*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61808 ***

[Illustration:

  “The bold little fellow defended himself with the sickle in his hand.”

  Page 14.
]




                           TALES ABOUT BIRDS,
                         ILLUSTRATIVE OF THEIR
                     Nature, Habits, and Instincts.


                                   BY

                            THOMAS BINGLEY,

 AUTHOR OF “STORIES ABOUT DOGS,”—“TALKS OF SHIPWRECKS,” “STORIES ABOUT
                          HORSES,” ETC., ETC.

                      EMBELLISHED WITH ENGRAVINGS.

                            SECOND EDITION.

                                LONDON:
                      CHARLES TILT, FLEET STREET.
                                MDCCCXL.




        CLARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE, LONDON.




                                PREFACE.


Birds are such universal favourites, and the Stories connected with
their Habits and Instincts so varied and interesting, as to make me feel
confident that the Volume now offered to my young readers will meet with
a ready acceptance and approbation.

The Engravings, which have been executed by Mr. Landells, from Drawings
by Mr. W. B. Scott, will, I hope, be found faithfully and spiritedly to
embody the incidents of the Stories which they severally illustrate.

                                                                   T. B.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.


                               CHAPTER I.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE GOLDEN EAGLE, AND NARRATES VARIOUS
   STORIES ILLUSTRATIVE OF ITS FEROCITY AND POWER                 Page 1


                               CHAPTER II.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE OSPREY, OR SEA-EAGLE, AND ABOUT THE
   WHITE-HEADED OR BALD EAGLE OF AMERICA                              25


                              CHAPTER III.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS SEVERAL INTERESTING TALES ABOUT THE FEROCITY
   AND TENACITY OF LIFE IN THE VULTURE, AND ABOUT THE GREEDINESS
   WITH WHICH IT DEVOURS ITS PREY                                     50


                               CHAPTER IV.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE VARIOUS KINDS OF FALCONS, AND
   DESCRIBES THE SPORT OF HAWKING, AS ANCIENTLY PRACTISED IN
   ENGLAND                                                            69


                               CHAPTER V.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT OWLS, AND OF THE CURIOUS PECULIARITIES
   IN THEIR STRUCTURE, WHICH ENABLES THEM TO SEEK FOR AND SECURE
   THEIR PREY DURING THE NIGHT                                        98


                               CHAPTER VI.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE HERON, AND ITS PLACE OF RETREAT; AS
   WELL AS ABOUT THE AFFECTION AND GENTLENESS OF THE STORK AND
   THE CRANE                                                         122


                              CHAPTER VII.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT SOME INTERESTING PECULIARITIES IN THE
   HABITS OF THE OSTRICH AND THE EMU, AS WELL AS ABOUT THOSE OF
   THE TURKEY IN ITS NATIVE FORESTS                                  143


                              CHAPTER VIII.

 UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT PARROTS, THEIR SEEMING INTELLIGENCE,
   AND RELATES SEVERAL CURIOUS STORIES OF THEIR POWER OF
   IMITATING THE HUMAN VOICE                                         169




                           TALES ABOUT BIRDS.




                               CHAPTER I.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE GOLDEN EAGLE, AND NARRATES VARIOUS
      STORIES ILLUSTRATIVE OF ITS FEROCITY AND POWER.


Uncle Thomas had scarcely finished his last series of Tales, when he was
gratified by a visit from the Mama of his young auditors, to introduce
her two little Girls, who, having heard their Brothers speak so much of
the delightful Stories which he told them, had prevailed on her to come
with them to request that Uncle Thomas would be so good as to permit
them to accompany their Brothers when they came to visit him.

“I am afraid, Uncle Thomas,” said Mama, “that we already trespass too
much on your kindness, in allowing the Boys to intrude upon you so
frequently; but they seem always to be so much delighted with the
Stories which you tell them that, during the hours in which they are not
engaged in the school-room, I seldom hear them talk of any thing else.
‘Don’t you recollect the story which Uncle Thomas told us?’ cries one,
in enforcing some controverted point. ‘Ah! but,’ exclaims another,
‘Uncle Thomas said so and so.’ And I have come at the request of their
Sisters to beg that you will allow them to form part of your little
circle of listeners.”

Uncle Thomas declared that he was delighted to hear that the Boys were
interested in the Stories which he told them, and that he would be still
more gratified to be honoured with the company of the young ladies.

Mary and Jane, who during Mama’s long speech had been carefully noting
the various articles with which Uncle Thomas’s little room was
furnished, were almost overjoyed to hear that they were to be admitted.
Mary intended to have thanked Uncle Thomas for this kindness, but while
some other conversation, which it is unnecessary to repeat, took place
between Mama and Uncle Thomas, her attention had been directed by Frank
to a glass-case which stood on one side of the room, containing a
variety of fine specimens of Birds. So completely was their attention
engrossed by what they there saw, that they did not observe that during
a pause in the conversation Uncle Thomas had advanced to the table at
which they stood, and was listening to their remarks and to the
questions with which Mary plied her brother.

“Ah! I see,” said Uncle Thomas, “it is about Birds I must tell you next.
I can tell you many interesting stories about Birds; but Mama waits; we
must not detain her at present.”

“When shall we come again then, Uncle Thomas?” asked Frank.

“When you please, Frank,” said Uncle Thomas. “Suppose we say to-morrow
night; perhaps that will suit the convenience of the young ladies.”

