I was surprised to find what a hold the little thing had taken on my affection. When her soft, gray body became cold, I held her in my hand close to the fire and, with tears in my eyes, wished for a miracle to restore her to health.
She lay quietly until just before she died. Then she opened her eyes and I called to the other members of the family to come and see their strange expression. They became luminous and beautiful, and dilated in a peculiar way. We hear of the eyes of dying persons lighting up wonderfully, and this strange illumination of little Betsy’s eyes reminded me of such cases.
Even after death she lay with those wide-open eyes, and feeling that I had lost a friend, I put down her little dead body. It was impossible for me to conceal my emotion, and my mother, who had quite forgotten Betsy’s hostility to her, generously took the little feathered creature to a taxidermist.
I may say that Betsy was the first and last bird I shall ever have stuffed. I dare say the man did the work as well as it could be done, but I gazed in dismay at my Betsy when she came home. That stiff little creature sitting on a stick, with glazed eyes and motionless body, could not be the pretty little bird whose every motion was grace. Ever since the day of Betsy’s death, I can feel no admiration for a dead bird. Indeed, I turn sometimes with a shudder from the agonized postures, the horrible eyes of birds in my sister women’s hats—and yet I used to wear them myself. My present conviction shows what education will do. If you like and study live birds, you won’t want to wear dead ones.
After Betsy’s death Solomon seemed so lonely that I resolved to buy him a companion. I chose a robin, and bought him for two dollars from a woman who kept a small shop. A naturalist friend warned me that I would have trouble, but I said remonstratingly, “My owl is not like other owls. He has been brought up like a baby. He does not know that his ancestors killed little birds.”
Alas! When my robin had got beautifully tame, when he would hop about after me, and put his pretty head on one side while I dug in the earth for worms for him, when he was apparently on the best of terms with Sollie, I came home one day to a dreadful discovery. Sollie was flying about with the robin’s body firmly clutched in one claw. He had killed and partly eaten him. I caught him, took the robin away from him, and upbraided him severely.
“Too, who, who, who who,” he said—apologetically, it seemed to me, “instinct was too strong for me. I got tired of playing with him, and thought I would see what he tasted like.”
I could not say too much to him. What about the innocent lambs and calves, of which Sollie’s owners had partaken?
I had a fine large place in the basement for keeping pets, with an earth floor, and a number of windows, and I did not propose to have Sollie murder all the birds I might acquire. So, one end of this room was wired off for him. He had a window in this cage overlooking the garden, and it was large enough for me to go in and walk about, while talking to him. He seemed happy enough there, and while gazing into the garden or watching the rabbits, guineapigs, and other pets in the large part of the room, often indulged in long, contented spells of cooing—not hooting.
In 1902 I was obliged to leave him for a six months’ trip to Europe. He was much petted by my sister, and I think spent most of his time upstairs with the family. When I returned home I brought, among other birds, a handsome Brazil cardinal. I stood admiring him as he stepped out of his traveling cage and flew around the aviary. Unfortunately, instead of choosing a perch, he flattened himself against the wire netting in Sollie’s corner.