Do birds reverse the usual order of things, and from a serious and stolid youth develop mature playfulness? I have been led to ask myself this question by observing the extraordinary playfulness exhibited by a pet Skylark in extreme old age. Upon hearing the owner of the bird declare, "Dickie has reached his dotage, and, is now in a state of second childhood," it occurred to me that birds have no season of youthful frivolity such as Mother Nature accords to her other children. We are accustomed to associate the idea of youth with playfulness: we picture to ourselves the lamb frisking in the meadows, the frolicsome kitten playing upon the hearth, and we groan inwardly when we meditate upon the destructive propensities of our pet puppies, but we think of our young feathered friends as lying inert in their nests, gaping wide open their yellow-edged beaks incessantly for food, and apparently interested in nothing else.
A caged Skylark is a deplorable object generally, but the Lark of which I am about to write was a bird 'with a history,' and one, whose cage was not a prison but a home. While his native meadow (in Ireland) was being mowed, one of his wings was struck by the mowing-machine and the last joint terribly mutilated. One of the workmen picked up the poor little sufferer and gave him to a little boy whose father was something of a naturalist and a great lover of birds. Examination of the shattered wing revealed the fact that amputation of the last joint would be necessary if the bird's life was to be preserved. The operation was performed, and the little patient was placed in a very large cage carpeted with fresh, green sods. He was well supplied with food and water; the injured wing healed rapidly; he became surprisingly tame, and soon appeared to enjoy life thoroughly. Occasionally, he was permitted to enjoy his freedom in a large room, but after running about awhile, always seemed glad to return to his cage, the door of which was left open, so that he might go home when he pleased.
He was a beautiful singer, and used to stand in the long grasses and fresh clover of his sod, quiver the poor pinions that could never again soar skyward, and burst into the glorious carol with which he had been wont to salute the sunrise, when, high up among the fleecy clouds, he had appeared an almost invisible speck of personified melody to the enchanted listeners below.
As the years sped by, this much-indulged bird craved petting and attention to an abnormal degree, could be coaxed at any hour into singing, and formed the strange habit of trilling a low, sweet carol at ten o'clock every night, which his mistress called his "good-night song." When he had been caged for twelve or thirteen years he become as playful as a kitten, and was particularly fond of going through what his mistress called the "jungle tiger act," which consisted of crouching down out of sight in the grasses of his sod, and then springing suddenly forward to bite in a gentle way a finger poked between the wires of his cage. He never wearied of this game so long as he could induce a child or grown person to engage in it with him, and before he died, a year or so later, he developed a degree of playfulness that almost amounted to imbecility.
'On the Ethics of Caging Birds.'
[As stated in our last issue, Mrs. Miller's paper on '[The Ethics of Caging Birds],' in Bird-Lore for June, brought us numerous letters, from which we have selected two, representing both sides of the question, for publication. As a further contribution to this discussion we publish in this number of Bird-Lore several papers describing experiences with caged birds.—Ed.]
To the Editor of Bird-Lore.