“I forgot to tell you that I’ve had cats, whose kittens have been taken from them, suckle rats which have been put in their places when they are still blind, and only eight days old. She’ll take to the rats instead of her kittens. I’ve not put them in the cage at this small age, but waited until they were old enough to run about. They’ll keep on suckling at the cat till they get to a tidy size, till she gets annoyed with them and beats them off; but she’ll caress them at other times, and allow them to come and lay under her belly, and protect them from Mr. Monkey. Many a time has a cat been seen suckling rats in my cage, but then they’ve been pretty old rats—of about eight or ten weeks old; and a rat will suckle then, and they’ll follow her about and go and lie under her belly, just the same as chickens under a hen—just the same.
“At night I don’t let my collection sleep together in the cage. It’s four years since I first took to separating of them, for this reason: I had the cleverest monkey in London; there never was a better. I used to wheel the cage into the back-yard, and there let them sleep. One night somebody was so kind as to come and steal my monkey away. I found out my loss the same night. I had only gone into the house to fetch food, and when I came back Mr. Monkey was gone. He didn’t run away, for he was too fond of the cage, and wouldn’t leave it. I’ve often put him outside, and let him loose upon Tower-hill, and to run about gardens, and he’d come back again when I called him. I had only to turn his favourite dog out, and as soon as he see’d the dog he’d be on to his back and have a nice ride back to the cage and inside in a moment. Since that loss I’ve always carried the collection into the house, and let them sleep in the same room where I’ve slept in. They all know their beds now, and will go to them of their own accord, both the cats, the dogs, and the monkeys. I’ve a rat-box, too, and at night when I’m going home I just open the door of the cage and that of the rat-box, and the rats run into their sleeping-place as quick as possible, and come out again in the morning of their own accord.
“My family are fed on the best: they have as good as any nobleman’s favourite dog. They’ve often had a deal more, and better, than their master.
“I don’t know why happy families don’t pay, for they all look at the cage, and seem as pleased as ever; but there’s poverty or something in the way, for they don’t seem to have any money. When I left off last—only a month ago—I wasn’t taking 6d. a-day. It didn’t pay for feeding my little stock. I went to firework-making. They are always busy with firework-making, ready for the 5th of November. I’m sick and tired of the other affair, and would do anything to get from it; but people are afraid to employ me, for they seem to fancy that after being in the streets we are no use for anything.
“I’m fond of my little stock, and always was from a child of dumb animals. I’d a deal sooner that anybody hurt me than any of my favourites.”
Exhibitor of Birds and Mice.
A stout, acute-looking man, whom I found in a decently-furnished room with his wife, gave me an account of this kind of street-exhibition:—
“I perform,” said he, “with birds and mice, in the open air, if needful. I was brought up to juggling by my family and friends, but colds and heats brought on rheumatism, and I left juggling for another branch of the profession; but I juggle a little still. My birds are nearly all canaries—a score of them sometimes, sometimes less. I have names for them all. I have Mr. and Mrs. Caudle, dressed quite in character: they quarrel at times, and that’s self-taught with them. Mrs. Caudle is not noisy, and is quite amusing. They ride out in a chariot drawn by another bird, a goldfinch mule. I give him any name that comes into my head. The goldfinch harnesses himself to a little wire harness. Mr. and Mrs. Caudle and the mule is very much admired by people of taste. Then I have Marshal Ney in full uniform, and he fires a cannon, to keep up the character. I can’t say that he’s bolder than others. I have a little canary called the Trumpeter, who jumps on to a trumpet when I sound it, and remains there until I’ve done sounding. Another canary goes up a poll, as if climbing for a leg of mutton, or any prize at the top, as they do at fairs, and when he gets to the top he answers me. He climbs fair, toe and heel—no props to help him along. These are the principal birds, and they all play by the word of command, and with the greatest satisfaction and ease to themselves. I use two things to train them—kindness and patience, and neither of these two things must be stinted. The grand difficulty is to get them to perform in the open air without flying away, when they’ve no tie upon them, as one may say. I lost one by its taking flight at Ramsgate, and another at Margate. They don’t and can’t do anything to teach one another; not in the least; every bird is on its own account: seeing another bird do a trick is no good whatever. I teach them all myself, beginning with them from the nest. I breed most of them myself. To teach them to sing at the word of command is very difficult. I whistle to the bird to make it sing, and then when it sings I feed, and pet, and fondle it, until it gets to sing without my whistling—understanding my motions. Harshness wouldn’t educate any bird whatsoever. I pursue the same system all through. The bird used to jump to be fed on the trumpet, and got used to the sound. To train Marshal Ney to fire his cannon, I put the cannon first like a perch for the bird to fly to for his food; it’s fired by stuff attached to the touchhole that explodes when touched. The bird’s generally frightened before he gets used to gunpowder, and flutters into the body of the cage, but after a few times he don’t mind it. I train mice, too, and my mice fetch and carry, like dogs; and three of the little things dance the tight-rope on their hind legs, with balance-poles in their mouths. They are hard to train, but I have a secret way, found out by myself, to educate them properly. They require great care, and are, if anything, tenderer than the birds. I have no particular names for the mice. They are all fancy mice, white or coloured. I’ve known four or five in my way in London. It’s all a lottery what I get. For the open-air performance, the West-end may be the best, but there’s little difference. I have been ill seven months, and am just starting again. Then I can’t work in the air in bad weather. I call 21s. a very good week’s work; and to get that, every day must be fine—10s. 6d. is nearer the mark as an average for the year. An order to play at a private house may be extra; they give me what they please. My birds ‘come with a whistle, and come with a call, and come with a good will, or they won’t do at all’—for me. The police don’t meddle with me—or nothing to notice. A good many of my birds and mice die before they reach any perfection—another expense and loss of time in my business. Town or country is pretty much the same to me, take it altogether. The watering-places are the best in the country, perhaps, for it’s there people go for pleasure. I don’t know any best place; if I did I’d stick to it. Ladies and children are my best friends generally.”
The performance of the birds and mice above described is very clever. “Mr. and Mrs. Caudle” are dressed in red and blue cloaks, trimmed with silver lace and spangles; while Mr. Caudle, with an utter disregard of propriety, is adorned with a cocked hat.