charming cagepets, being very affectionate, and as merry as a maiden on May morning,always singing and gay, and so tame that you need not be afraid to letthem out of the cage.
Another was the wren. Some would love the mite for pity sake. It isvery pretty and very gay, and possesses a sweet little voice of its own;it needs care, however. It must not, on the one hand, be kept too neara fire or in too warm a room, and on the other it should be well coveredup at night; a draught is fatal to such a bird. There is also thegolden-headed wren, the smallest of our British birds, but I do notremember ever having seen one kept in a cage. There is no accountingfor tastes, however. I knew a young lady in Aberdeen who kept a goldeneagle in a cage of huge dimensions. He was the admiration of allbeholders, and the terror of inquisitive schoolboys, who, myself amongthe number, fully believed he ate a whole horse every week, and ever somany chickens. While gazing at the bird, you could not help feelingthankful you were on the _outside_ of the cage. I admired, but I didnot love him much. He caught me by the arm one day, with true Masonicgrip--I loved him even less after that.
Wrens are fed in the same way as robins or nightingales are. In thewild state they build a large roundish nest, principally of green mossoutside, and with very little lining. There is just one tiny hole leftin the side capable of admitting two fingers. Eggs about ten in number,very small, white, and delicately ticked with red. If I rememberrightly, the golden wren's are pure white. The nests I have found werein bushes, holly, fir, or furze, or under the branches of large treesclose to the trunk. The back of the nest is nearly always towards thenorth and east.
The stonechat or stone-checker is a nice bird as to looks, but possessesbut little song. It would require the same treatment in cage or aviaryas the robin. So I believe would the whinchat, but I have no practicalknowledge of either as pets.
With the exception of the kingfisher, I do not recollect any Britishbird with brighter or more charming plumage, than our friend thegoldfinch. He is arrayed in crimson and gold, black, white, and brown,but the colours are so beautifully placed and blended, that, rich andgaudy though they be, they cannot but please the eye of the mostartistic. The song of the goldfinch is very sweet, he is with all amost affectionate pet, and exceedingly clever, so much so that he may betaught quite a number of so-called tricks.
In the wild state the bird eats a variety of seeds of various weeds thatgrow by the wayside, and at times in the garden of the sluggard.Dandelion and groundsel seed are the chief of these, and later on in theseason thistle seed. So fond, indeed, is the goldfinch of the thistlethat the only wonder is that our neighbours beyond the Tweed do notclaim it as one of _the_ birds of Bonnie Scotland, as they do the curlewand the golden eagle. But, on the other hand, they might on the sameplea claim a certain quadruped, whose length of ear exceeds its breadthof intellect.
"Won't you tell us something," said Ida, "about the blackbird andthrush? Were they not pets of your boyhood?"
"They were, dear, and if I once begin talking about them I will hardlyfinish to-night."
"But just a word or two about them."
It is the poet Mortimer Collins that says so charmingly:
"All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The grey-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a thrush amid the limes."
Whether in Scotland or England, the mavis, or thrush, is one of theespecial favourites of the pastoral poet and lyrist. And well the birddeserves to be. No sweeter song than his awakes the echoes of woodlandor glen. It is shrill, piping, musical. Tannahill says he "gars(makes) echo _ring_ frae tree to tree." That is precisely what thecharming songster does do. It is a bold, clear, ringing song that tellsof the love and joy at the birdie's heart. If that joy could not findexpression in song, the bird would pine and die, as it does when caught,caged, and improperly treated. When singing he likes to perch himselfamong the topmost branches; he likes to see well about him, and perhapsthe beauties he sees around him tend to make him sing all the moreblithely. But though seeing, he is not so easily seen. I often come tothe door of my garden study and say to myself, "Where can the bird beto-night?" This, however, is when the foliage is on orchard and oaks.But his voice sometimes sounds so close to my ear that I am quitesurprised when I find him singing among the boughs of a somewhat distanttree. This is my mavis, my particular mavis. In summer he awakes mewith his wild lilts, long ere it is time to get up, and he continues hissong "till the star of evening climbs the grey-blue East," and sometimesfor an hour or more after that. I think, indeed, that he likes thegloaming best, for by that witching time nearly all the other birds haveretired, and there is nothing to interrupt him.
