He bowed his red crest, sang impatiently something that sounded like, “I can’t help it; I can’t help it!” and went back to the glass.
I had an illumination. He had mated with the bird in the glass. I took it from him, and soon he stopped beating Touzle—though for a time I had to separate them—and little by little began making advances to her until at last they became such good friends that they never left each other even for one minute.
If Ruby chased them and drove one to the other end of the aviary there would be anxious calls and whistles, and they would hasten to rejoin each other. I was very much interested in their way of greeting each other, even after a few minutes’ separation. They would bow profoundly, expand the tail like a fan, and each one would sing a little song. It was a very pretty bird ceremony. I have seen reunited birds salute each other by a cry of delight, a rub on the head with the bill, a sharp tap of affection, such as some parrakeets give, but I never saw any other of my birds bow and curtsy as the Brazil cardinals do.
The first year I had Touzle they made no nest. The summer before she came, Red-top had made a fine nest in a fir tree, weaving long grasses in and out, and shaping it perfectly. The second year they made one or two nests, but laid no eggs. While on the farm they made several nests, laid eggs, hatched young ones, and every time either Ruby or the mockingbird killed their nestlings.
Two years ago I had them up on the roof-veranda where I could watch them, and they hatched two fine, plump young birds. Most unfortunately I went too near the nest one day and the young ones seeing me sprang out, and though I put them back, they would not stay in the nest. They had long legs and jumped like frogs, and fearing that they would spring out during the early morning and become chilled, I took them in the house.
Of course, after removing them from the parents I had to feed them. Raising young birds, especially insectivorous ones, is a delicate matter, and after a week or two they languished and soon died. The little creatures knew me, and would cry for food, and it seemed to me that I could not give them up. They were so intelligent, so pretty, so like their parents.
Their attachment for me did not spring alone from their knowledge that I fed them. A young mouse taught me a valuable truth with regard to the upbringing of the young of any creature. The mouse was found wandering over the floor of my study, too young and too foolish to escape. My sister picked him up and we gave him food, drink, and shelter, yet he did not prosper.
“He is lonely,” I said at last, “he wants petting,” and I put him up my sleeve.
Now he was happy. He crouched close to my arm, only sticking his little nose out to get kind words and morsels of food I tucked up after him.
A young bird is like a young animal, I concluded. They all want petting and mothering when taken from their parents. Later on, I tried this plan with the greatest success. After feeding young birds I would talk to them, tuck them in their nests, and I soon saw by their playful ways with me that affectionate attention was as necessary as the feeding.