When each of his little auditors had expressed their admiration of the fine Macaw about which he had told them, Uncle Thomas proceeded to relate several other interesting stories about Parrots.
“A gentleman who resided at Gosport in Hampshire, and frequently had occasion to cross the water to Portsmouth, was astonished one day on going to the beach to look for a boat, and finding none, to hear the words distinctly repeated,—“Over, Master? Going over?” Which is the manner that watermen are in the habit of accosting people when they are waiting for passengers. The cry still assailing his ears, he looked earnestly around him, to discover from whence it came; when, to his great surprise, he discovered that it proceeded from a Parrot in a cage suspended from a public-house window on the beach.
“Another very amusing incident,” continued Uncle Thomas, “occurred some years since in Boston. An American Parrot, that had been taught to whistle in the manner of calling a Dog, was sitting in his cage at the door of a shop. As he was amusing himself in exercising his talents in this way, a large Dog happened to pass; the animal imagining that he heard the call of his master, turned suddenly about and ran towards the cage of the Parrot. At this moment, the bird, somewhat alarmed, exclaimed vehemently, ‘Get out, you brute!’ The astonished dog hastily retreated, leaving those who were within hearing to enjoy the joke.
“Though the power of speech is entirely an imitative one in the Parrot,” said Uncle Thomas, “you must not consider it as deficient in the qualities which recommend birds in general to our regard. Parrots are very affectionate creatures, though, as with us they are generally kept solitary, we have seldom an opportunity of observing their conduct towards each other.
“A French writer records a very interesting instance of affection in a pair of these birds. A solitary gentleman, whose principal delight had been in observing the manners and habits of animals, gives the following account of the affection of two Parrots. They were of that kind of Parrokeet called Guinea Sparrows, and kept in a square cage, such as is usually appropriated to that species of bird. The cup which contained their food was placed in the bottom of the cage. The male was almost continually seated on the same perch with the female. They sat close together, and viewed each other from time to time with evident tenderness. If they separated, it was but for a few moments, for they hastened to return and resume their situation. They commonly took their food together, and then retired to the highest perch of the cage. They often appeared to engage in a kind of conversation, which they continued for some time, and seemed to answer each other, varying their sounds, and elevating and lowering their voices. Sometimes they seemed to quarrel, but those emotions were but of a momentary duration, and succeeded by additional tenderness. This happy pair thus passed four years in a climate greatly different from that in which they had before lived. At the end of that period the female fell into a state of languor, which had all the appearance of old age. At length she was no longer able to move about to take her food, but the male, ever attentive and alert in whatever concerned her, brought it in his bill, and emptied it into hers. She was in this manner supplied by her vigilant purveyor during the space of four months. The infirmities of his dear companion increased daily. She became at last unable to sit upon the perch; and remained, therefore, crouched at the bottom of the cage, and from time to time made a few ineffectual efforts to regain the lowest perch. The male, who ever remained attentive and close by her, seconded these her feeble efforts with all his power. Sometimes he seized with his beak the upper part of her wing, by way of drawing her to him; sometimes he took her by the bill and endeavoured to raise her up, repeating these efforts many times. His motions, his gestures, his countenance, his continual solicitude, every thing in this interesting bird, expressed an ardent desire to aid the weakness of his mate, and to alleviate her sufferings. But the scene became still more interesting when the female was on the point of expiring. The unhappy male went round and round the dying female without ceasing. He redoubled his assiduities and tender cares. He tried to open her bill, with a design to give her nourishment. His emotion increased every instant; he paced and repaced the cage in the greatest agitation, and, at intervals, uttered the most plaintive cries. At other times he fixed his eyes upon the female, and preserved the most sorrowful silence. It was impossible to mistake these expressions of his grief or despair; the most insensible of mankind would have been moved. His faithful consort at last expired. From that moment he himself languished, and survived her but a few months.”
“An instance of the same kind,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is related by Mr. Audubon, in an account which he gives of an experiment to teach a Carolina Parrokeet to speak.—‘Anxious,’ says he, ‘to try the effects of education on one which I had but slightly wounded in the wing, I fixed up a place for it in the stern of my boat, and presented it with cockle-burs, the favourite food of the American Parrot, which it freely fed on in less than an hour after being on board. The intermediate time between eating and sleeping was occupied in gnawing the sticks that formed its place of confinement, in order to make a practicable breach; which it repeatedly effected. When I abandoned the river and travelled by land, I wrapped it closely up in a silk handkerchief, tying it tightly round, and carried it in my pocket. When I stopped for refreshment, I unbound my prisoner and gave it its allowance, which it generally despatched with great dexterity, unhusking the seeds from the bur in a twinkling.’ In recommitting it to ‘durance vile,’ we generally had a quarrel, during which it frequently paid me in kind for the wound I had inflicted, and for depriving it of liberty, by cutting and almost disabling several of my fingers with its sharp and powerful bill. The path through the wilderness, between Nashville and Natchez, is, in some places, bad beyond description. There are dangerous creeks to swim, miles of morass to struggle through, rendered almost as gloomy as night by a prodigious growth of timber, and an underwood of canes and other evergreens; while the descent into these sluggish streams is often ten or fifteen feet perpendicular into a bed of deep clay. In some of the worst of these places, where I had, as it were, to fight my way through, the Parrokeet frequently escaped from my pocket, obliging me to dismount and pursue it through the worst of the morass before I could regain it. On these occasions I was several times tempted to abandon it, but I persisted in bringing it along. When, at night I encamped in the woods I placed it on the baggage beside me, where it usually sat with great composure, dozing and gazing at the fire till morning. In this way I carried it upwards of a thousand miles in my pocket, when it was exposed all day to the jolting of the horse, but regularly liberated at meal-times and in the evening, at which it always expressed great satisfaction. In passing through the Chickasaw and Chocktaw nations, the Indians, wherever I stopped to feed, collected around me—men, women, and children—laughing and seeming wonderfully amused with the novelty of my companion. The Chickasaw called it in their language, Kelinky, but when they heard me call it Poll they soon repeated the name, and wherever I chanced to stop among these people we soon became familiar with each other through the medium of Poll. On arriving at Mr. Dunbar’s, below Natchez, I procured a cage and placed it under the piazza, where by its call it soon attracted the passing flocks; such is the attachment they have for each other. Numerous parties frequently alighted on the trees immediately above, keeping up a constant conversation with the prisoner. One of them I wounded slightly in the wing, and the pleasure Poll experienced at meeting with this new companion was really amusing. She crept close up to it as it hung on the side of the cage, chattering to it in a low tone of voice, as if sympathizing in its misfortune, scratched about its head and neck with her bill, and both at night nestled as close as possible to each other, Poll’s head being thrust among the plumage of the other. On the death of this companion she appeared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans I placed a looking-glass beside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In this short space she learned to know her name, to answer and come when called on; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education. But, destined to another fate, poor Poll, having one morning about daybreak wrought her way through the cage while I was asleep, instantly flew overboard, and perished in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Poor Poll” said Mary.
