But meanwhile a sudden stirring of domestic instincts came to Thyrsis, and she was stimulated to rival Mummy’s nest-building. I gave her a little basket and materials for a nest, and she set to work and built a very good nest, and sat in it for six weeks, till her claws grew long and her legs grew weak, and there was of course no sign of an egg. Then I took it away from her, for I was afraid she would be ill with sitting, and it would never be the least use. Poor Thyrsis! under other circumstances she might have proved herself, if less vulgar, quite as effective as Mummy in building and breeding. When I had had her about seven or eight years she died quite suddenly. Was it of a broken heart? Had Jack’s too late attentions stirred in her the emotion of love, as he clung to the corner of his cage, singing to her and leaving his babies to starve?
There is just one more canary I must mention, for it had a curious name and history. It was called after one of my relations “Uncle Arthur”; that is to say, it was called so by myself and my brothers; for it was supposed to be called “Arthur” by my mother and “Mr. Sidgwick” by the outside world.
Uncle Arthur was Jack’s brother, but Jack had a monopoly of the intelligence of the family. Uncle Arthur had been half starved when he first came to me, and it had affected his intellect. Perhaps I had better mention that it was not from any supposed similarity in this respect that he was named after my uncle. He was idiotic in strange ways; for instance, I have known him try to bathe in a draught, from which he got inflammation of the lungs. For a long time, also, I found it was quite safe to take him out of doors without clipping his wings, for he was too foolish to know how to fly. One day, however, he astonished me by suddenly flying up into the top of a tree, which proved that his apparent powerlessness was the result of idiocy; for when he happened, as thus at intervals, to hit upon the right way of using his wings, he could fly quite well, though in a rather curious manner and with a pigeon-like noise. He never seemed to want to build nests, he never even serenaded any of the hen-birds of Jack’s family. He had a very happy, limited life. When he was already getting old I gave him away. I am sorry to say that his death was compassed accidentally by his new mistress; she was so much disgusted with him because he would not wash [he had probably forgotten how to], that she washed him one day herself with soap and flannel. Uncle Arthur died of it.
Jack outlived all the rest. Towards the end of Mummy’s life all illusion about her passed away; he got irritated and used to pull feathers out of her, though he tried to make up by much affection between times. But it was not Mummy’s fault. She was frankly vulgar from the beginning, and Jack, with his keen perception of character, ought to have known it.
VII
A REGULAR FLIRT
GYPSY was so called because he was bought off a gypsy-cart. A friend of mine was attracted by his wonderful voice, and gave a half-crown for him. Others were attracted by his voice too, with results more fatal.
He was in his first year when I had him, and it was not until the second year that his feathers and his fascination attained their full proportions. Gypsy was a mule, a cross between a goldfinch and canary. His back was dark green, he had a yellowish breast with dark splashes on it, black wing feathers, and two patches on his cheeks the colour of gooseberry fool; and he had a reddish golden crest, which he could raise a little when he was excited.
The next summer was beautiful weather at Oxford, and I took Gypsy there when I went to College, though I cannot say that he aided study. If I read, he got up a quarrel with the leaves of the book, and flew at them as I turned them over. If I wrote, he fell into a passion with my pen, and ran across the wet ink on my paper to peck it. And his love-affairs were very distracting.