By the 16th Oliver had taken his first bath, and for the first time I saw him drink. Four days later, when he must have been about four weeks old, we heard him trying to sing—queer little chirps and gurgles in the lowest of tones, but evidently intended for a song. He stopped as soon as he saw me, raising his wings and begging for food, and for some time we were obliged to enjoy his musical efforts by stealth.
By August 1, he was pretty well feathered; the tail was almost full length, and even the little feathers over the nostrils had started to grow. He was also able to feed himself then, but greatly preferred being fed; often, when I offered him more than he wanted, giving a low 'chuck' very like the old birds' call.
As August progressed worms were refused, and though bread and milk and all sorts of berries were eaten, the bird evidently missed something. He was molting a little—if the loss of so few feathers could be called a molt—but became more and more droopy, refusing or indifferently eating the various things we tried, till some one gave him a fly! Then all went well; he ate all the flies we could catch, sometimes twenty at a meal, and also wasps and bees. When he saw somebody bringing one of the latter dainties he would jump about in great excitement; then, snatching the insect, kill it with a few quick pinches and swallow it, poison and all. He also learned the motion made in catching a fly, and was on the alert as soon as he saw me snatch for one.
Towards the end of the month I let him out of doors—though he had often been out in the house—and after that he had exercise nearly every day, flying about a little, coming readily to me when I whistled, and generally returning to the cage quickly enough for a few flies. He evidently regarded the cage as home, for let any large bird pass at what he considered too close quarters and in he went like a flash, there to remain till the danger was past. On one occasion, when he was hopping among the plants in the house, I saw him carefully watching a Crow that was fighting his way against a heavy wind. Suddenly the Crow gave way, making a swoop almost to the window, and in far less time than it can be told the Catbird was in the cage and up on a perch, so terrified that it was some minutes before he was himself again.
About the middle of September Oliver Twist caught the migration fever, and when no one was in sight was very uneasy in his cage, not only during the day but at night as well. In the evening the bird was always moved to a dark back hall, where he usually settled down at once; now he was most restless, chucking and mewing sometimes for nearly an hour, and not until late in October did he finally become quiet. Cool days, also, made him more uneasy.
During the fall months Oliver ate every sort of berry I could find, from dogwood to Boston ivy, with two exceptions: those of the wild rose and the catbriar. The seeds of the ivy berries he always ejected, perfectly clean and free from pulp, beginning about half an hour after swallowing them; he would work the bill a little, as if the seed were in his mouth, a moment later pushing it out with the tongue. At first they appeared quite rapidly—two or three or even more in a minute—then more slowly, and continued for at least three-quarters of an hour.
As the house flies disappeared, the big blue and green species, that during the summer were simply scorned, grew quite tempting; but even these gave out, and it became very difficult to find proper food for the little fellow. Figs for a time supplied the place of berries, but he tired of them at last, and bits of meat never passed for flies or for the worms that even in the greenhouse went down beyond reach of the trowel.
The cage now stood among the plants in a sunny window of the dining-room, and the conversation at meal times generally started Oliver singing; yet it was always a low version of the usual Catbird song, for he invariably sang with the bill nearly closed. Often in the dark December mornings he was scarcely awake when breakfast began, but in a few minutes we would hear his cheerful little song—the first thing in his day—before he even left his night's perch. Then, as the sun touched him there came a great arranging of feathers and a good shake to put each one in place again, and then breakfast.
The bath was almost never omitted from the time the bird was about a month old, and often he bathed twice a day if the first were given him early in the morning; and how he enjoyed it! shuffling up the water with his wings, ducking his head, and spattering in every direction till he was soaked through, then going to the perch and flicking wings and tail and ruffling the feathers until dry.
To some extent Oliver showed affection by coming most readily to me, who generally fed him, and by an odd little greeting he usually gave when I offered him my finger, gently pinching it or giving a slight peck, too mild ever to be mistaken for anger. Unfortunately this was broken up by the teasing of another member of the family, and the pecks became too severe to be altogether agreeable.