“Oh, quite, Uncle Thomas!” said Mary; “it will be quite convenient for
us whenever it is so to you.” Mama having given her assent to this
arrangement, the little party, full of smiles, bade Uncle Thomas good
morning.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the following evening, accordingly, they again met, and when they had
duly greeted their kind old Uncle Thomas, and seated themselves round
his elbow-chair, he began:—

“Birds, my dear children, of which I promised to tell you some stories,
are perhaps the most interesting class of animals in creation, whether
we consider them in regard to their habits or to the curious structure
of their bodies, by which they have been fitted by Nature for the place
which GOD has assigned them, or to the Instincts which have been
implanted in them. In most minds their recollection is associated with
all that is most beautiful and romantic in natural scenery. We meet with
them in our walks, chirping and frolicking among the village hedgerows,
or see them soaring, with almost untiring wing, high above the mountain
tops, or hear their solitary voices as they make the wide-spreading and
desolate moor seem even more lonely with their harsh and far-sounding
notes. Wherever we direct our steps we are sure to find Birds enlivening
and cheering the scene, or adding fresh interest by their varied and
characteristic occupations. There are few indeed who cannot say with
Cowper:—

            “Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
            The live-long night; nor those alone whose notes
            Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain;
            But cawing rooks, and kites, that swim sublime
            In still repeated circles, screaming loud;
            The jay, the pie, and e’en the boding owl,
            That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.”

“Birds,” continued Uncle Thomas, “have been divided by some naturalists
into Land and Water Birds; but more recent and systematic writers have
introduced a more extended classification. Cuvier, an eminent French
author, divides them into Birds of Prey—such as the Eagle and Vulture;
Sparrow-like, or hopping Birds—such as Jays, Thrushes, &c.; Climbing
Birds—such as Parrots; Poultry Birds—such as Turkeys, Pheasants, &c.;
Running and Wading Birds, which are easily distinguished by their long
legs; and Web-footed Birds—such as Ducks, Geese, Swans, &c.”

To this long and rather uninteresting detail Mary and Jane listened as
patiently as possible. But no sooner was it finished, than the latter
seized the opportunity to ask Uncle Thomas whether the Eagle was not the
largest Bird in the world, and whether it was a native of Britain, as
she had heard a story lately of one having carried off a child to its
nest to feed its young?

“The largest of the Birds of Prey, undoubtedly,” said Uncle Thomas, “is
the Golden Eagle. It inhabits all the wilder parts of Europe, and is
also found in other parts of the world. They are, however, only to be
found among wild and savage scenery, preferring for their place of
habitation the lonely and elevated peaks of the highest mountains,
where, from their great power, they harbour secure from the storm and
the tempest.”

“Are they very large, Uncle Thomas?” asked Jane—“Larger than this bird?”
pointing to a fine Falcon, which occupied a prominent place in the
little museum already referred to.

“Yes, dear!” said Uncle Thomas; “they are much larger, very much larger
than that. Like all other animals, they are of course subject to
variations in size; their development in some measure depending on the
plentifulness or scarcity of their food during the time they are in the
nest, and indeed during the whole period until they arrive at their full
growth; but the average size of the mature Bird is usually about three
feet in length, measuring from the point of the beak to the tip of the
tail, while the wings from point to point measure between six and seven
feet.”

“They must be very powerful animals, Uncle Thomas,” remarked Mary.

“So strong, that they frequently carry off lambs and other small animals
to their nests,” said Uncle Thomas; “and it is said that they have even
occasionally carried away children. About a hundred years ago an
incident of this kind is said to have occurred in Norway. While a boy
about two years old was passing between his father’s cottage and a field
at no great distance, in which his parents were at work, an Eagle
pounced upon him and flew off with him. His parents, attracted by his
shrieks, saw their dear child carried off to an inaccessible rock, and
notwithstanding all their efforts, they were unable to rescue him.”

“And was the poor dear child killed, Uncle Thomas?” asked Jane.

“It appears from the story that he was,” said Uncle Thomas, “and
unfortunately it is not the only instance of a similar kind. In one of
the Feroe Islands, which lie between the north of Scotland and Iceland,
an Eagle stooped down and carried away an infant which its mother had
laid on the ground, close by the place where she was at work. It flew
direct to its nest, at the point of a high rock so steep and precipitous
that the boldest bird-catchers had never ventured to scale it. But the
strength of a mother’s love overcame all obstacles; she climbed to the
nest, but alas! she reached it too late. She found her poor child dead
and partly devoured—its little eyes torn out by the cruel bird!

“I am happy to say, however,” continued Uncle Thomas, “that all attacks
of the kind do not terminate so fatally. A child which was carried off
by an Eagle in the Isle of Skye, in Scotland, was borne by the huge bird
across a lake on the banks of which it sat down, probably for the
purpose of feeding on its prey, which it perhaps found too heavy to
carry farther. Fortunately however, it happened that the bird alighted
at a short distance from some people who were herding sheep, and hearing
the infant cry, they hurried to the spot, frightened away the Eagle, and
rescued it uninjured.”

“It was very fortunate they were so near,” remarked Harry.

“It was so,” said Uncle Thomas, “and the parents were in this respect
more fortunate than those of another child which was carried off by an
Eagle from the side of its mother, who was at work in the fields. She
saw the huge bird pounce down on her little darling, but before she
could run to its assistance it was carried off, and she heard its cries
as it was borne out of her sight, and she saw it no more. This took
place in Sweden.

“Though the Eagle has long had the character of being a very bold and
courageous bird,” continued Uncle Thomas, “it really does not deserve
its good name. It is sometimes called the King of Birds, and if the term
is limited, so as to convey only an idea of its great size and strength,
it may be permitted; but we must not allow ourselves to be misled by a
mere name. It is in truth almost the least courageous among birds, and
is frequently put to flight by those of less than half its size.”

“Do they ever attack men?” asked Frank.

“Unless when they are forced to put forth their strength in
self-defence, which is an instinctive operation which even the weakest
animals display,” replied Uncle Thomas, “they never attack man; at least
the only instance which I recollect of their threatening to do so is
related by Captain Flinders, in his account of his voyage to New South
Wales. While he and some of his officers were walking on shore, a large
Eagle, with fierce looks and out-spread wings, was seen bounding towards
them; when it arrived within a few yards it suddenly stopped and flew up
into a tree. They had hardly got rid of this one, when a second flew
towards them as if to pounce upon them, but it also stopped short when
quite close upon them.”

“I suppose they were afraid, then,” said Mary.

“Captain Flinders imagined,” said Uncle Thomas, “that the Eagles had at
first mistaken him and his officers for Kangaroos; and as the place
seemed then quite uninhabited, he conjectured that the Eagles had never
seen a man before; and he observed that they fed on those animals, as on
the appearance of one, the Eagle stooped down at once and tore it in
pieces in an instant.

