Subject to Vanity

by Margaret Benson

The name suited him exactly. From the time that he was called Solomon, he became Solomon. We never spoke of him as the hoopoe; indeed, it is with great difficulty that I have avoided so far using his name. Now I have told you when and why he was named; henceforth, then, he is Solomon.

But, secondly, Solomon must have exercise, and fresh animal food. It would be better, both for the sake of digestion and economy of time, if the two could be combined, and I spent most of my time in effecting the combination in one of the garden beds.

The beds in the hotel garden are excellently convenient for feeding and exercising half-fledged hoopoes; they are lowered three or four inches below the level of the paths, for the purposes of irrigation. Thus when, once a week, the water is turned in, the beds become a series of pools, until the water has gradually soaked away through the rich black mud. Further, the beds are surrounded with a bushy little plant, so that when Solomon tried to spring over the edge and escape me, his wings were not strong enough for the purpose; he sprawled on the bushy plant, wings spread and legs kicking, and was easily captured.

But it was Sunday, and the hour drew towards church time. Solomon must go home and be fed before I went to church. Accordingly, I went to catch him, but there was one thing I had forgotten. At the corner of the bed was a drain through which the irrigation was effected. Quick as thought Solomon ran in there, and was out of arm’s length in a minute. What was to be done? The bell was already ringing to church; decent and godly people, with their prayer-books in their hands, were walking down the garden path; and there was I plunging round the drain in search of an ungrateful, half-fledged, discrowned hoopoe. I dared not leave him there, to be the prey of the numerous and ravenous hawks and crows.

But suddenly, as a Deus ex machina, Mahmoud the gardener hove in sight; so I called to Mahmoud, and Mahmoud called to Ibrahim, and Ibrahim brought a dry palm leaf, and we put it in at the opposite end of the drain, and made a very terrible shaking noise in the inside with it; and there hurried out a very long beak, supported by a very small bird at the end of it; and Solomon was captured in time for church.

When I came back from church, Solomon’s crate was empty. We trod carefully over the room for fear of squashing him flat, like a botanical specimen; we looked under the sofa, under the chairs, and Solomon was not there. Then a little scuffling noise on the balcony attracted our attention, and there was Solomon with a guilty look in his face. We lined the inside of his crate with stiff newspaper.

But when I came back from lunch I saw a ridiculous silhouette far up the half-lighted passage. There again was Solomon! He had carried on mining operations on the paper during lunch, and had escaped again. Another crate with narrower bars had to be procured. Of course he instantly put his head through and got it fixed, and I had to seize him by the beak and push him back.

Now, by all the laws of animal literature, Solomon ought to have been devoted to me by this time. If he had studied the Whole Duty of Birds, he would have found out that he must wake me at dawn (I cannot feel sure that I should have appreciated that); that he must flutter his wings with joy and chirp when I came into the room, even if he did not feel equal to opening his little bill and pouring forth a grateful song (do hoopoes sing?); that he must follow me round the room; that he must eat out of my hand; that he must beat his breast against the bars of his cage when I went away.