A Little Bush Maid

by Mary Grant Bruce

So daily Norah used to make her pilgrimage round Jim’s pets. There were the guinea pigs—a rapidly increasing band, in an enclosure specially built for them by Jim—a light frame, netted carefully everywhere, and so constructed that it could be moved from place to place, giving them a fresh grass run continually. Then there were two young wallabies and a little brush kangaroo, which lived in a little paddock all their own, and were as tame as kittens. Norah loved this trio especially, and always had a game with them on her daily visit. There was a shy gentleman which Norah called a turloise, because she never could remember if he were a turtle or a tortoise. He lived in a small enclosure, with a tiny water hole, and his disposition was extremely retiring. In private Norah did not feel drawn to this member of her charge, but she paid him double attention, from an inward feeling of guilt, and because Jim set a high value upon him.

“He’s such a wise old chap,” Jim would say; “nobody knows what he’s thinking of!”

In her heart of hearts Norah did not believe that mattered very much.

But when the stables had been visited and Bobs and Sirdar (Jim’s neglected pony) interviewed; when Tait and Puck had had their breakfast bones; when wallabies and kangaroo had been inspected (with a critical eye to their water tins), and the turtle had impassively received a praiseworthy attempt to draw him out; when the chicks had all been fed, and the guinea pigs (unlike the leopard) had changed their spot for the day—there still remained the birds.

The birds were a colony in themselves. There was a big aviary, large enough for little trees and big shrubs to grow in, where a happy family lived whose members included several kinds of honey-eaters, Queensland finches, blackbirds and a dozen other tiny shy things which flitted quickly from bush to bush all day. They knew Norah and, when she entered their home, would flutter down and perch on her head and shoulders, and look inquisitively for the flowers she always brought them. Sometimes Norah would wear some artificial flowers, by way of a joke. It was funny to see the little honey-eaters thrusting in their long beaks again and again in search of the sweet drops they had learned to expect in flowers, and funnier still to watch the air of disgust with which they would give up the attempt.

There were doves everywhere—not in cages, for they never tried to escape. Their soft “coo” murmured drowsily all around. There were pigeons, too, in a most elaborate pigeon cote—another effort of Jim’s carpentering skill. These were as tame as the smaller birds, and on Norah’s appearance would swoop down upon her in a cloud. They had done so once when she was mounted on Bobs, to the pony’s very great alarm and disgust. He took to his heels promptly. “I don’t think he stopped for two miles!” Norah said. Since then, however, Bobs had grown used to the pigeons fluttering and circling round him. It was a pretty sight to watch them all together, child and pony half hidden beneath their load of birds.

The canaries had a cage to themselves—a very smart one, with every device for making canary life endurable in captivity. Certainly Norah’s birds seemed happy enough, and the sweet songs of the canaries were delightful. I think they were Norah’s favourites amongst her feathered flock.

Finally there were two talkative members—Fudge the parrot, and old Caesar, a very fine white cockatoo. Fudge had been caught young, and his education had been of a liberal order. An apt pupil, he had picked up various items of knowledge, and had blended them into a whole that was scarcely harmonious. Bits of slang learned from Jim and the stockmen were mingled with fragments of hymns warbled by Mrs. Brown and sharp curt orders delivered to dogs. A French swag-man, who had hurt his foot and been obliged to camp for a few days at the homestead, supplied Fudge with several Parisian remarks that were very effective. Every member of the household had tried to teach him to whistle some special tune. Unfortunately, the lessons had been delivered at the same time, and the result was the most amazing jumble of melody, which Fudge delivered with an air of deepest satisfaction. As Jim said, “You never know if he’s whistling ‘God Save the King,’ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ or ‘The Wearin’ o’ the Green,’ but it doesn’t make any difference to Fudge’s enjoyment!”

Caesar was a giant among cockatoos, and had a full sense of his own importance.

He had been shot when very young, some stray pellets having found their way into his wing. Norah had found him fluttering helplessly along the ground, and had picked him up, sustaining a severe peck in doing so. It was, however, the first and last peck he ever gave Norah. From that moment he seemed to recognize her as a friend, and to adopt her as an intimate—marks of esteem he accorded to very few others. Norah had handed him to Jim on arriving at the house, a change which the bird resented by a savage attack on Jim’s thumb. Jim was no hero—at the age of eleven, he dropped the cockatoo like a hot coal. “Great Caesar!” he exclaimed, sucking his thumb, and Caesar he was christened in that moment.