“That the Eagle can defend itself very vigorously, however,” continued
Uncle Thomas, “is proved by an adventure which a young man had with one
in the Highlands of Scotland. He had gone out very early one morning to
shoot Rock Pigeons, accompanied by a Dog of the terrier breed. As he
stood watching the Pigeons, an Eagle came floating over the brow of the
precipice. He took aim and fired, and the bird fell to the ground with a
broken wing. He attempted to master it with his hands, but it fought
with great determination, and lacerated his hands so that he was obliged
to desist. He then caused his Dog to attack it, but though well
accustomed to fight with Badgers and with Otters, it soon found that
they were weak foes compared to the Eagle, and ran yelping away. The
sportsman was at last compelled to knock it on the head with the end of
his gun, nor was it killed till it had received about a dozen heavy
blows. He described it as having legs as thick as his wrist.”

“It must have been a very strong Bird,” remarked Jane.

“It is perhaps only under the influence of extreme hunger, or in defense
of themselves or their young,” continued Uncle Thomas, “that the Eagle
ever attacks human beings. Probably to the former of these is to be
attributed the attack of one on a little boy of which I will now tell
you:—

“A few years ago, as two boys, the one about seven and the other five
years old, were amusing themselves in trying to reap during the time
that their parents were at dinner, in a field in the neighbourhood of
New York, a large Eagle came sailing over them, and with a swoop
attempted to seize the eldest, but luckily missed him. Not at all
dismayed, the Bird alighted on the ground at a short distance, and in a
few moments repeated the attempt. The bold little fellow defended
himself with the sickle in his hand, and when the bird rushed upon him,
he struck it. The sickle entered under the left wing, went through the
ribs, and proved instantly fatal. On being measured, it was found that
from the tip of one wing to that of the other, was upwards of six feet!
Its stomach was opened, and found to be entirely empty. The little boy
did not receive a scratch.”

“He must have been a bold little fellow,” said Jane.

“Do you think you should have fought as determinedly, John?” asked Mary.

John was, however, too modest to return an answer directly in the
affirmative. He merely said mildly, “I don’t know, Mary; I hope I
should.”

Uncle Thomas, seeing that this story of the valiant defence of the
little boy excited so much interest among his little auditors, produced
a portfolio, in which he kept a few choice prints, one of which
contained a representation of the boy defending himself against the
Eagle. When they had done admiring it, Uncle Thomas continued:—

“Powerful as the Eagle is, it is frequently vanquished by the animals on
which it seizes. It has been observed while soaring into the sky with
its prey suddenly to falter in its flight, and then to fall to the earth
as if pierced with a ball by some skilful marksman. A gamekeeper to a
Scottish nobleman, who witnessed a scene of this kind, hurried to the
spot, and found the Eagle quite dead, and a Stoat, an animal of the
Weasel kind, severely wounded, struggling by its side. The little animal
on being seized by the Eagle had with instinctive sagacity seized upon
and ruptured one of the principal arteries in the Eagle’s neck, and thus
brought his enemy to the ground.

“I wonder such a large and powerful animal as the Eagle did not kill the
little Stoat before it had time to seize its neck,” said Harry.

“Recollect, Harry,” said Jane, “that Weasels are very nimble creatures.
As we were walking through Langton Wood lately, we saw one running
about, but it soon got among some loose stones and concealed itself.”

“Perhaps,” said Uncle Thomas, “the Eagle had missed its aim when it
pounced upon its prey, and thus held it insecurely, for so powerful is
the force with which it darts upon its object, that it usually kills its
victim at one blow. When it fails to do this, a contest generally
ensues; and powerful as the Eagle is, it does not always come off
successful. On one occasion, one was observed to pounce down upon a Cat.
The latter darted its sharp claws into the Eagle and clung so that it
could not be shaken off. It mounted into the air, but still puss held
securely, and on descending to the ground the struggle continued, until
some persons who witnessed the attack came up and captured both of the
combatants.

“A contest, somewhat of the same kind,” continued Uncle Thomas, “was
observed between an Otter and an Eagle. It was witnessed by a party of
gentlemen who were enjoying the amusement of fishing in one of the
Scottish Lakes. An Eagle, hovering over the lake, descried an Otter
sleeping on the sunny side of a bank near the water’s edge, and pounced
upon it. Thus attacked, the Otter stood on the alert, and prepared to
give battle to its assailant, when another Eagle appeared, and joined in
the attack. The unfortunate Otter, finding himself assaulted on both
sides, immediately retreated to his favourite element. On reaching the
water, it attempted to dive, but was powerfully withheld by one of the
Eagles, whose talons had been fixed in his skin, which made him redouble
his exertions for life and liberty. In this way the combat was long and
amusing, till the Eagle, finding his claws fairly disengaged, and little
used to combat on such an element, precipitately beat a retreat, and
retired with his companion to his native mountains.”

“I have heard Mama say that there is a tame Eagle at —— Castle; I wonder
how such a wild creature can be tamed!” remarked Jane.

“There have been frequent instances of the Eagle being tamed,” said
Uncle Thomas, “and sometimes even when taken after having arrived at
maturity. One of this sort, which was taken in Ireland, had its wings
cut, and was put into a large garden, where it soon became domesticated.
Its wings gradually grew again, and the Eagle sometimes flew away for a
fortnight at a time, but always returned. The children of the family
frequently met it in their walks about the garden, but it never offered
them any molestation. It once, however, attacked its master; it is
supposed in consequence of his neglecting to bring its accustomed supply
of food. After living ten or twelve years in this manner it one day
quarrelled with a large mastiff. The fight must have been long and
obstinate, but no one witnessed it. The Eagle was killed, and so
severely was the Dog wounded that it died almost immediately afterwards.

