The Bird Hospital

CHAPTER VI

SOME TRANSIENT PATIENTS

A young meadow-lark was brought to me one morning by a small boy, whose dog had chased it and broken its leg. I had never had any experience in setting bones, but, as there is always a first time, I thought I could at least try, even if I did not succeed. I found it was not a very easy thing to do alone, but, after trying a number of times, I managed to get my toothpick splint on securely. For several days the leg seemed to be doing nicely, and I felt quite proud of my work and sure the leg was knitting. All at once the bird began to smell very badly, and in a few days it died, so I think it must have been hurt internally.

Another morning I had an orchard oriole brought to me. He, like the Prince of Wales, had been shot. One wing was broken and there was a deep flesh wound underneath. I did not expect to save him, but, after a few days, the wound healed and he was perfectly well, except the broken wing, which did not bother him. He seemed very happy, even if he could only fly a very little, and spent most of his time hopping about on the floor. His favourite perching-place was on the top of a candle on my dressing-table.

One morning he came over to my bed and woke me by pecking my hands. As it was too early for me to wake, I put him on the floor and went to sleep. When I got up, I could not find my pretty Duke. He had never been in my dressing-room, but that morning the light must have attracted him, as my room was dark, and in trying to hop on the edge of the water-jar he fell in.

You can imagine my horror when I saw him in the water dead, with his lovely feathers all spoiled, and I felt I had been a careless nurse.

A cousin brought to the hospital from the country a young snipe. She was so afraid it would get away, she put it into a shoe box which was too small, then tied the cover down tight, without making one hole to let the air in. Consequently, when she arrived, the bird was just gasping and almost dead.

I had never seen a young snipe before, and I was so anxious to save it. It was a beauty. Of course, it was all legs and feet, but they were really beautiful in shape, and the colour like the soft shade of green in young twigs. I worked over it four hours, hoping I might bring it back to life, but it was beyond me. It was a most pitiful sight to see it take so long to die.

I was very glad one day to have the pleasure of looking over a chimney swift, but, as it was an old bird and not hurt in the least, I felt it would be cruel to keep it in the hospital. It was so frightened it did not fly off from my hand for five minutes after I took it out-of-doors.

One day a very tender-hearted little boy, with big tears in his eyes, came and asked me to take in a tiny baby bird not three inches long from end of bill to tip of tail. It was gray with white breast, long pointed white bill, and very large eyes. Its pretty little head was drawn back like a person having spinal meningitis, and it was making a mournful peep. When I took it into my hand, I did not think it could live but a few moments, but it did four hours, suffering all the time, and it seemed as if its pitiful peep would drive me wild. I managed to get a little milk down its throat, but I could not find the cause of the head being drawn back, as there was no sign of any bruise. Finally I saw a black speck sticking out of its bill. I began to pull, and kept on until I had pulled out a quarter of a yard of coarse horsehair. I knew then there was something on the other end, and that the bird could not live with whatever it was in its throat. I gave a quick pull, and you can imagine my surprise when out came a piece of hard white shell, triangular shape, all wound around with the hair. No wonder the little thing peeped, and that its head was drawn back, with that sharp point sticking into its throat. The mother must have rammed it down her baby’s throat, thinking it was some goody.

After I had removed the shell, the little sufferer seemed so relieved; the peeping stopped, and it would try to flop its wee wings when it saw me with the milk. I was in hopes I was going to save it, but it did not have the strength to rally, and it went where all good birdies go.

For a week I had a dear baby robin, who came down-stairs every night to look me up when it was time for him to go to bed in his basket. I had a wild pigeon at the time who delighted in pecking any small bird who came to the hospital. He gave the robin a hard peck on the back of the neck, I suppose striking a nerve, for soon the head began to draw back, and in a few hours he died. Theodore Roosevelt, the wild pigeon, was in the hospital two long years, receiving constant treatment, from burns which he had received by being caught in electric wires.

