All day I watched my bird baby, and it seemed to me that nothing for a long time had made me as happy as his escape from death by fright.
I forgave the cat, but the next day I had to call back this forgiveness. I was standing in the middle of the veranda, when I heard, a sound that always strikes dread to my heart. It was a wretched, asthmatic breathing that I have never known a bird to recover from.
Which one was the victim? My eye ran anxiously around my small bird world. Not Red-top; no, he would be the last one I could give up. Not Touzle, the dear mother bird, not Dixie, best and brightest of robins, not his friend the sparrow, not Blue Boy the indigo bunting, nor the goldfinch Boy, nor Andy and his mate, nor any of the sweet-singing canaries. Not old man Java, nor the rosy-faced love-birds, and not, oh, no! not my last, but almost best-loved bird, the cardinal baby.
I stepped near to him and he flew away. The hard breathing stopped, and it seemed to me for a minute that my heart stopped too. I followed him, and the wretched, rasping sound was now quite close to me. My baby was doomed. I would have to give him up. In some brighter, fairer world I might see that pretty creature mature and perhaps live forever—who knows—for many wise men say that there will be a future life for birds, that an all-wise and all-merciful Father will never utterly destroy any created thing that has in it the spark of life.
There was only one thing to be thankful for. I would have time to get acquainted with the certainty of his death—and as far as I could observe, a bird’s sufferings were not extreme when afflicted in this way. The canary Britisher had the same trouble, and he seemed to get a great deal of pleasure out of life. So day by day I watched my pet, and delighted in giving him all the dainties he would eat.
He lingered on until I left home in the autumn, but shortly afterward died. I heard that the dear little bird with the reddish-brown crest had been picked up dead on the floor of the aviary.
Poor baby—I cannot think of him without emotion, but to my joy I have dreamed of seeing him well and happy and trotting about among his former companions.
Some one speaks of birds “making sweet music in one’s dreams,” and I often have the pleasure of seeing my pets about me during my sleeping moments.
Next summer I hope my Brazil cardinals will be more successful in the raising of young ones. I notice that year after year they get tamer and more reasonable.
One morning last August I heard Red-top making a great noise about daybreak. His usual habit during summer is to wake at the first streak of day and begin singing in a whisper, and gradually to ascend into a hearty song. This particular morning he was so noisy that I went to the glass door and said, “You are making a great racket, my boy. Think of the neighbors.”