“In Norway,” continued Uncle Thomas, “the people represent the Eagle as
very sagacious, and as using the most curious devices to secure its
prey. It is said, for instance, to attack and overcome Oxen in the
following manner. It plunges into the sea, and after being completely
drenched, rolls itself on the shore till its wings are quite covered
with sand. It then rises into the air, and hovers over its unfortunate
victim, and, when close to it, shakes its wings, and throws stones and
sand into the eyes of the Ox; and, having thus blinded it, terrifies the
animal by striking it with its powerful wings. The poor Ox runs about
quite desperate, and at length falls down completely exhausted, or
dashes itself to death by falling over some cliff. The Eagle then feasts
undisturbed on his prey.”

“It is a very sagacious stratagem indeed,” said Mary; “I really do not
see how it could proceed more efficiently if it was endowed with reason.

“But is it true?” asked Harry.

“You are right Harry,” said Uncle Thomas; “that ought always to be the
first consideration. So much fable has been mixed up with the accounts
of the habits of animals that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish
the true from the false. In the present case, for instance, the fact
rests on the statement of a traveller named Von Buch, who assures us
that the circumstance was related to him, in nearly the same terms, at
places distant from each other. But, on the other hand, it is so
contrary to the general habits of the Eagle that it seems most unlikely
to be true; besides, if the Eagle were to suffer its feathers to be
drenched in the way described, it would be unable to fly, and would soon
suffer for its hardihood by being drowned.”

“Would it, indeed, Uncle Thomas?” asked Jane; “Swans and Geese go into
the water, and are not drowned.”

“No, my dear, they are not,” said Uncle Thomas; “because their habits
rendering it necessary for them to spend much of their time in water,
the Creator has furnished them with an abundant supply of oily matter,
with which they cover their feathers, so as to prevent the moisture from
penetrating them; but Birds which are not intended to inhabit the water
are not so provided, and would soon become unable to fly, even if they
remained exposed to a severe shower of rain, without seeking shelter.
The Osprey, or Sea-Eagle, which feeds upon fish which it catches in the
sea, is provided in this manner; but then it could not be true of the
Osprey either, because for this reason, the water does not saturate its
feathers, and the sand would not adhere to them.”

“Is it not true, then?” asked Mary.

“I do not say that it is absolutely untrue,” said Uncle Thomas; “because
the person who relates it states that it was confirmed to him by various
witnesses, in different places; but I think it is very unlikely, to say
the least of it.

“However much we may differ as to the sagacity of the Eagle,” continued
Uncle Thomas, “there can be but one opinion as to its affection for its
young, and the valour with which it defends them against all assailants.
Ebel, in his work on Switzerland, relates a story of a chasseur, or
hunter of that country, which illustrates this fact very strikingly.
Having discovered a nest belonging to one of these terrible birds, and
having killed the male, the hunter, by name Joseph Schoren, crept along
the jut of a rock, his feet bare, the better to keep himself firm, in
the hope of catching the young ones. He raised his arm, and had already
his hand upon the nest, when the female, pouncing on him from above,
struck her talons through his arm, and her beak into his loins. The
hunter, whom the smallest movement would have precipitated to the
bottom, lost not his presence of mind, but remained firm, rested his
fowling piece, which fortunately he held in his left hand, against the
rock, and with his foot directing it full on the Bird, touched the
trigger, and she fell dead. He brought away the Eagles, but the wounds
which he had received confined him for several months. M. Ebel adds,
that these hunters are men of whom the savages of America might learn
lessons of patience and courage in the midst of danger and privation.
The greater part of them come to a tragical end. They disappear, and
their disfigured remains, which are now and then found, alone intimate
their fate.”

Uncle Thomas went on to say that he had not yet quite finished all his
stories about the Eagle; but as the evening was now far advanced, it
would be necessary to delay them till their next meeting.




                              CHAPTER II.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE OSPREY, OR SEA-EAGLE, AND ABOUT THE
      WHITE-HEADED, OR BALD EAGLE OF AMERICA.


“The Osprey, or Sea-Eagle, which I mentioned to you when I last had the
pleasure of seeing you,” said Uncle Thomas to his young hearers on a
subsequent evening, when they had once more gathered round his chair,
“though not quite so large as the Golden Eagle, is yet a very powerful
Bird, being in general upwards of two feet in length, its wings
extending about five feet and a half. It seeks its prey by water only,
and builds its nest in the crevices of rocks, on the banks of lakes and
rivers.”

“How does it catch the fish?” asked Frank.

“It has, like most of the other Birds of the Eagle tribe,” said Uncle
Thomas, “been endowed with remarkably keen power of vision, and as it
sails over the waters it can, even at a considerable height in the air,
see fish swimming near the surface, and, dropping down upon them with
the swiftness of an arrow, it plunges into the water, and seldom emerges
without securing them in its powerful talons.

“Though the species is a native of Britain,” continued Uncle Thomas, “it
is in America where it is seen to most advantage, as its habits can be
more easily watched from the vast extent of the broad waters by which
some of the majestic rivers are distinguished. It has accordingly
attracted the particular notice of two of the most eminent American
naturalists. Here is Wilson’s account of its mode of fishing, and the
manner in which it seizes its prey.”

Uncle Thomas then took down from a shelf a volume of Wilson’s “American
Ornithology,” and turning to the account of the Fish-Hawk, which he
explained was the name by which the bird was known in America, “and
though” said he, “as I have already told you, it is smaller than the
Golden Eagle, yet its general character is the same; and its size and
strength entitle it to the more high-sounding name.” He then pointed out
the passage which he wished Harry to read, which was as follows:—