“A very amusing story is told,” continued Uncle Thomas, “of the lady of a worthy citizen, who, by a laudable attention to business, had accumulated a considerable fortune, and retired to the enjoyment of a nice villa not a hundred miles from Hampstead. It happened that the lady had a daughter by a former marriage; and, as her great desire was to see the girl well settled in life, she spared neither pains nor expense to effect her object. The old lady was moreover extremely parsimonious in her family arrangements; her ruling maxim being to save all she could in secret in order to be better able to spare no expense in public, so as to pass off for richer than she really was. She accordingly daily furnished her husband’s table with the humblest fare—to which the goodnatured old gentleman submitted without a murmur. One of the good lady’s grand economical schemes was the establishment of a piggery; and on one occasion having made a very profitable sale to a butcher of some half-a-dozen of the fatted inhabitants of her stye, that she might make the most of every thing, she supplied the table with little else than fried pig’s liver as long as it lasted. As the worthy citizen was generally pretty ready for his dinner on his return from his forenoon’s walk, the Parrot often heard and joined in the call which the master’s arrival produced to ‘make haste to bring the pig’s liver,’ which the lady vociferated over the stair to Rebecca, her only domestic, a great red-cheeked, raw-boned girl, fresh from the country. In the midst of these daily commons, the good lady was sparing no expense in preparing for a grand dinner which she was about to give. By some means or other she and her daughter had become acquainted with a young man of quality, who appeared to have fallen in love with the young lady. Speculations and plots followed, and with the decision of an able general, the fond mother resolved to complete her daughter’s conquest by a bold stroke. The young gentleman having ridden out that way with two of his fashionable companions, she lost not a moment in asking them all to what she called a family dinner at the villa, on an early day, which she named. Her invitation having been accepted, the choicest viands and the finest wines were provided, and a French cook and a powdered waiter were procured, and a quantity of plate was hired for the occasion.
“The eventful day at length arrived. Dinner was served. The lady so managed matters that her daughter was seated next to her admirer. Operas and balls were talked of; every thing was in apple-pie order; the soup and fish course had passed away, and a haunch of venison was announced, ambiguously stated to be from the park of a noble friend—the real fact being that it was purchased from a butcher who had it from his lordship’s keeper. During the interval that took place before its appearance, John was despatched for the Champagne. The company waited, but neither venison, nor champagne, nor servant appeared. A dead silence ensued—a silence that was agony to the lady. Minutes were added to minutes. The good old citizen rose from his chair, and rang the bell; it tingled in the ears of the company for a while, but its tingling was fruitless. The suspense became fearful. ‘What a pretty Parrot you have got,’ said the young gentleman at last, in despair. ‘He is a very pretty bird indeed!’ said the lady of the house, ‘and a very intelligent fellow too, I assure you. What have you to say for yourself, Poll?’ ‘Becky! Becky! the Pig’s liver and a pot of beer! quick, quick, make haste!’ cried the Parrot. ‘The horrid sailors teach the creatures to be so vulgar,’ said the young lady, in a die-away tone.—‘Becky! Becky!’ cried the Parrot, ‘the Pig’s liver! quick, quick! Becky, Becky!’ And having been once roused from his lethargy he continued to bawl out the same words at the top of his voice, till, to the inexpressible horror of the good lady and her fair daughter, and the no less irrepressible mirth of the three youths, the great slip-shod country wench entered the room, her left arm embracing an ample dish of smoking-hot fried pigs liver, and her right hand swinging a creaming pewter pot full of beer! ‘Lucky indeed it was that I had it ready, Ma’am,’ she said, as she set the dish and pot down before her mistress with a self-satisfied air that seemed to crave applause; ‘for Jowler, the big watch-dog, has runned away wi’ the leg of carrion, an’ Mounseer wi’ the white night-cap, and t’other chap wi’ the flour on his head, will ha’ enough ado to catch un!’”
The whole of Uncle Thomas’s little audience burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughing as he concluded this story, and it was not without a feeling of deep regret that they heard from him that it was now necessary to bring his Tales about Birds to a conclusion. He told them, however, that at no distant period he hoped once more to have the pleasure of their company to listen to a new series of Stories which he had in preparation, and they then bade him good night.