Slaughter of the pet birds
Early in the day I had left my family all safe and well; they were of course confined, but plenty of air and light was admitted through the bars into their dwellings. I had the satisfaction of thinking they were happy, even in their captivity; they were, however, all carried off at one fell swoop, and I returned only to witness the desolation of the scene. There is a small animal of the weasel species, having the bump of destructiveness so strongly developed, that it seeks the destruction of all other animals that cannot defend themselves from its attacks; it is called the crabbodaga. One of these—or there may have been an accomplice in the murderous business—crept between the bars of the cage, and killed every bird and animal I possessed, excepting a mocking-bird I happened to have out with me.
None but those who have reared birds from the callow state and have given them a place in their affections, can appreciate my distress at this disaster. The birds had been my companions—had dined, some of them, at the same table every day, and over the dessert had amused me with their conversation, or delighted me with their music. Reflecting on this domestic tragedy, I resolved to convert the entire of the abandoned hut into one large aviary, that is, as soon as the dry season had entirely freed the place from water.
I had very little difficulty in trimming sticks, and binding them together for fences, to confine the birds; but it was not so easy to repair the loss of attached friends, who had reposed their confidence in me, or to teach strangers an agreeable method of conversation upon a given signal. I could now no longer give dinner-parties at home; I therefore intruded on the entertainments given by others, for I did not enjoy my meals alone. I did not often take a meal with gregarious birds—those who moved in flocks,—yet many of these were excellent companions in private; in a body they were generally too noisy and fickle in flight to be depended on, except in the morning or evening.
The birds usually called social, were my favourites; these are such as live in pairs, but assemble in parties at certain hours of the day to dine on the same tree, sing in concert for an hour, and then part as they came, each attended by its mate. At many of these entertainments I was permitted to remain, without causing any surprise or confusion; but then I behaved with proper decorum, and above all, did not forget the manners and habits of those I visited.
Observing the monkeys to be very fond of the seeds that grew on a tree called the vanilla, the Spanish name for scabbard, which the seeds of the plant resemble, I one day presumed to join one of their parties at meal time, and climbed a tree for that purpose, but was received so very uncourteously, that I gave them up as incorrigible boors. That they have no soul for music I have had frequent proofs while listening to the song of the thrush in the breeding season; a period when these birds select an elevated spot, generally the same every day, and pour forth strains of peculiar melody. These songs the monkeys not only disregard, but continually interrupt with their monotonous howls.
Habits of birds
The habits of birds are very peculiar, and distinctively marked; the thrush sings to its mate, delighted with the prospect of rearing up a new progeny; the nightingale, on the contrary, only ceases to sing when his mate arrives to join him; being migrating birds, the male precedes the female in making its passage from one country to another, and pours forth his notes only while waiting for the arrival of the female.
If this bird is caught and caged before he is joined by his mate, he will continue to sing in confinement, if afterwards, he will be mute. Nothing is more remarkable in birds, or has perhaps been less noticed, than their affection for each other, and for callow birds in general. The cries from any one nest of birds will set all the old ones within hearing into a state of extreme agitation, all flying up and down anxious to inquire what is the matter, and what assistance they can offer. He who walks through the woods, and can imitate the cries of young birds, may at all times be certain of collecting old ones around him, that is, in the breeding season.
The cry of young birds in the nest is in the forest what the cry of fire or murder is in a city; it alarms all the neighbourhood; and the knowledge of an enemy to their young being in the vicinity of their homes, is to them much the same as going to bed next door to an incendiary.