I picked him up and sprinkled water on him whenever he had a fit or seizure, in which he either lay still or fluttered wildly to and fro. I did not go to church, but devoted myself to poor Sweet-Sweet, and encouraged him to eat when he came out of his spasms. By night-time he was almost well, and next day had quite recovered.
Unfortunately, and to my very great surprise, my bird with the melting eyes was a great fighter, and would attack birds so much larger than himself that I trembled for his safety. He was not nearly so large as my canaries, but he would fight any of them with the greatest intrepidity.
I really should have allowed this little beautiful but mischievous bird to fly away when the autumn came, but I had grown so much attached to him and he was so much at home in the aviary that I could not make up my mind to let him go. I also had a little curiosity to see whether I could keep a warbler all winter.
He got on nicely until one unfortunate day, when he made up his bird mind to bully one of my Japanese robins.
I have never found these robins quarrelsome, but this one deeply resented Sweet-Sweet’s interference with the rapid tenor of his way. I was just wondering what I should do with my naughty warbler, for I knew his gay, impatient spirit would fret itself to death in a cage, when one day I found that the Japanese bird had flown into a rage with him, and had almost torn him to pieces.
I was shocked—I can hardly express the short, sharp pain I felt, when I picked up that tiny, beloved bird body. Only a bird, but how dear! If I had only let him fly away with the other yellow warblers to some fair southern land! I selected two of the greenish-yellow feathers, crossed them, and put them in my bird diary with the mournful entry of his death.
Sweet-Sweet had been a worse fighter than any English sparrow I ever saw, and a worse bully and fighter than Sweet-Sweet, was another small bird I possessed for years—a brilliant red, blue, and gold nonpareil.
He was not brilliant when I got him. I had seen pictures of nonpareils, and had asked a bird-dealer to get me a pair. He sent them to me one cold winter evening, and to my dismay, on opening the birds’ traveling-cages I found that one of them was diseased, his red neck being bare of feathers.
I wrote the bird-dealer an indignant letter, reproving him for sending a sick bird on a journey, and telling him that I never again would buy a bird from him. The proper way, of course, to discourage the traffic in birds is not to buy them. This dealer probably cared little for my remonstrance.
I put this little sufferer at once into a large cage, with fresh seeds and water. He had a succession of fits, and tumbled and fluttered about his cage. However, in between the fits he would eat and drink, while I sat admiring his courage. When bedtime came he heroically mounted a perch and sat there, so weak that he rocked to and fro for a long time before his little claws got a firm grip of the perch. Finally he was able to put his head under his wing, or back of his wing, as I always wish to say, and went to sleep.