The Bird Hospital

by Caroline Crowninshield Bascom

At that time I had a dear little boy sparrow named “Mack,” who was a beauty and very bright. When Cady took his bath, he always came down and took a shower bath. In the fall I began Cady’s music lessons, and every one laughed at the idea of my thinking I could teach him to sing with me. Every day after luncheon I spent an hour with him. I would put him on the back of a chair by the piano and play and sing a very catchy little waltz song, and I kept it up for weeks before he would sing at all, but I knew by his looks and actions he was taking it all in, so I was determined I would not give up. Finally one day he began to follow me with the sweet notes of a canary, and I hardly dared breathe, but went right on singing as if I did not hear him, and from that day on he improved with every lesson. Next I took the waltz song “First Love” from “Olivette,” and he showed great delight with the change, and entered right into the spirit of the song. We sung that for many weeks, always beginning our lessons with the first waltz song. Then for a change I thought I would try him with a waltz song, “May Blossoms,” which was entirely different in style and tone. He liked that best of all, and it was simply marvellous the way he sang it. He was always in such a hurry to sing it, he would often begin before the music. I began with the idea of giving him a prize when we had finished our lessons, but that did not suit him at all, and he gave me to understand that he must have one to begin on. He soon learned to take his position on the chair when I brought him into the parlour. I would begin to play, and sometimes, before he thought, he would sing a few notes, then he would remember his treat, and down he would hop into a chair, then over to another chair which stood in the back parlour, as he was afraid of a fur rug that lay between the doors, and would never put his claws in it. He would perch on the arm of the chair until I went to my tea-table and got a crumb of biscuit or cake and gave to him, then he would hop back the way he came, take his position, and begin to sing. After his lesson he always had a taste of honey and a drink of water out of a whiskey glass. He seemed very proud of his accomplishments, and was always more than willing to show off for visitors,—take a bath as well as sing for them.

CADY TAKING HIS SINGING LESSON

One day he was in the back parlour and wanted to go into the front parlour. A gentleman was sitting with his legs crossed in the chair that was his stepping-stone, and what to do he did not know. Several times he hopped on to the first arm, then on to the floor, would look at the fur rug, but could not get up enough courage to go over it. Again, as he hopped on to the arm, his eye caught the toe of the gentleman’s shoe. In an instant he was on it and over into the front parlour, singing with great glee over his cunning feat.

One day in the spring, when I was giving him his lesson, a friend came in with a very large dog. Cady had never seen a dog before, and I was afraid he would die of fright and that his voice was ruined for ever. I could not get him to sing a note for many weeks. He showed the same fear every time I brought him down to the parlours. After he had finished moulting in the fall, he was more beautiful than ever. Every feather was perfect and shone like satin. I brought him down-stairs to show to a friend, and the first thing he did was to take his position on the chair by the piano and begin to chirp, and I knew he was asking me to play for him. For six months he had not sung a note, so you may imagine my delight when out poured the sweetest trills of the best bred canary. Like all robins, Cady was a very early riser, and during the summer he would wake me at five o’clock in the morning, and I would have no peace until I opened my blinds. Of course, it was very nice for Cady, but, oh, poor me! Never before or since have I ever gotten up so early, for sleep was out of the question. He would come down on my bed, perch on my shoulder, and send the sweetest trills right down into my ear, but I could not fully appreciate them at that early hour. If that did not take effect, he would peck my hands; if I put them under the cover, then my eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth.

I regret very much that Cady’s photograph was not taken when he was taking a sun bath. He would toss back his head, spread out his wings, lean against anything that was most convenient, and a lady with a train posing for her portrait could not have been more graceful. Every one said: “When winter comes, Cady will feel the cold,” but Cady had no intention of being cold, and a warm room was all the Florida he cared for.

Instead of a sun bath, he took a fire bath, and often before he went to sleep for the night he would perch on the back of a low chair by the fire, and drink in all the warm air he could hold.

The first autumn I had Cady, I was told I must clip his wings, for he was never caged. A friend came one day, and we clipped several of the birds’ wings, but my heart was broken when it was done, for they all felt so ashamed, especially Cady. At that time I had the Princess of Wales, and she was a most inquisitive little lady. She would follow Cady about, look him all over, get him into a corner, examine his wings, and lift up with her bill the one that had been clipped. The next autumn, when Cady’s new feathers came in, they were so beautiful I did not have the heart to clip his wings again. But he was getting so unruly, chasing my other small birds, flying through the air and picking them up as if they were flies, that I did not know what to do with him. I knew I must clip his wing or cage him, and I knew the latter would simply kill the poor bird. Each day I would get ready to cut it my courage would fail, and I would put it off until the next, and, like all things we keep putting off, there came a day when I would have given all I possessed if I had clipped his wing in the beginning.

Cady was afraid out-of-doors. One day he fell out of my bedroom window, and waited for me to come and get him. He often stood in my bedroom window, but never seemed to care to go out. If I took him into the yard, he would fly back into the house if the door was open.

One day I took him quite a walk to see a friend. He perched on my wrist (as my finger was too small), did not offer to get off, and seemed very much at home in the friend’s house, so I never thought of his going away. When he began his lessons in the autumn, his wing was all feathered out, and he could fly everywhere. Instead of hopping from chair to chair for his treat, he would fly out into the dining-room, light on the dining-room table and wait for me to come.