Then I had a large white domestic pigeon that was taken away from a dog who was tearing him to pieces. Such a sight as he was, covered with blood and mud, when I took him in. The feathers were all torn out of one wing, and he could not stand on his feet. The first thing I gave him a bath in warm water and soap, then found several flesh wounds, which I powdered with talcum powder (never put anything greasy on a bird), and put him in a cot, where I kept him as quiet as possible for several days. He was not at all timid, ate from my hand, drank water from a whiskey glass, as if he had always been fed in that way, never even trying to stand up or get out of his cot. I felt quite encouraged when, after a week, he could perch on my wrist for a few minutes, so I knew that there were no bones broken, but I was afraid that he was never going to have the use of one of his claws, for the toes all turned under when he tried to put it down, but patience and care were my reward, for it got entirely well. You could fairly see the new feathers grow in his wing, and he was delighted when he could flop his wings and exercise. It was very interesting to watch him when he first began trying to walk. I would put him down on the floor. He would lift the lame foot very high, and throw the claws out before putting it down, to prevent the toes turning under. I expected he would want to fly away when he found he was made whole again, but he did not seem to have the slightest desire. He became quite a pet, and when I spoke to him, he would bow his head and say, “Coo-wee, coo-wee, coo-wee,” but he was too large a bird for the house, and he now lives with many of his kind, where he has the best of care.

One morning I saw a baby sparrow on a piazza, and a cat just ready to spring at it. I got in ahead of the cat, and brought her home with me. I wish all of the people who say they hate the English sparrow could have known this one, whom I named “Monie.” She was a perfect little beauty, and full of all sorts of antics. Every feather shone like satin, and her colouring was the soft shade of brown you see in otter fur. She loved to tease the other birds, especially the canaries. She would go inside the cage when they were on top and bite their claws and try to pull them through the bars. Then she would hang with one claw caught on the top of the cage and go through all sorts of performances. I had a box which rested on a low table, divided off into two compartments, one filled with gravel and the other with food. In the centre of one side was part of a broomstick, with any number of perches all sizes on it, and a platform over the other side where a brass cage stood. The box and perches, being painted light green, made a pretty sight when the perches were filled with many birds of different size and colour. There was a platform that rested on the window-sill, where Teddy, the pigeon, liked best to stay. He would walk back and forth or sit there most of the day, looking out of the windows. When, he wanted to walk in the gravel or get something to eat, he would walk down the little steps into the box with a great deal of dignity.

Monie always insisted upon perching on one of the largest perches, and very often she would fall on to the floor, and, as her wing was clipped, she could not get back in the box until I picked her up. At that time there were some mice who came and ate with the birds. Taffy did not seem to think they had any right there, and often tried to catch them. Twice he picked Monie up off from the floor, thinking she was a mouse, and brought her down-stairs. When he saw me, he came right up to me and let me take her out of his mouth, as if he was glad to get rid of her. The next time I missed her, I looked ten minutes, then I heard Taffy ring his bells, and he kept it up until I found him behind a heavy curtain, lying down with his paws under him, and holding Monie very carefully in his mouth. I put out my hand and he laid her in it, and she was not hurt in the least. After that I tried my best to make Monie sleep on a smaller perch, but she was as wilful as she was pretty, and no other perch seemed to suit her. Her wilfulness caused her death, for she fell off in the middle of the night when the room was dark. Taffy picked her up and she squealed like a mouse. As he held her tighter, she squealed louder, and Taffy thought he had a mouse sure. I jumped out of bed, but, by the time I got a light, he had choked her to death. When he saw that he had Monie instead of a mouse, he put her into my hand, and no person could have shown more grief.

Late one evening a small boy came to the door and asked if I did not want to buy a white rat. To get rid of the boy, I bought the rat, thinking I would give it to our boy the next morning, but he was so bright and cunning, I named him Billy Watt, and kept him many months. He was a most interesting pet and very much like a squirrel in all of his ways. Taffy thought it was “adding insult to injury” to ask him to be polite to Billy Watt, but he soon understood he was to treat him as politely as the birds.

One day Billy Watt bit Monie so the blood came. I took him in one hand, Monie in the other, and let her bite his nose, ears, and paws, and it frightened him almost to death when he found a bird could bite as well as a rat, and he never touched her again.

It was hard to make people believe, who did not see it, that Taffy would sleep for hours in my room, with birds flying around and Billy Watt asleep in a basket near by.

The largest patient I ever had was a turkey-buzzard, and the smallest full-grown bird a Parola warbler.

When Taffy beheld Mr. Buzzard perched on the back of a chair, his wrath knew no bounds. He did not spring at him, simply sat down in front of him, and by the growling and spitting you would have thought there were a dozen of cats instead of one.

