When night came he flew to one of the trees. The next morning he resumed his siege of the house, and I had to give in. “Come back,” I said, opening the hall door, “if you are as fond of your half-brothers and sisters as that, rejoin them. I will never put you out again.”
He came in like a feathered streak, and I have him to-day—nervous, lively, in fine physical condition, and improved in his conduct, as I have never seen him strike a bird since.
This change of temper I have often observed in birds. In the case of this hybrid it was very striking, for, in the days of his youth, he would violently beat an inoffensive bird, and when he grew older I have seen him put up with every insult from another canary who coveted his mate, and who persecuted him from morning till night. Possibly birds, like human beings, gain wisdom with age. He and his mate build nest after nest that I never interfere with, for the eggs of hybrids are said never to hatch.
I have referred to the weak strain in the canary Minnie’s constitution and, strange to say, several of her nestlings succumbed before I lost her. I was in a measure prepared for her death, but when I at last found her little dead body I mourned sincerely and a long time, for a stouter-hearted, braver spirit never existed in a fragile body. She always reminded me of a little, plain-featured, delicate woman in a household, who with iron will sways every one to her wishes.
My nervous Norwich sang at the top of his voice on the day that he was made a widower. At the time I thought him heartless. Now I think he was probably mourning in his excitable way. It is as easy to misjudge birds as human beings.
A recent writer says that the Japanese often giggle when a funeral procession passes by. In reality, they are as sympathetic as we are, but they have a different mode of expressing themselves.
After Minnie died, Norwich devoted himself principally to a canary called Pussy’s Baby—her mother having been a good-sized yellow bird, with the reputation of a murderess of other canaries. Pussy’s Baby never had the influence over Norwich that Minnie had, and he became fussy and meddlesome. He interfered with other birds in their nest-making, and often received rebukes and hard blows. One evening I noticed that he was particularly excited about a new canary that I had put on the roof-veranda. The hybrid led her to his corner, and Norwich followed. The hybrid showed signs of terrible impatience, but as I have stated before, he was a reformed bird, and I did not think he would strike Norwich unless he was cunning enough to wait till I had left them for the night. However, I was shocked to find Norwich’s dead body on the floor the next morning, close by the hybrid’s perch. He was far from his own nest. Pussy’s Baby was sitting on a nestful of eggs in Sukey’s room. Norwich should have spent the night near her. He had either fallen dead in one of his fits of frantic singing and dancing, or the hybrid had struck him a fatal blow.
We should not criticize Norwich too harshly. His death was a real grief to the family, and my mother mourned for him as she has mourned for no other bird. He knew her, and when she spoke to him he always put his handsome head on one side, peeped from under his crest, and answered her with an intelligence she could not mistake.
American Goldfinch
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