“On leaving the nest, the Osprey usually flies direct till he comes to
the sea, then sails around, in easy curving lines, turning sometimes in
the air as on a pivot, apparently without the least exertion, rarely
moving the wings, his legs extended in a straight line behind, and his
remarkable length, and curvature or bend of wing, distinguishing him
from all other Hawks. The height at which he thus elegantly glides is
various, from one hundred to one hundred and fifty and two hundred feet,
sometimes much higher, all the while calmly reconnoitering the face of
the deep below. Suddenly he is seen to check his course, as if struck by
a particular object, which he seems to survey for a few moments with
such steadiness that he appears fixed in air, flapping his wings. This
object, however, he abandons, or rather, the fish he had in his eye has
disappeared, and he is again seen sailing around as before. Now, his
attention is again arrested, and he descends with great rapidity, but,
ere he reaches the surface, shoots off on another course, as if ashamed
that another victim had escaped him. He now sails at a short height
above the surface, and, by a zig-zag descent, and without seeming to dip
his feet in the water, seizes a fish, which, after carrying a short
distance, he probably drops, or yields up to the Bald Eagle, and again
ascends by easy spiral circles to the higher regions of the air, where
he glides about in all the ease and majesty of his species. At once,
from this sublime and aerial height, he descends like a perpendicular
torrent, plunging into the sea with a loud rushing sound, and with the
certainty of a rifle-shot. In a few moments he emerges, bearing in his
claws his struggling prey, which he always carries head foremost, and,
having risen a few feet above the surface, shakes himself as a
Water-Spaniel would do, and directs his heavy and laborious course
directly for the land. If the wind blows hard, and his nest lies in the
quarter from whence it comes, it is amusing to observe with what
judgment and exertion he beats to windward, not in a direct line, that
is, _in the wind’s eye_, but making several successive tacks to gain his
purpose. This will appear the more striking, when we consider the size
of the fish which he sometimes bears along. A Shad was taken from a
Fish-Hawk near Great Egg Harbour, on which he had begun to regale
himself, and had already ate a considerable portion of it; the remainder
weighed six pounds. Another Fish-Hawk was passing the same place, with a
large Flounder in his grasp, which struggled and shook him so, that he
dropped it on the shore. The Flounder was picked up, and served the
whole family for dinner. It is a singular fact, that the Hawk never
descends to pick up a fish which he happens to drop either on the land
or in the water. There is a kind of abstemious dignity in this habit of
the Hawk superior to the gluttonous voracity displayed by most other
birds of prey, particularly by the Bald Eagle. The Hawk, however, in his
fishing pursuits, sometimes mistakes his mark, or overrates his
strength, by striking fish too large and powerful for him to manage, by
whom he is suddenly dragged under water; and though he sometime succeeds
in extricating himself, after being taken three or four times down, yet
oftener both parties perish. The bodies of Sturgeon, and of several
other large fish, with a Fish Hawk fast grappled in them, have at
various times been found dead on the shore, cast up by the waves.”

“That is very curious,” said John. “I wonder the Eagle does not relax
his hold of the fish when it finds it is too strong for him.”

“The talons of the Eagle tribe, with which they secure their prey,” said
Uncle Thomas, “are remarkably sharp and powerful instruments, nor is the
power with which they wield them less remarkable, but, like all other
muscular power, its greatest force can be exerted in one direction only.
Thus, for instance, John, in the case of your own hand, the power with
which you could close your fingers on a cylinder compared to that which,
supposing it hollow, you could exercise on it by opening them (or
applying that power backwards,) is at least ten to one. This will
explain to you how it is that the Eagles are sometimes caught in the way
Mr. Wilson has stated. They seize their prey so firmly that their talons
get fixed in the animal’s flesh, and they are unable to withdraw them.

“In Britain,” continued Uncle Thomas, “several instances of the same
kind have been observed. On a very sultry day in the month of July a
shepherd, while engaged in searching for some missing Sheep, observed an
Eagle seated on the banks of a deep pool, apparently watching its prey.
Presently it darted into the water, and seized, with a powerful grasp, a
large Salmon. A desperate struggle now took place, and the shepherd
hurrying to the spot found the Eagle unable to extricate itself, and
frequently pulled under water by his vigorous antagonist. Seizing a
large stone, the shepherd threw it at the combatants with such force
that it broke the Eagle’s wing, and the Salmon exhausted by its violent
struggles, suffered itself to be captured without difficulty.

“An adventure of the same kind,” said Uncle Thomas, “in which, however,
the Eagle was victorious, is related by a Scotch clergyman. A large
Eagle in one of its hunting excursions observing a Halibut—a large flat
fish somewhat resembling a Turbot—within its reach, stooped down and
struck his powerful talons into its back; a struggle now took place, but
the fish not possessing the agility of the salmon was at length
overcome. It was too large however, for the Eagle to carry off, so,
spreading its wings as a sailor would do the sail of a boat, it remained
seated on the back of the Halibut till the wind bore it to the shore.
Unhappily for the poor Eagle, however, its troubles did not end here,
for its motions having been watched, some people rushed in and took it
alive before it could extricate itself.”

“Poor creature!” said Jane, “he deserved to escape after displaying so
much ingenuity.”

“Harry,” said Uncle Thomas, “will now have the goodness to read to us
Audubon’s very charming account of what he calls the Great American
Eagle, but which is supposed to be merely the Osprey in its young
plumage. Here it is:”—

“Never shall I forget the delight which the first sight that I obtained
of this noble bird gave me. Not even Herschel, when he discovered the
planet which bears his name, could have experienced more rapturous
feelings. We were on a trading voyage, ascending the Upper Mississippi.
The keen wintry blasts whistled around us, and the cold from which I
suffered had, in a great degree, extinguished the deep interest which,
at other seasons, this magnificent river has been wont to awake in me. I
lay stretched beside our patroon. The safety of our cargo was forgotten,
and the only thing that called my attention was the multitude of Ducks
of different species, accompanied by vast flocks of Swans, which from
time to time passed us. My patroon, a Canadian, had been engaged many
years in the fur trade. He was a man of much intelligence; and,
perceiving that these birds had engaged my curiosity, seemed anxious to
find some new object to divert me. An Eagle flew over us. ‘How
fortunate!’ he exclaimed; ‘this is what I could have wished. Look, Sir!
the Great Eagle, and the only one I have seen since I left the lakes.’ I
was instantly on my feet, and, having observed it attentively,
concluded, as I lost it in the distance, that it was a species quite new
to me. My patroon assured me that such birds were indeed rare; that they
sometimes followed the hunters, to feed on the entrails of animals which
they had killed, when the lakes were frozen over, but that, when the
lakes were open, they would dive in the daytime after fish, and snatch
them up in the manner of the Fishing Hawk, and that they roosted
generally on the shelves of the rocks, where they built their nests.