One day our neighbour’s crow came to visit us, and insisted upon sitting in Taffy’s chair, which did not suit his Royal Highness at all. He stood upon his hind legs with his front paws on the chair, and smelled Mr. Crow all over, but Mr. Crow did not mind in the least and would not move, so Mr. Taffy jumped into the chair and curled himself up by the side of the crow, and they spent the day together.

Once I read with the greatest interest an article about a Parola warbler, and felt I would like very much to know the authoress, and tell her there was another person who had come in as close contact with one as she did. One can read dozens of beautiful descriptions of these daintiest of fairies, but no one can have the slightest conception of their beauty, or half appreciate them, until they have held one in their hand. Mine was caught by a cat, but it lived all day, so I had plenty of time to study every exquisite feather.

I hope the day may come when I shall be fortunate enough to see another, but they are very rare, especially in Central New York.

The Parola warbler was the first bird that opened John Burroughs’s eyes to the beauty of birddom.

CHAPTER VII

JUDY AND NED

Those who have not tried mating and raising birds have lost a great deal of pleasure. Besides being intensely interesting, one learns many things worth knowing.

Once I heard a lady say that she thought all women ought to raise birds before trying to bring up a family, for there was so much to be learned from the birds.

I had a friend who was very anxious for me to try my luck at bird-raising, so one day she brought over her handsome green and gold canary. At that time I had a number of birds, among them three which I thought were females, but I was only sure of one, a little girl sparrow. Blondell – a canary – was given to me for a female, but several said they were sure it was a male. She was an exquisite yellow of different shades, with a topknot of yellow tipped with white, then black, with a catching little bang.

Judy – a canary – was bought for a singer, but the person who gave her to me said she had never sung, but she thought the reason was because she had the asthma. I think she was a goldfinch, for she was very small, with black wing feathers, and a pretty black topknot parted in the middle. I had named her after one of my dearest friends, so I immediately called the green canary Ned after her better half. Ned knew more than any of us, for, as soon as he was let out of his cage, he flew over in front of Judy and sat down before her, never noticing the other birds, and poured the most entrancing song right into her ears.

It certainly was love at first sight, and for a year their devotion was something rare to see. Then Blondell made trouble in the family. Ned and Judy’s courtship was of short duration, and soon they began housekeeping in good earnest. I gave them a cage, and hung it on the wall, so they would not be bothered with the other birds. During the day they went where they pleased, but, when night came, they always went back to their cage and perched as close as they could to each other.

After the eggs were laid, and Judy had to sleep on the nest, Ned perched as close to the nest as he could get.

Judy’s nest was most beautifully made, a perfect symphony of colour, and a delight to the eye. I gave to her bits of pink, blue, yellow, green, and white cotton, little pieces of dainty coloured baby ribbon and pink string. She wove the ribbons all in with the cotton, then festooned the outside with the pink string, and on the top she laid chickweed with its tiny white blossoms. When she was making her nest, I noticed she had the cotton very high above the basket and none in the bottom, so I thought I would lend a helping hand and fix the bottom for her. A more angry bird I never saw when she discovered I had been meddling with something I knew nothing about. She stood on the top of the nest and scolded for some time, then reached down and took out all of the cotton I had put in and threw it on the bottom of the cage. When she was ready, she put the cotton in to suit herself.

She laid four eggs, but none hatched out, so she and Ned took the nest apart, and a new one was made of all new material, more beautiful than the first.

She laid four eggs again, but the long strain of setting was telling upon her, for Ned was not a good nurse, and did not like staying at home and feeding her. If it had not been for me, I am afraid she would have gone hungry many times. Finally one egg hatched out, and it was not as large as a bumblebee. Unfortunately, the chick only lived one day. By that time it was so warm I took the nest away, but Ned’s devotion seemed to increase instead of diminish. Every morning they would kiss each other, and every night before going to sleep, and they always slept side by side. This went on for a year, and they were such a happy pair. In the spring they went to housekeeping again, and everything was going on in the most blissful way when Monie and Blondell thought they would like a beau and go to housekeeping, too. So they began to flirt and coquette in a most shocking way with Mr. Ned, a married man. I used to say: “You naughty, wicked girls, you better stop your nonsense, for Ned will never leave that dear little wife of his, for he loves her too dearly to waste any time on either of you.”

But, alas, a little flattery was all that was needed to make him false to the loving wife, who simply adored him and was his slave.

Judy and Ned had been in the habit of making love to each other on the top of the large mirror over my dressing-table. They would promenade back and forth and toss their pretty heads, and you could easily imagine all the charming little tales of love Ned was confiding to Judy, and every little while they would kiss each other.

