A WORD ABOUT BIRD-KEEPING.
We have never looked with perfect complacency on the keeping of birds in cages; for it looks very much like an unnatural imprisonment. They have not space to fly about, and there is something painful in seeing them flitting up and down on two or three spars within very narrow bounds, or looking through the wires of their cage as if wishful to get out. It would, however, be of no use to remonstrate against a practice that is common not only over all England but over the whole civilised world. Besides, the keepers of pet birds are not without arguments in their favour. Most of the birds to be seen in cages, such as canaries, goldfinches, or siskins, have been bred in confinement. They never knew what it was to be at liberty, and in their helpless inexperience, if let loose, they would inevitably perish. There is much truth in this species of excuse for bird-keeping. Some weight is also to be attached to the plea that the little creatures are, generally speaking, so happy in their captivity that many of them live to an old age—say twelve or thirteen years, and keep on piping their ‘wood-notes wild’ to the last. There may be the further apology, that the maintenance of birds in cages communicates happiness to invalids, or to persons who do not go much from home. There is cheerfulness in their song, and a degree of amusement in witnessing their movements, as well as in attending to their simple wants. Altogether, therefore, there is a good deal to say for bird-keeping. It is not quite so inhumane a practice as it at first appears. In short, birds, like dogs, may be viewed in the light of domestic solacements kindly sent by Providence. Their society and grateful attachment help to fill up many a melancholy gap.
These ideas have been suggested to us by an accidental interview with a Dealer in Birds, who in his own way was apt in the philosophy of the subject. If people would have birds, it was his business to supply them with what they wanted, and he did so with as great tenderness of feeling as the fragile nature of the article dealt in demanded. He had much to explain respecting the importation of song-birds, and the breeding of them in cages. But on neither of these points shall we say anything. What especially interested us were this intelligent dealer’s observations on the proper method of keeping birds. Some folks, he said, have a notion that all you have to do is to buy a bird, put it into a cage, and give it food and water as directed. That is far from being enough. The habits of the animal must be studied. The climate of the room in which it lives, the amount of daylight it should enjoy, the atmosphere it breathes, its freedom from sudden alarms—all have to be thought of, if you wish the bird to be happy; and without that it has little chance of being a pleasant companion.
When the dealer began business many years ago, he was very unfortunate as concerns his stock. He occupied as good a shop as any one in the trade. The birds arranged all around in their respective cages, ready for the inspection of customers, were as merry as birds could be. They sung in full pipe, as if rivalling each other in their gaiety. Provided with appropriate food, with pure water, and fresh air, they had not a want unsupplied. Without any apparent reason, they began to droop and to moult. This did not alone occur at the season when such might be expected. Their moulting was often fatal. Vexed at cases of mortality notwithstanding all his care, the dealer bethought himself that the use of gas in his shop might be injurious, so for gas he substituted an oil-lamp light. Still they drooped and died. He next in various ways and at some expense improved the ventilation of his shop. Still they drooped and died.
What could be the matter? Puzzled to the last extent, the bird-dealer at length conjectured what might be the cause of these numerous deaths. Could it be that the birds wore themselves out singing? If so, the only way to stop them was to shorten the time they were exposed to the light, for if kept in the dark they are not inclined to sing.
The supposition proved to be correct. He shut up his shop at an early hour, and from that time the mortality of the birds ceased. During the day they had just that amount of singing that suited their constitutions, and in the evening they were left to their repose. This bird-dealer’s ingenious discovery seems exceedingly rational. In a state of nature, small birds flit about and sing only during daylight. They retire to rest at sundown. This procedure requires to be imitated in keeping birds artificially. If you let them sing all day and several hours additional by lamp-light, you over-fatigue them. The labour is too much. Of course the birds do not understand that they had better be silent when the lamp or candles are lit. They instinctively keep singing on, as if it were still daylight. The immediate effect of this over-fatigue is that the poor birds are apt to moult, and become attenuated; and suffering from premature exhaustion, they speedily perish.
The dealer mentions that few birds subject to the exhaustion of singing beyond ordinary daylight survive more than two years. This does not surprise us. How could any of our public vocalists, male or female, and of even a robust constitution, endure the tear and wear of singing under a mental strain for any great length of time, as much as eighteen hours a day? If human beings would thus sink under the effort of over-work, we need not wonder that the fragile creatures we are speaking of should succumb and drop from their perch.
As a means, therefore, of protecting the lives of pet birds, the recommendation is, to remove the cages to a darkened apartment at nightfall, or if they are not removed, to cover up every cage with a dark cloth before lighting the gas or oil-lamps. In shifting birds from one room to another, it is important to see that there be no change in the temperature. If removed to a different temperature, there is a chance of their moulting, which may be preliminary to something more serious. Let it be always kept in mind that Nature supplies a coat to suit the heat or cold in which the creatures are placed. By changing a bird from a warm to a cold climate, birds change their coat and get one that is heavier, and vice versâ, so, by repeated changes they are kept continually moulting, instead of once a year, as they ought to do.
We have referred principally to the treatment of small song-birds, the delicacy of which calls for particular attention. But our observations in the main apply to all birds whatsoever. If it be wrong to keep a little bird singing beyond its constitutional capacity, so it would be wrong to over-work a parrot by causing it to speak eighteen hours on a stretch. It would seem that by this degree of loquacity, the parrot has a tendency to take some kind of bronchial affection, analogous to the ailment of preachers, usually known as ‘the minister’s sore throat,’ and which, if not checked in time, may prove equally disastrous.