatures seemed to amuse their mother; she appeared fond of them, taking pleasure in parading them before such of her neighbors as were chickenless. But she was a giddy biddy, lazy and selfish; so, as soon as she found that she must scratch to fill so many little crops, she threw up maternity in disgust. She actually cast off her whole brood, pecked at them, and scolded them till they ran from her in fright, and huddled together in a corner of the fence, peeping piteously, and doubtless wishing they had never been hatched. Perhaps some were chicken-hearted enough to wish for death to end their troubles, till they caught sight of some ugly old rat prowling about “seeking whom he might devour,” when they reconsidered the matter, and took a more cheerful view of life.

Well, it came to pass that the excellent gray hen, with the one big chicken, seeing their forlorn condition, pitied them exceedingly, and actually adopted the whole flock. Only think, children, it was as though your mother should adopt a small orphan asylum, and all of them twins!

She toils for them and protects them all day, treating them in all respects as her own chicks, till sundown; then, not having room for them under her wings without dislodging her only son and heir, she always escorts them up the steps of the porch and sees them go to bed in a little box, which has been prepared for them by their kind mistress, with a cover of slats to guard them from rats and cats and bats and owls, and every thing that prowls or lies in wait for small fowls. Well, when she has seen the last chick tumble in, and cuddle down to its place with a sleepy good-night “peep,” to be brooded under the invisible wings of the soft summer night, that good, motherly creature descends with stately dignity from the porch to her own sleeping apartment underneath, when she mounts on a box, and, calling her one long-legged darling, does her best to hover him, and to make believe he is a baby-chicken still. In the morning she is astir betimes, scratching and pecking for him and his adopted brothers and sisters with wonderful impartiality. I must do this same big chicken the justice to say that he has never made any violent opposition to this sudden addition to the family; but he has rather a haughty manner towards the little interlopers, and could we understand the sort of Chickasaw language he speaks, we might find him occasionally remonstrating with his maternal parent in this wise: “Really, mother, it strikes me you are running your benevolence into the ground, in scratching your nails off for a lot of other hen’s chickens! such things don’t pay, ma’am; charity begins at home, and one would think you had enough on your claws, in providing for the wants of a growing young cockerel like me, without doing missionary work. Besides, you are encouraging idleness and shiftlessness; it just sticks in my crop to have you burden yourself with the cast-off responsibilities of that impudent pullet, who goes cawking lazily about, carrying her top-knot as high as ever.”