“Convinced that the bird was unknown to naturalists, I felt particularly
anxious to learn its habits, and to discover in what particulars it
differed from the rest of its genus. My next meeting with it was a few
years afterwards, whilst engaged in collecting Cray-Fish on one of those
flats which border and divide Green River, in Kentucky, near its
junction with the Ohio. The river is there bordered by a range of high
cliffs, which, for some distance, follow its windings. I observed on the
rocks, which, at that place, are nearly perpendicular, signs of a nest
which I fancied might belong to the Owls that might have resorted
thither. I mentioned the circumstance to my companions, when one of
them, who lived within a mile of the place, told me it was the nest of
the Brown Eagle, meaning the White-Headed Eagle in its immature state. I
assured him that this could not be, and remarked that neither the old
nor the young birds of that species ever build in such places, but
always in trees. Although he could not answer my objection he stoutly
maintained that a Brown Eagle of some kind above the usual size had
built there, and added, that he had espied the nest some days before,
and had seen one of the old birds dive and catch a fish. This he thought
strange, having till then always observed that both Brown Eagles and
Bald Eagles procured this kind of food by robbing the Fish-Hawks. He
said that if I felt particularly anxious to know what nest it was I
might soon satisfy myself, as the old birds would come and feed their
young with fish, for he had seen them do so before.

“In high expectation, I seated myself at about a hundred yards from the
foot of the rock. Never did time pass more slowly. I could not help
betraying the most impatient curiosity, for my hopes whispered it was a
Sea-Eagle’s nest. Two long hours had elapsed before the old bird made
his appearance, which was announced to us by the loud hissings of the
two young ones, which crawled to the extremity of the hole to receive a
fine fish. I had a perfect view of this noble bird as he held himself to
the edging rock, hanging like the Barn, Bank, or Social Swallow; his
tail spread, and his wings partly so. I trembled lest a word should
escape from my companions.—The slightest murmur had been treason from
them. They entered into my feelings, and, although little interested,
gazed with me. In a few minutes the other parent joined its mate, and,
from the difference in size (the female of rapacious birds being much
larger), we knew this to be the mother bird. She also had brought a
fish; but, more cautious than her mate, she glanced her quick and
piercing eye around, and instantly perceived that her abode had been
discovered. She dropped her prey, with a loud shriek communicated the
alarm to the male, and, hovering with him over our heads, kept up a
growling cry to intimidate us from our suspected design. This watchful
solicitude I have ever found peculiar to the female,—must I be
understood to speak only of birds?

“The young having concealed themselves, we went and picked up the fish
which the mother had let fall. It was a white Perch, weighing about five
pounds and a half. The upper part of the head was broken in, and the
back torn by the talons of the Eagle. We had plainly seen her bearing it
in the manner of the Fish-Hawk.

“This day’s sport being at an end, as we journeyed homewards we agreed
to return the next morning, with the view of obtaining both the old and
young birds; but rainy and tempestuous weather setting in, it became
necessary to defer the expedition till the third day following, when,
with guns and men all in readiness, we reached the rock. Some posted
themselves at the foot, others upon it, but in vain. We passed the
entire day without either seeing or hearing an Eagle, the sagacious
birds, no doubt, having anticipated an invasion, and removed their young
to new quarters.

“I come at last to the day which I had so often and so ardently desired.
Two years had gone by since the discovery of the nest, in fruitless
excursions; but my wishes were no longer to remain ungratified. In
returning from the little village of Henderson, I saw an Eagle rise from
a small enclosure not a hundred yards before me, where a few days before
some Hogs had been slaughtered, and alight upon a low tree branching
over the road. I prepared my double-barrelled piece which I constantly
carry, and went slowly and cautiously towards him. Quite fearlessly he
waited my approach, looking upon me with undaunted eye. I fired and he
fell; before I reached him he was dead. With what delight did I survey
the magnificent bird! Had the finest Salmon ever pleased him as he did
me? Never. I ran and presented him to my friend with a pride which they
alone can feel who, like me, have devoted themselves from their earliest
childhood to such pursuits, and who have derived from them their first
pleasures. To others I must seem to prattle out of fashion.”

“Mr. Audubon seems to have been a very keen sportsman,” remarked Mary.

“He is a most enthusiastic naturalist,” said Uncle Thomas, “and if we
have time this evening before you go I will tell you a little story of
his perseverance which I am sure will interest you, but there is still
another Eagle which I must first introduce to you, the White-Headed or
Bald Eagle. It also is an American species, and is thus described by our
friend Wilson.”—

“Shall I read it, Uncle Thomas?” asked Harry.

“Or I?” enquired John.

“Thank you, Harry,” replied Uncle Thomas; “I think we have already taxed
you sufficiently for one night; John will be so kind:”—

“This distinguished bird,” says this equally distinguished naturalist,
“as he is the most beautiful of his tribe in this part of the world, is
entitled to particular notice. The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a
noted place of resort for the Bald Eagle, as well on account of the fish
procured there, as for the numerous carcasses of Squirrels, Deer, Bears,
and various other animals that, in their attempts to cross the river
above the Falls, have been dragged into the current and precipitated
down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the Rapids
below, they furnish a rich repast for the Vulture, the Raven, and the
Bald Eagle, the subject of the present account. Formed by nature for
braving the severest cold; feeding equally on the produce of the sea,
and of the land; possessing powers of flight capable of outstripping
even the tempests themselves; unawed by any thing but man; and, from the
ethereal heights to which it soars, looking abroad at one glance, on an
immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean, deep below
him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of
seasons; as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the
lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal
cold, and from thence descend, at will, to the torrid or the arctic
regions of the earth. He is, therefore, found at all seasons in the
countries he inhabits; but prefers such places as have been mentioned
above, from the great partiality he has for fish.

