OTHER TALKING BIRDS
Many of my readers must know that there are other birds that can talk, some of them as well as the parrot. Those who may have read the novel of "Barnaby Rudge," by Charles Dickens, are likely to remember the Raven of that story, with its "Never say die."
A very famous bird of this kind is Poe's raven, told of in the poem of that name, whose one word was "Nevermore."
These are birds of fiction and poetry but there are talking ravens in the annals of fact. There was one, some years ago, at home in a tavern at Stoke Newington, England, who could not bear gray or white horses, though it did not mind any other color. No sooner would a horse of the hated color come up to the water-trough for a drink than Peg would perch on the edge of the trough and swear lustily at the poor animal. Or else it would start it off with a loud "Gee, whoa," in the exact tones of a carter.
One day Peg saw a sailor take some tobacco from a box at his elbow, put it in his mouth, and begin to chew. The bird watched him closely and seemed to fancy that this must be something good to eat, for the instant the man's back was turned she hopped up and took a mouthful of the weed. For the rest of that day Peg was a very sick bird, and even the next day was far from well.
She had learned a lesson which she did not forget. Some days later a white horse, drawing a hay cart, was driven up to the trough for a drink. Peg at once hopped up and began her abuse, but the horse had met the bird before and paid no attention to her impudence. At this she flew into the house where some men were smoking, caught up a paper of tobacco from the table, and flew back with it, dropping it into the horse's nose bag.
If a strange dog happened to stray up to the inn Peg was at once wide awake. Up she would skip, and when close to the dog's ear would shout in her loud, harsh voice, "Halloa, whose dog are you?" Before the cur could turn she would break out in a great show of rage and loud cries of "Hi! ho! go home!" which usually sent the intruder off up the street at a frantic rate.
The raven belongs to the family of the crows, in which are some other birds, as the Jackdaw and the Magpie, that can be taught to speak. They are not to be compared with the parrot, yet they must be classed with the talking birds. The magpie has the tendency of picking up words here and there of a sort not suited to polite society, and is not well fitted for a house pet. He is quite ready to try his sharp beak on his master and is like the crow in stealing every bright thing he sees.
The Magpie has a cousin, the Jackdaw, who is not quite his equal as a thief, but is not as honest as a parson. He also has the gift of speech and at times can use it with fine effect. The bird is easily tamed and taught to talk and there are some good stories told of him. One or two of these you may enjoy reading.
There is a small shell-fish called the cockle which is often pickled in England, and in a house where the folks were fond of pickled cockles was a jackdaw, who was quite as fond of them. The cook had pickled some of these and put them in a jar, covering it with parchment. But the next morning she found the cover partly ripped off and some of the cockles missing.
At a loss to know who had done this mischief, she tied on the cover again and went about her work. At midday, when she was busy over the stove, basting a roast joint, she heard a sound of tearing parchment and looked round to see the jackdaw with his head hidden in the jar, feasting away greedily.
The cook at that moment had a ladle full of hot fat in her hand, and in a rage threw it over the thief, crying out "You rogue! you go to the cockles, do you!"
All the feathers were scalded off of Jack's head and he went about the house, bald and ashamed. Some days later his master gave a party, among his guests being one who was quite bald. In the afternoon the bird was brought up stairs to amuse the party, and he did so very neatly.
Flying to the mantel, he saw the man with the bald head. At once he flew to his shoulder, and cocking his eye at the bare poll in a funny fashion, cried out, "You rogue! you go to the cockles, do you!"
Another jackdaw belonged to a retired innkeeper, who, while in business, had taught the bird to say, "Mind the reckoning," and also to call out "No trust." His cage hung in the public room, where, no doubt, he helped his master in making a fortune on which to retire.
Long after he had gone out of business some burglars broke into the house to rob him, getting in through the window of the room where the jackdaw was kept. As the thieves talked in low tones about the job before them and what part of the house they should visit first, the words, "Mind the reckoning," came in loud tones to their guilty ears.
"Good Lord!" cried one of the scared thieves, "I trust we——"
"No trust! no trust!" came in the same hoarse voice, "Mind the reckoning! Mind the reckoning!"
