Some one told me of a young man who kept fancy pigeons in Halifax, and one day my sister and I called on him. His birds were mostly white, and as I stood looking at this first collection of pigeons that I had ever intelligently examined, I was conscious of a feeling almost of ecstasy. Only those persons who are bird-lovers can understand this peculiar delight in the mere contemplation of the restless, beautiful creatures.
Birds arouse certain emotions, and touch a certain set of feelings that no other creature has power to stir. They are so beautiful, so finished, so fragile and elegant, and so helpless. Baby birds always remind me of human babies. The young of many animals will nose about and search for food. The tiny bird does nothing but open its beak. You might kill it—it cannot resist, but its helplessness is its chief claim to your love and protection.
In connection with the protective instinct of bird-lovers for birds, I was interested in hearing of a certain popular English general, who is said to have worried incessantly, not over the human beings that he had killed when fighting in defense of his country, but over the death of a helpless lizard that he one day thoughtlessly struck down with his walking-stick. He was strong, and the lizard was weak; and instead of protecting it, he killed it.
Possibly with regard to pigeons, I am too enthusiastic; but after keeping some hundreds of birds, and being devoted to them all, I prefer over and over again the bird we have always with us—the domesticated pigeon.
My first pair were fantails—white ones that my sister chose from the young man’s collection, and gave to me for a Christmas present. I used to spend hours in watching them. Their tip-toeing walk, their convulsive jerking and twitching of the neck and chest, and gently bouncing heads, were intensely interesting, and not painful to witness, as they seemed to enjoy their bodily peculiarities. However, much as I liked them, I would class them among the monstrosities in pigeon breeds. I prefer a straight bird to a deformed one. The only consolation was that they had never known anything different.
“That fellow lives pretty much in the back of his house,” said a man, who once stood gazing at a fantail.
Their appetites amused me, and I was informed that a pigeon is capable of eating in a day a quantity more than equal to its own weight, though fanciers estimate that one-tenth of a pound is a sufficient daily amount.
Their manner of drinking was also a revelation to me, and illustrated the lack of accurate observation in the average person. How many times I had noticed pigeons about the streets of cities, but now, for the first time, I was to find out how they drank.
I used to amuse myself by saying to my friends, “How do pigeons drink?”
Nearly every one answered, “I don’t know. Like a chicken, I suppose.”