Sweet little Monie, with her dainty, quiet dress, did not seem to have any charm for Ned, so she took up with Mack, who was English like herself.

One day when Judy was sitting on her nest, and Ned was getting uneasy and very tired of staying at home and waiting upon her, Miss Blondell sallied forth with every feather preened, until she was a mass of shimmering gold. She went up on top of the mirror and promenaded, well knowing admiring eyes were gazing at her, for how could any one help looking at such grace and beauty? She soon began making eyes at Ned, and calling to him in a sweet, cooing voice to come to her. He simply could not resist her and was soon by her side. Judy scolded and scolded, and called to him many times to come home, but not the slightest attention did he pay to her, and really, I do not suppose he heard one word she said, for he was so completely fascinated with that exquisite blonde. Judy stood it as long as she could, but when Ned kissed Blondell before her very eyes, that was more than any one could expect her to endure. She flew out of her cage, over on to the mirror, and if she did not tell the little blonde lady just what she thought of her, I am much mistaken. She then turned to Ned, in her old affectionate, bewitching way, with her pretty little head cocked on one side, and asked him to kiss her, but he refused for the first time. She went back to her nest broken-hearted, and never interfered with them again. Soon Ned and Blondell had the face to go to housekeeping right next door, Ned going from one house to the other, but Judy never allowed Blondell to enter her door.

I feel sure that Ned really loved Judy the best, for he spent more time with her than he did with Blondell, but there was something about Blondell that he could not resist, for she simply hypnotized him.

I was ill at the time, so I had plenty of leisure lying in bed to watch them. My nurse often said she was so interested in the birds she could hardly take care of her patient.

Blondell was punished for making so much trouble for Judy, for none of her eggs hatched out. Then Ned’s mistress took Blondell to her house and mated her with her bird, Dick. Blondell was only too delighted to have a new lover, and she soon forgot all about faithless Ned. She raised one lovely green and gold bird like his father. I brought them both home, and named her son “Mike” after one of the most wonderful boy singers the world has ever known or ever will. Mike was always very uneasy, and acted more like a wild bird, and it was almost impossible to keep him in his cage. He was full of all sorts of antics and loved to torment his mother.

I looked forward to having a fine singer, but he was not contented in this small town, so one warm, bright morning in the fall he went abroad to cultivate his voice, and we have never seen him since.

I still have Blondell, and some day I hope she may have another son.

CHAPTER VIII

DONA MARINA

Dona Marina came to the hospital, not as a patient, but as a destroyer of patients. Since that time she has been a great deal of care with her numerous kittens and a very bad burn on her side and head. I accidentally turned a tea-kettle of boiling water over her. I dried her as quickly as possible, then covered her with talcum powder, and kept her shut up in the hospital all day.

She was a great sufferer, and for hours was in perfect agony. Still, I did not realize for days how badly she was burned until the hair began to come out. For three months she had a scab as large as my hand.

She bore her sufferings very bravely. When the scab began to loosen, she would come to me every day and ask me to cut off the loose edges. She would stand very quietly while I trimmed them with my manicure scissors.

Every one said the sore would not heal, and, if it did, the hair would never come in, but the scab is all gone, and the hair has come in and almost covered the bare spots.

I so often hear people say: “I would like so much to keep a cat, but I cannot on account of my bird,” or “I would enjoy having a bird, but of course I cannot, because my cat would kill it in less than a wink.” I used to think the very same way. When a child, I had a number of canary birds, which went down my neighbours’ cats’ throats if they did not mind, so I gave up keeping birds, as I liked cats so much better, and I did not have one for years, until “Little Billee” came to me.

I did such wonderful things with Taffy. I think all that is needed is a great deal of patience and to understand cat language and have cats understand you.

Two years ago a neighbour’s black cat was determined to kill my canary Blondell, and I was just as determined she should not. I fought her for a year and a half, but it was simply impossible to keep her out of the house, as our doors and windows were opened nearly as much in winter as in summer, and she would be in the house hours before I knew it. I was not allowed by her owner to put bells on her, so as to warn Blondell and me of her approach, and the first thing I would hear was a crash and the cage fall on the floor. Often when lying down I would hear Blondell screech, and open my eyes to see the cat on top of the cage. As the cage always stood on a low table, it was very easy to reach.