“In procuring these, he displays in a very singular manner the genius
and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and
tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but,
when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high dead
limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide view of the
neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions
of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below;
the snow-white Gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy Tringæ coursing
along the sands; trains of Ducks streaming over the surface; silent and
watchful Cranes, intent and wading; clamorous Crows; and all the winged
multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of
nature. High over all these hovers one whose action instantly arrests
his whole attention. By his wide curvature of wing, and sudden
suspension in air, he knows him to be the Fish-Hawk, settling over some
devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and, balancing
himself with half-opened wings on the branch, he watches the result.
Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his
attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in
the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks
of the Eagle are all ardour; and levelling his neck for flight, he sees
the Fish-Hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting
in the air with screams of exultation. This is the signal for our hero,
who, launching in the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the
Fish-Hawk. Each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying
in these rencounters the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The
unencumbered Eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of
reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair
and honest execration, the latter drops his fish; the Eagle poising
himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a
whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears
his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods.”

“How very naughty!” said Jane.

“I certainly cannot commend the Bald Eagle for such conduct,” said Uncle
Thomas; “but he is not always thus dependent on the exertions of the
Osprey. It is only when he takes a fancy to a fish dinner that he is so
unjust. At other times he seeks his food in the field and the forest,
pouncing down upon the smaller animals, and destroying Hares and Lambs,
as well as Ducks and Game Birds. One has been known even to attack a
Dog.

“The intrepidity of his character,” continued Uncle Thomas, “may be
farther illustrated by an incident which occurred a few years ago near
New Jersey. A woman, who happened to be weeding in a garden, had set her
child down near, to amuse itself, while she was at work, when a sudden
scream from the child alarmed her, and, starting up, she beheld the
infant thrown down, and dragged along for a short distance, and a large
Bald Eagle bearing off a fragment of its frock; which, being the only
part seized, and giving way, fortunately saved the life of the infant.”

“That was indeed providential!” remarked Jane.

“There is another trait in the character of the White-Headed Eagle,”
said Uncle Thomas; “namely, its affection for its young, of which I must
not omit to tell you, in order to counterbalance the impression which
his robbing the Osprey has made upon you. It also is related by Wilson.
‘As a proof of the attachment of the Bald Eagle to its young,’ says he,
‘a person near Norfolk informed me that in clearing a piece of wood on
his place, they met with a large dead pine tree, on which was a Bald
Eagle’s nest and young. The tree being on fire more than half way up,
and the flames rapidly ascending, the parent Eagle darted around and
among the flames, until her plumage was so much injured, that it was
with difficulty she could make her escape, and even then, she several
times attempted to return to relieve her offspring.’”

“I should not have expected to find so much affection united with so
many evil qualities,” said Mary.

“It is only among rational creatures,” said Uncle Thomas; “and not even
always among them—perhaps it is only certainly to be found in the
character of GOD himself—that we find justice and power going hand in
hand; but affection for their offspring is an instinct which the Creator
has implanted in the breasts of all his creatures. I have however
already detained you too late this evening, so must bid you good night.”

“But the story about Audubon, Uncle Thomas?” said Harry.

“Oh, it is soon told,” said Uncle Thomas; “but I hope the moral you will
long remember. From his earliest years, Mr. Audubon has been an
enthusiastic student of Nature. His whole time has been devoted to it,
and years spent in traversing the woods and prairies of his native
country, studying the habits and manners of Birds. His rambles, he tells
us, speaking of these wanderings, invariably commenced at break of day;
and to return wet with dew and bearing a feathered prize was the highest
enjoyment of his life. After a long time spent in these enquiries, an
accident which happened to two hundred of the drawings which he had made
of the various Birds which he found, nearly put a stop to his researches
in ornithology. ‘I shall relate it,’ he says, ‘merely to show how far
enthusiasm—for by no other name can I call the persevering zeal with
which I laboured—may enable the observer of Nature to surmount the most
disheartening obstacles.’ I left the village where I had resided for
several years, to proceed to Philadelphia on business. I looked to all
my drawings before my departure, placed them carefully in a wooden box,
and gave them in charge to a relative, with injunctions to see that no
injury should happen to them. My absence was for several months, and
when I returned, after having enjoyed the pleasures of home for a few
days, I inquired after my box, and what I was pleased to call my
treasure. The box was produced and opened; but, reader, feel for me: a
pair of Norway Rats had taken possession of the whole, and had reared a
young family amongst the gnawed bits of paper which, but a few months
before, represented nearly a thousand inhabitants of the air! The
burning heat which instantly rushed through my brain was too great to be
endured, without affecting the whole of my nervous system. I slept not
for several nights, and the days passed like days of oblivion, until the
animal powers being recalled into action through the strength of my
constitution, I took up my gun, my note-book, and my pencil, and went
forth to the woods as gaily as if nothing had happened. I felt pleased
that I might now make much better drawings than before, and ere less
than three years had elapsed, I had my portfolio filled again.”




                              CHAPTER III.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS SEVERAL INTERESTING TALES ABOUT THE FEROCITY AND
      TENACITY OF LIFE IN THE VULTURE, AND ABOUT THE GREEDINESS WITH
      WHICH IT DEVOURS ITS PREY.


So interested had Mary and Jane become in Uncle Thomas’s Stories that
long ere the time for setting out on the following evening they were in
readiness. Mary, indeed, wished to set off at once without waiting the
arrival of the usual hour, as she was, she said, quite sure that Uncle
Thomas would be glad to see them, however soon, and that there was no
fear of exhausting his Stories, since he had so many, and really she was
so anxious to hear him begin. All her efforts, however, could not
convince Mama of the propriety of setting out so early, and she at
length found some occupation on which she soon became so intent that the
time seemed to steal imperceptibly away, and she had not quite finished
the task which she had appointed to herself, when her Brothers gave
notice that it was time to set out.

Uncle Thomas received them in his usual affectionate manner, and when
they were once more seated he began:—

“I am this evening going to tell you,” he said, “about a Bird which,
though in some degree allied to the Eagles, yet differs from them in
many essential points—I mean the Vulture. While the Eagle seeks its prey
among living animals only, the Vulture confines itself to dead and
decaying substances, seeming to prefer such as is in the last stage of
decomposition, rather than fresh and recently killed animals.”

