He became hollow-chested and emaciated, the feathers came out of his head. He was bald while yet a baby, his long legs made him look as if he were on stilts, he coughed persistently, he became snappish and peevish, and sometimes refused to eat.
Night after night I got up every few hours, and coaxed him to take something, for he was like a weak patient that would die if left too long without nourishment.
“I won’t,” he would snap angrily, as I offered him a worm at two P. M.
“Oh, please,” I would coax him. “Good Tardy!”
“Well, just to oblige you,” he would seem to say at last, and the worm would go down.
“Now another, Tardy boy.”
“I will not,” and this tone was final.
Then I had to open his beak, and he would cough and nearly choke, and I would feel that I was killing him, and would glance toward the chloroform bottle that I kept standing near him, for I was resolved not to let him suffer too much.
I never chloroform an animal or bird that has a chance to get well, even if it undergoes some suffering in the process. Often, as I sit by some intelligent, suffering creature, I try to express to it in some way the hope that it will have courage to endure bravely—just as one says to a human being, “Bear up—be courageous—your pain will soon be over.”
When one speaks in this way, it is touching to see how responsive are the members of the lower creation. Naturally, if their sufferings are too great, they are, like us, utterly oblivious of what goes on around them. But, if there is only intermittent pain, they seem to appreciate one’s sympathy.