Away went the scared thieves, through the window and over the garden wall, leaving their tools behind them, while the daw roused the house with its screams of delight over their flight.
The fashion of stealing of the crow tribe makes a pet crow not very safe to keep about. Any bright or shining thing, like a pair of scissors, a silver spoon, or a gold stud, is sure to take his fancy and when once in his beak the chance is that it will never be seen again, for he is a cute chap at hiding his spoils.
The crow indeed is a sharp fellow in more ways than one. He is an expert at tricks. Here is one told of the Indian crow.
A dog—a fox-terrier of good training—was one day gnawing a chicken bone on the veranda when two crows saw him at his meal and lighted on the veranda railing, where they began to croak. The very sight of a crow is usually enough to make a dog forget his breakfast and fly at the bird; but this time Jack merely growled and kept on gnawing.
As this did not work, one of the birds dropped down to the veranda floor and croaked again. Again Jack growled, but he went on gnawing. The crow now strolled round the veranda for a minute till the dog was intent on his bone, then hopped up and gave his tail a sharp nip.
This was too much for the fox-terrier. With a howl of pain he turned upon the bird, when the other crow, which had been quietly waiting its chance, swooped down, snatched up the bone, and flew away, its comrade in mischief quickly joining it.
Jack's look of disgust, when he found how neatly he had been fooled by a pair of crows, was a sight worth seeing.
Have you ever seen a Starling and heard one talk? If not you have missed a treat, for this bird has fine powers of speech. He can whistle, croak and talk and is one of the choice delights of many a cottage home in Europe. He has lately been imported into this country.
The common starling is a very pretty creature, clad in brown, with purple and green hues, and a buff-colored tip to each feather which gives the bird a fine speckled appearance. In its wild state it has a soft and sweet song, and in a cage is a pert and friendly house pet, one that mocks the songs of others, learns to whistle tunes, and can talk as clearly as many of its keepers. I must tell the story of a pair of very cute and lively starlings, as it is told us by the gentleman in whose house these birds were born and brought up.
Dick and his wife lived in a large cage, with all the things needed to make than enjoy life. Once a day the cage door was opened and they took a bath on the kitchen floor, Dick first and his wife afterwards, for he was a little household tyrant, cuffing his mate soundly when she tried to be first in anything.
The Starling. One of the Talking Birds
Dick's first lesson was in imitating the rumble of carts in the street. Of this he was very proud and soon learned to speak his own name, always with the prefix "Pretty." He was always "Pretty Dick." As for his wife, he gave her the strange name of "Hezekiah." How he learned this no one knew, but he always used it.
Thus if his wife tried to join him in a song, he would stop and call out angrily, "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" Then he would start again, and if she forgot his scolding and joined in again he was apt to chase her around the cage and give her a sound thrashing. At their meals Dick showed the same spirit. His wife was not allowed to touch a morsel till his lordship was done. If she dared to hop down and snatch a meal while he was singing it was a sad time for her if he caught her at it.
But though Dick was a tyrant to his wife, to those who cared for him he was a loving little pet. He was very quick at learning new words, and soon knew a large number, which he never grew tired of using. He grew so tame that he was given full freedom of the house and garden, and would spend hours in the grounds, catching flies, singing, and talking to himself as if repeating his lessons. He and the cat and kittens were the warmest friends, but he would play with the dogs also and often went to sleep on their backs.
"Doctor" was his name for his teacher, and if in singing an air he forgot part of it he would cry "Doctor, doctor," and repeat the last note once or twice, as if to say, "What comes next?" In this way he learned to pipe the tunes of—Duncan Grey and The Sprig of Shillelah, without a single wrong note. When a tune was played on the fiddle, he would listen with close attention, and when it was done would say "Bravo" in three distinct tones, thus: "Bravo! doctor; br-r-ravo! bravo!"
He got somehow into the fashion of starting a sentence with the verb "Is," spoken loudly.
"Is?" he would say.
"Is what, Dick?"
"Is the darling starling a pretty pet?"
