HORSES AND RIDING
Besides dogs, I have had many horses which were more or less pets. Such a one was a mare, Black Bess by name, who was so gentle that I could ride her up close to a street door and ring the bell from her back. I rode more or less for the greater portion of my life, but I cannot say that I was ever very devoted to riding—perhaps I had too much of it when I was a child, when a very great deal of my time was spent in the saddle.
The first horse which I recollect being allowed to have for my very own was a beautiful grey mare, Testina, so called on account of her little head. She was the daughter of my father’s racehorse, Clearwell, the winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and on her, as a little girl, I rode with him from Antwerp to Munich in the ’thirties, when railways were scarcely in existence. After this I had many other horses, but I eventually gave up riding with but little regret; my early experiences with Testina, who was seventeen hands high, and extremely difficult to manage, having rather set me against that form of exercise.
Driving appealed to me much more in the ’sixties and early ’seventies. I had two ponies which I really loved. These I used to drive in the low pony-chaise so fashionable at that date, controlling them with the whip combined with a parasol, which the present generation only knows from Leech’s drawings in Punch. At the slightest touch they would (though in reality perfectly manageable) perform the most astounding antics, rearing up in the air and shaking their heads in a manner which startled every one except myself, who knew the real gentleness of their disposition. These ponies lived to a great age, and when they were past work I took care that they should spend their last years in well-earned peace and happiness in a pleasant paddock.
Birds of all sorts I have owned in numbers, amongst them a parrot which never talked at all for a year, till one day when we had a luncheon-party it burst out into a torrent of bad language which much disconcerted everybody.
Mr. Bernal Osborne, I remember, used to have an amusing story about a parrot, which he used to tell when desirous of administering a sly dig at any one who had contrived to obtain a reputation for cleverness by merely saying nothing at all. A great ornithologist, he declared, once advertised for sale the cleverest parrot in the world. The price was large—£500—but would-be purchasers were asked to realise that the bird was absolutely the cleverest in the world. This announcement created a considerable sensation amongst lovers of parrots, and eventually a rich old lady, having somewhat reluctantly paid the required price, secured the treasure. She kept it for some months, during which it said not a single word; but thinking the bird still felt strange amidst its new surroundings she determined to wait a year, and if she had waited a hundred the result would have been the same—never a word did the parrot utter. At the end of this time, being very naturally annoyed, she went to the ornithologist and expressed her surprise and disappointment. “The parrot you sold me,” said she,—“the cleverest bird in the world, you called it,—never speaks at all.” “No,” was the reply, “but remember, it’s a very devil to think.”
A DEMOISELLE CRANE
At the time of the Crimean War General Sir John Mitchell sent me a live demoiselle crane—whether the bird was a demoiselle or a monsieur we never discovered, but she or he lived with us at our home in Hampshire in the greatest amity and peace. There were, indeed, occasional insinuations that fresh eggs disappeared in a mysterious manner, but we did our best not to believe these base accusations against our dear friend. At one time, I remember, she insisted on taking care of a little family of chickens, leaving the inconsolable mother to go crying about in a despondent manner. In addition to the crane we usually used to have two storks striding about the grounds, but I do not believe they were ever really happy; possibly they did not easily resign themselves to the want of water to bathe and splash about in. I fear also that there must have been something wanting in the food we gave them, for after a short sojourn with us pair after pair went to a better land. In consequence of this continued mortality we eventually had recourse to a post-mortem examination, in order to discover the exact cause of their death. It was then found that the responsibility lay with their diet, which was shown to have been somewhat Spartan in character, and to have consisted for the most part of small pieces of slate, bricks, and what was still more singular, brass buttons of various sizes. The digestion of these poor birds, strong as it was, had not been able to cope with this extraordinary collection of hardware, which they had probably been forced to adopt as a menu owing to the lack of some substance which the soil did not supply.
For many years I delighted in the possession of two choughs,—delightful birds, with red feet and beaks, as tame as magpies. A pair of them, to our great astonishment and delight, made a nest in a tower of our house, laid a couple of eggs, and gave every appearance of preparing for the advent of a family. We were all much excited about it, for it is, I believe, an unheard-of thing for choughs to breed in captivity. In the expectation of an event which seemed likely to cause a considerable stir in natural history circles, we forbore from disturbing the enterprising couple in any way; but at last it became clear from careful observation that the blessed day of hatching would never arrive.
MY CHOUGHS