“Because they are so common there,” said Adams. “I did not think they would be any curiosity here. I have eaten them in pigeon-pies hundreds of times, and shot them by the thousand!”
I was ready to burst with laughter to see how readily Adams swallowed the bait, but maintaining the most rigid gravity, I replied:
“Oh well, Mr. Adams, if they are really so common in California, you had probably better take them, and you may write over and have half a dozen pairs sent to me for the Museum.”
“All right,” said Adams; “I will send over to a friend in San Francisco, and you shall have them here in a couple of months.”
I told Adams that, for certain reasons, I would prefer to change the label so as to have it read: “Golden Pigeons from Australia.”
“Well, call them what you like,” replied Adams; “I suppose they are probably about as plenty in Australia as they are in California.”
I fancied I could discover a sly smile lurking in the eye of the old bear-hunter as he made this reply.
The pigeons were labeled as I suggested, and this is how it happened that the Bridgeport non-believing lady, mentioned in the next chapter, was so much attracted as to solicit some of their eggs in order to perpetuate the species in old Connecticut.
Six or eight weeks after this incident, I was in the California Menagerie, and noticed that the “Golden Pigeons” had assumed a frightfully mottled appearance. Their feathers had grown out, and they were half white. Adams had been so busy with his bears that he had not noticed the change. I called him up to the pigeon cage, and remarked:
“Mr. Adams, I fear you will lose your Golden Pigeons; they must be very sick; I observe they are turning quite pale!”