"No doubt about that."
He had the habit of combining his words in various ways, and one day asked:
"Is the darling doctor a rascal?"
"Just as you think," was the reply.
"Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!" sang Dick, finishing with Duncan Grey and part of The Sprig of Shillelah.
He had been taught to say, "Love is the soul of a nate Irishman," but was often heard to vary it in such ways as "Love is the soul of a nate Irish starling," or "Is love the soul of a darling pretty Dick," and so on.
Here is a sample of a chat between Dick and his master.
"Doctor," the bird would begin, "is it, is it a nate Irish pet?"
"Silence and go to sleep. I want to write," said the doctor.
"Eh?" Dick would say; "What is it? What d'ye say?"
If no answer came the bird would break out:
"Is it sugar,—snails—sugar, snails, and brandy?" Then, "Doctor, doctor!"
"Well, Dickie, what is it now?"
"Doctor—whew." That meant the doctor was to whistle.
"I shant."
"Tse! tse! tse!" Dick would chirp, and then say, "Doctor, will you go a clinking?"
To Dick a fly was always a clink, and clinking meant fly-hunting. Perched on his master's finger he would be carried around the room and held up to every resting fly. He never missed one.
As Dick grew older he became more of a tyrant to his wife. She could do nothing to please him, he attacked her every morning and the last thing at night and half-starved her besides.
Sometimes she used to peck him back, driven to it by his ill temper, and this led Dick's master to play him a trick. One day when Dick had bullied her worse than ever, he took Hezekiah out of the cage and fastened a small pin to her bill, the point sticking out a little.
When she was put back Dick accused her of "going on shore without leave," and pecked her so viciously that she gave him a sharp peck in return. That Dick jumped when he felt the pin may well be said, and his look was comical as he cried out, "Eh! What d'ye say? Hezekiah! Hezekiah!"
Hezekiah, pleased with her success, now chased him round and round the cage, punishing him until the doctor opened the door and let the victim out.
But the bird could not spend her life with a pin tied to her bill, and in the end, to stop the family quarrels, the doctor gave her away to a friend and Dick was left alone.
For this strange story of a talking starling we are indebted to Robert Cochrane, who gives it in his book "Four Hundred Animal Stories." That any bird could talk with so much sense and reason seems hard to believe, though the writer is good authority. Here is his wind up of Dick's story:
"Poor Dickie! One day he was shelling peas to himself in the garden, when some boys startled him and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself and could not find his way back. At all events I only saw him once again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from the house, when a voice in a tree above hailed me: 'Doctor! doctor! What is it?' That was Dick; but a crow flew past and scared him again, and away he flew—for ever."
VII
OUR COUSIN THE MONKEY
The organ-grinder and his monkey are two animals well known to us all, and we may have looked at them now and then and asked ourselves which of the two had the best brain. The one spends his time turning a crank and grinding out something that passes for music. His little brother dances about on his nimble legs, holds out his hat for pennies, and chatters away in a language of his own.
We do not understand what he has to say; but neither do we understand a Chinaman or a Frenchman. We say to ourselves that he has been taught his tricks; but so has his master been taught how to use his music-box. No doubt the master learns his art more quickly than the monkey, but then he understands what is told him while his poor little comrade does not, but has to be shown everything he is to do, so this gives the man a great advantage.
Now do not think that I am trying to say that the monkey has as good a brain as the man. All I want to say is that he has a brain that acts in the same way. But it gets to its upper level of thought before it reaches what is a low level in man. The monkey can think as we can, and often shows that he is thinking. So can many other animals, such as the dog and the parrot; but while the monkey looks more like a man than these animals, it also seems to think more like a man.
Have you ever been to the zoo and seen a cage full of monkeys, or seen a cage of them in a travelling menagerie? Lively, cunning, jolly little fellows they are, playing tricks on one another, leaping and climbing, never still for two minutes together, and the most curious of all the animals we know. What does this curiosity mean? Does it not mean that the monkey wants to know, just as we want to know when we show curiosity? And wanting to know is the first step towards getting to know.