But men hunted the hoopoes through the length and breadth of the land, and they killed them for the sake of their golden crowns; then the hoopoes cried to King Solomon, for King Solomon knew the voice of all beasts and birds, yea of the creeping things also, and the hoopoes said, “Take away our crowns, O king, for men kill us for the sake of our golden crowns.” And Solomon took away their crowns. “Yet,” said he, “it shall be known what the hoopoes did for the King,” and he gave them crowns of golden feathers.
So says the Book of the Enchantments of the King, and that is why my hoopoe was called Solomon.
I was riding through a village near Thebes in the evening, and among the groups of children who held out grimy hands and cried “Backsheesh”; and the half-blind boys who made the somewhat startling statement, “Finished Fazzer, finished Muzzer, I yam berry hongerry”; I saw at the door of a mud house three children, one of whom swung towards me a bird he held by the wings,—and I recognised the helpless, half-dead, fluffy mass for a hoopoe.
I refused to give them the wages of sin, and they were too much surprised to attempt to hinder the departure of the hoopoe. Indeed, if they had kept it much longer, it would have departed without assistance by the silent road, for one claw had been tied back to its leg, and it had been swung in that manner till its tormentors happened to think that they had better try the wings instead; its crown of feathers had been pulled out; and when I got back to the hotel, it shut its eyes and fell forwards on the point of its beak as if it was about to die. The string had been tied so tightly that it was with difficulty that we got it free from its bonds, and then we plied it with whisky and water. That was no easy matter either, for it would not open its mouth, and one had first to get the long beak open, and then to hold it so, while from a feather dipped in the refreshing beverage a drop trickled down the pink throat; then the bill was shut, and one watched to see if the feathers of the throat would ruffle and give sign that the drop was passing down. The method succeeded, for presently the little forked tongue was shot out to suck up the liquid, the little brown eyes opened, and the hoopoe, taking in the situation, hurried into the corner of the window-sill, and supposed that he was hiding himself by laying his long bill up the wall.
It would certainly be necessary to provide the hoopoe with a habitation, were he only the guest of a day; so a crate which had contained pottery was found, its straw was arranged nestwise, and the bird was bestowed in it, much to its own satisfaction.
But the diet was a problem. Its natural food was live insects. I went so far as to kill a housefly, but it was a very disgusting process, and the fly was not at all well received; moreover, I was not sure whether the hoopoe was of an age to receive, shall I say peptonised food from his parents, or whether he preferred the raw material. But as the best compromise, including the carnivorous and the more-or-less-peptonised element, I decided on hard-boiled egg; that had to be administered in the same way as the whisky, with drops of water to help it to run down. After this I put the hoopoe into the crate for the night.
I frankly confess that I expected to find a stiff little body there in the morning, but instead I saw a bright brown eye fixed upon me, and a smooth, compact, though crownless little hoopoe, sitting in the straw.
If the hoopoe was going to live, other things became necessary—first and foremost, a name.