CHAPTER XIII
THE HOMING PIGEON THE KING OF BIRDS
One day when the poor little squeaker, in attempting to fly, got one leg over the perch and could go neither forward nor backward, and hung with flapping wings, the father flew to his relief and helped him over.
No one knows until he has carefully observed birds, what untiring labor is required in bringing up young ones. The parents do nothing else but feed and watch their nestlings. Every bird seems to have the firm conviction that he is in the world for the purpose of raising healthy young ones, and as many as possible. He makes his nest, raises a brood, pushes them off in the world, makes another nest, raises another brood, and so on, until he is removed to bird paradise.
If human beings gave as much attention to the raising of their young, we should have an almost perfect race. However, we would scarcely lift sick young ones out of the nest to die. In that respect we are ahead of our bird friends. We might imitate them in one respect, and that is in the way they seem to prevent sick and delicate birds from becoming heads of families. I have noticed that ailing birds in my aviary, in some way or other, do not wish, or are not allowed to have mates.
One handsome but delicate canary never seeks a mate, but all day long flies by his father’s side. He is quite an old bird, but he never leaves this little yellow father, night nor day. The father makes nests, raises young ones, and flies about, always with his devoted trailer.
While my buff pigeons grew and prospered, and raised other young ones, I got another pair in rather a peculiar way. Being in town one morning I stepped into an auctioneer’s room, and there, in a cage, saw a pair of homing pigeons looking very disconsolate. I inquired what their history might be, and the auctioneer said that a passenger on a steamer that had lately come into our fine harbor from England, had brought the birds with him, and on leaving the train for Northwestern Canada, had left the birds behind him.
“What a strange thing to do,” I remarked, as I looked at the traveling-cage and the pretty little drinking dish. Why did he suppose a man would undergo the expense of bringing birds on a long voyage from England and then drop them half-way to his destination?
The auctioneer said he would give it up, and then I further remarked that the cake crumbs in the box were not proper food for pigeons.
He said he knew it, and he wished I would buy them.
I asked him how much he wanted for them, and he said he had no idea how much they were worth, but I might have them for one dollar and seventy-five cents.