In winter my mavis sings whenever the weather is mild and the grass isvisible. But he does not think of turning up of a morning until the sundoes, and he retires much earlier. I have known my mavis now nearly twoyears, and I think he knows me. But how, you may ask me, Frank, do Iknow that it is the selfsame bird. I reply that not only do we, themembers of my own family, know this mavis, but those of some of myneighbours as well, and in this way: all thrushes have certainexpressions of their own, which, having once made use of, they neverlose. So like are these to human words, that several people hearingthem at the same time construe them in precisely the same way. My mavishas four of these in his vocabulary, with which he constantly interlardshis song, or rather songs. They form the choruses, as it were, of hisvocal performances. The chorus of one is, "Weeda, weeda, weeda;" ofanother, "Piece o' cake, piece o' cake, piece o' cake;" of the third,"Earwig, earwig, earwig;" and of the last, sung in a most plaintive key,"Pretty deah, pretty deah, pretty deah."
"That is so true," said Ida, laughing.
On frosty days he does not sing, but he will hop suddenly down in frontof me while I am feeding the Newfoundlands.
"You can spare a crumb," he says, speaking with his bright eye; "grubsare scarce, and my poor toes are nearly frozen off."
Says the great lyrist--
"May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes?"
I am lingering longer with the mavis than probably I ought, simplybecause I want you all to love the bird as I love him. Well, then, Ihave tried to depict him to you as he is in his native wilds; but seehim now at some bud-seller's door in town. Look at his drooping wingsand his sadly neglected cage. His eyes seem to plead with eachpasser-by.
"Won't _you_ take me out of here?" he seems to say, "nor you, nor you?Oh! if you would, and were kind to me, I should sing songs to you thatwould make the green woods rise up before you like scenery in abeautiful dream."
The male thrush is the songster, the female remains mute. She listens.The plumage is less different than in most birds. The male looks morepert and saucy, if that is any guide.
The mavis is imitative of the songs of other birds. In Scotland theysay he _mocks_ them. I do not think that is the case, but I know thatabout a week after the nightingales arrive here my mavis begins to adoptmany of their notes, which he loses again when Philomel becomes mute.And I shouldn't think that even my mavis would dare to mock thenightingale.
I have found the nest of the mavis principally in young spruce-trees ortall furze in Scotland, and in England in thick hedges and close-leavedbushes; it is built, of moss, grass, and twigs, and clay-lined. Eggs,four or five, a bluish-green colour with black spots. Themissel-thrush, or Highland magpie, builds far beyond any one's reach,high up in the fork of a tree; the eggs are very lovely--whitish,speckled with brown and red. I do not recommend this bird as a pet. Heis too wild.
The merle, or blackbird, frequents the same localities as the mavisdoes, and is by no means a shy bird even in the wild state, though Iimagine he is of a quieter and more affectionate disposition. It is myimpression that he does not go so far away from the nest of his prettymate as the mavis, but then, perhaps,
if he did he would not be heard.The song is even sweeter to the ear than that of the thrush, although ithas far fewer notes. It is quieter, more rich and full, more mellow andmelodious. The blackbird has been talked of as "fluting in the grove."The notes are certainly not like those of the flute. They are cut or"tongued" notes like those of the clarionet.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A BIRD-HAUNTED CHURCHYARD.
"Adieu, sweet bird! thou erst hast been Companion of each summer scene, Loved inmate of our meadows green, And rural home; The music of thy cheerful song We loved to hear; and all day long Saw thee on pinion fleet and strong About us roam."
It is usual in the far north of Scotland, where the writer was reared,to have, as in England, the graveyard surrounding the parish church.The custom is a