Alas! the dead are soon forgotten (among canaries). Norwich’s funeral was held at ten o’clock, and by noon a goldfinch had slipped into his place, and was sitting by Pussy’s Baby, devotedly putting choice morsels of food down her pretty, yellow throat.
I was very fond of my goldfinches. They were such neat, dapper, soldierlike little birds, and so good-tempered as they flew about the aviary with their sweet notes. I never saw one of my real goldfinches strike or hurt another bird. This particular one became a good mate to Pussy’s Baby, and helped her bring up Norwich’s family.
I am exceedingly interested in studying the descendants of Norwich and Minnie, in tracing in the children the characteristics of the parents. It is easy to study canary families, for the young birds hatched this year will next year bring up families of their own, and one has a number of canaries spread out before him.
My Germans have crossed with the English breed, and now I have the mixed families with complications and ramifications. With birds it is as with human families—as the parents are, so will the children be.
Some time ago a lady brought me a little paper parcel.
“This is a dead bird,” she said, “but it is so beautiful I want you to look at it.”
I did look, and there lay an exquisite little creature with Norwich’s heavy crest and lovely, silky feathers, but with Minnie’s frail and delicate body.
“You gave it to me when it was a young one,” the lady continued, “and the other day I found it dead. I wonder what was the matter with it?”
I had lost sight of the bird, and did not know what care she had given it, but my conclusion was that the weak maternal strain had been the cause of its sudden death.
However, good stock will not survive everything. The most astonishing ignorance prevails with regard to the care of birds. I have had a woman ask me seriously whether it was wrong to change a bird’s drinking-water every day.