When I read bird stories as a child I always fancied that a bird put the head under the side of the wing next the breast, whereas he reaches back and tucks the head behind the wing. The position looks uncomfortable, but I suppose the bird knows best about that.
As I have said before, I was disappointed in the appearance of these dull, olive-green nonpareils. They were young ones, and I had to wait three years for them to become like the beautiful birds in my books, with the violet heads and necks, the partly red and partly green backs.
They are natives of Mexico and Central America, and rarely get farther north than northern Illinois and Kansas. They used to be trapped in great numbers and shipped to the Northern States, there to languish in captivity. They are partly insectivorous birds, and miss their accustomed diet in cage life. If canaries required insect food they never would have become the highly domesticated birds that they are.
I put my sick nonpareil into the cage with a Java sparrow that was also out of condition. I scarcely thought the new-comer would live through the night, but my mother, who is an early riser, called out to me in the morning that the little Southerner was as “pert” as possible.
I had a hard time with him, as I had also with Java. They both lost all their feathers. The nonpareil was the worst looking bird I ever saw. I called him Baby, and he was soon a naked, skinny, scaly-legged baby, with nothing attractive about him but his soft, dewy eyes. I kept him and Java oiled and secluded in my study. They were not ugly to me, but strangers were apt to burst into peals of laughter at sight of their featherless bodies.
Every night I woke them up about eleven o’clock to take a late supper, for they became rather indifferent about their food, though apparently they did not suffer. I dreaded the long winter nights for them in their enfeebled condition. Java became very tame, and when I tapped the cage and said, “Come out for a walk,” he would hop all around the room. Of course, there was no flying for either of them in their condition.
Everything passes with time, and in a few months my birds’ purplish-red bodies became dark in hue, then crowds of downy pin-feathers jostled each other. In a short time my hideous little pets were, one, the exquisitely-hued nonpareil, the other the modest gray and white sparrow, with feathers overlapping so smoothly that he looked like a carved bird.
I regret to say his prosperity, instead of sweetening Baby’s disposition, soured it, and when I put him into the aviary he speedily took to himself the rôle of persecutor. He was so small that he could not do much harm, but he used to fight continually, often in a very amusing fashion.
One day I saw him attack a fawn-colored, foreign finch that we called the Widow. She was eating seeds from a box, and Baby tried to push her away. The Widow bit him and would not yield. Then Baby seized her tail and pulled it. She did not seem to mind this, so he pulled harder. Then, as she was still indifferent, he fell upon her and gave her a beating and forced her to leave him in possession of the field. This was not serious, but the naughty Baby progressed in wickedness, and finally whipped a timid canary so violently that she died, and also struck a Bengalese finch a blow that was the cause of his death. Bullying was bad enough, but this was murder, so at last I kept the bad little nonpareil in my room the most of the time. He perched on a cage in the wall near my mirror, and seemed to take a certain amount of satisfaction in being with me. He lived for several years, and only died a few months ago. I noticed one day that he seemed very much excited, and leaving my room flew into other bedrooms—a thing he rarely did. One morning a little later I found him lying motionless on the floor. His little mischievous life was over, and I was sorry for it, for when he was good he was “very, very good.”
The saint of the aviary is little Blue Boy, the indigo bunting, alive yet, and prosperous, though I have feared for his life again and again. I never saw him strike a bird. I never saw him do anything naughty. He is quiet and gentle in his habits, never interferes with the other little birds, gets up early, waits patiently for his food till others have finished, retires to quiet corners and sings his little tinkling songs, goes to bed betimes, and if it is a warm moonlight night, is apt to wake up three or four times and sing to himself, not loudly, but loudly enough to cheer any light sleeper.