It was wonderful to see the little canaries at work, flying to and fro with their beaks full of nesting materials. Fibrous roots should be given them, long, fine dry grass, cow or dog hair, rabbit down and feathers, though my canaries got enough of the latter in the aviary. Cotton wool and long lengths of twine should not be provided lest they entangle their feet.
When I found that my canaries liked soft white string better than anything else, I cut it in short bits for them. They discarded any bright-colored material, except for the interior of the nest, and I supposed this was because they did not wish to attract attention. It was amusing to see two birds tugging at one piece of twine, neither not in the least inclined to yield. The hen canaries used to shriek and scream at each other, and then their mates would interfere, and there would be a general fight.
In addition to singing when angry, birds sing when sad. One sunny day last March, when I let my birds out in the elevator, one bird sang so exquisitely that I could not help saying to myself, “Any one going by this house would say, ‘What a happy bird!’—whereas I know he is singing because his little heart is nearly breaking.” I had just found his mate dead in the aviary. She was a bird I had only had for a short time, and I think was very delicate. She never got to know me well, and was not fond of me, and when she for several days detached herself from other birds, and came about me, I was afraid I was going to lose her.
I have noticed again and again, without exactly understanding it, that an ailing bird that is doomed, will follow me about and watch me, as if seeking the help I cannot give. Any bird is tamer when sick than when well. A beautiful bullfinch, that I once had, became so tame before he died that he would go to any member of the family. One day my mother called me and, pointing to this pretty creature in his shining hood of black and his crimson breast, she said, “Who is this little negro? He is sitting on my comb, and he just now dipped his beak in that mug. What does he want?”
“He is ill,” I said, “and thirsty, and I am going to lose him,” and I filled the mug with water, whereupon he drank with evident pleasure.
To come back to the matter of birds singing from unhappiness. I have had persons say to me, “My canary is perfectly happy, he sings all the time.”
If it is the springtime, I say, “I am sorry for your bird; he is lonely. Why do you not give him a large cage and get another canary to be company for him? He might not sing so much, but he would be happier.”
“Oh, I don’t want a large cage—it would be in the way. I think he is all right.”
Later on birdie often dies, and my friend buys another.
The traffic in canaries is simply enormous. In Germany, France, England, and Belgium, bird-keepers are hard at work raising young canaries for the American trade. American bird-importing houses employ a large number of men who go from one breeding-house to another in Europe and select the birds to be brought to New York, which is the distributing depot for the United States and Canada.