“A singular taste it must have, Uncle Thomas,” remarked John.

“To our notions it does seem singular,” said Uncle Thomas; “it yet
requires but a moment’s consideration to show us how admirably this
‘depraved’ taste, as it has been called, fits the animal for the
purposes for which the Creator designed it. The Vulture is found in the
greatest numbers in hot climates, where, if the bodies of dead animals
were left to putrify and taint the air, they would soon cause a
pestilence, and thus spread death and destruction among the inhabitants.
But against such calamities Providence has guarded, by creating the
Vulture with an appetite for such substances which are thus speedily
consumed. It is thus that we can readily account for a taste which seems
to us at first to be almost inexplicable.

“In most of the towns in Egypt,” continued Uncle Thomas, “the Vulture is
a privileged citizen, and no one is allowed to molest it. It there
executes the office of scavenger, and speedily removes such substances
as would soon become offensive.”

“Does the Vulture never kill its own prey?” asked Harry.

“I do not recollect an instance of its so doing,” said Uncle Thomas,
“and indeed its sluggish inactive flight in some measure unfits it for
procuring its food in this way, though I dare say they sometimes find it
necessary to exert themselves. But they have been gifted by Nature with
a power which supplies the place of activity; their extraordinary
strength of vision, enabling them to perceive their prey at a distance
of many miles. On one occasion, a hunting party in India killed a large
Hog, and left it on the ground near their tent. In about an hour
afterwards some of the party happening to be walking near the spot where
it lay, the sky being perfectly clear, their attention was attracted by
a dark spot in the air at a great distance. As they looked at it, it
appeared to increase in size, and to move directly towards them. It
proved to be a vulture flying in a direct line towards the dead Hog. In
an hour seventy others came in all directions.”

“How did they all get notice about the dead Hog?” asked Mary.

“That is a question which I cannot answer,” said Uncle Thomas. “It
appears quite inexplicable, except on the principle of the watchful care
of God over every living creature. The particular means by which it is
accomplished, however, I cannot explain. It has frequently been observed
that in crossing the wide-spreading deserts of Africa, where there is
neither food nor shelter to be obtained, and consequently there is no
temptation to the Vulture frequently to survey it, should a camel or
other beast of burden belonging to the caravans which cross these
inhospitable deserts drop down, a very short time elapses before numbers
of vultures are seen approaching in all directions, and from such
distances that when first observed they seem but so many specks in the
sky.

“Feeding, as the Vultures do,” continued Uncle Thomas, “at uncertain
intervals, when they do happen to fall in with a prey, they gorge
themselves to such a degree as to make themselves quite unable to fly.
The natives of South America avail themselves of this voracity to catch
the Condor—the Vulture of that country. They expose the carcass of a
dead Horse or Cow, which soon attracts plenty of Condors. They allow
them to feed heartily, and when they have completely gorged themselves,
they approach and throw a noose over their heads, and thus secure them.

“When, however, they are attacked before they have finished their filthy
meal, they fight with great determination. ‘One day,’ says a traveller,
who proceeded up the Nile, ‘as I was reading in my cabin, my attention
was directed by the trackers to three large Vultures on the shore, not
forty yards distant. Immediately afterwards two of them retired
leisurely into the desert, and the other to a ridge of sand upon the top
of a bank. I was quickly landed, and firing at the latter, he appeared
to be hit, though not so severely as to prevent his flying about a mile
up the stream, where he again settled. I now passed the ridge in search
of his two companions, which had joined a party of four others, and were
all sitting together on a sandhill at no great distance. Their wings
were spread, their plumage ragged, and they looked bare and hungry as
the desert around them. To approach unobserved was impossible. There was
not even a mat-rush for shelter. They began to exchange looks, seeming
to communicate their suspicions that all was not right, and then taking
flight, one by one, the last had gone before I could fire with any fair
chance of success. I had scarcely regained the bank in quest of the one
I had fired at, when I heard a shot a little higher up, and at the same
time saw a Vulture fall into the river, and come paddling down with open
wings. But even the old Nile could not befriend her. A bearded and
swarthy Arab appeared upon the bank and, running down to the water’s
edge, stopped as if perplexed respecting his next step. The delay was
momentary; with one and the same effort he threw his clothes upon the
mud and himself into the stream, and reaching forward with alternate
arms quickly overtook the wounded Bird. The latter was ready to receive
him. Stretching forth his neck and opening his beak, he turned upon his
pursuer, who by darting up the stream, eluded his attack. After repeated
attempts, the Arab at length reached the end of the wing under water,
and swimming gently forward on his side, pulled the bird, apparently
exhausted, towards the shore; but the Vulture no sooner gained his feet
than he furiously assailed his naked enemy, who, retreating with a loud
yell, first in a straight line, then in a circle round the bird, still
held the extreme end of the feathers, and warded off the strokes with
its own pinion. The Vulture’s beak was frequently within a few inches of
the Arabs ribs, and had he succeeded, he would doubtless have made short
work of it. Yet the cry of the Arab was not altogether that of fear.
There was a mixture of bitter playfulness and triumph, as one sometimes
says, ‘You will—will you?’ It was a Turk who had shot the bird, and he
was now watching the affair from the bank. I hastened towards him, and,
neither understanding the other’s language, we commenced, after the
usual salaam, a sort of telegraphic conversation; the bird and our guns
being the chief topic. The Turk had taken mine to examine, and appeared
much pleased with it, particularly with the locks, when the Vulture
renewed his attack upon the man. Requesting permission to end the
business with my gun, he ordered his myrmidon to stand aside, and the
bird immediately fell. His head was under him, and he bled profusely,
and seemed, after being convulsed for a moment to be quite dead. It was
shot from less than four yards distance, and the gun contained six small
Turkish bullets; notwithstanding this, after we had finished our
communications, which lasted some minutes, I saw him struggling again.
He stood higher than a full-sized Turkey-cock, measured about ten feet
from point to point of his wings, and his beak and talons were
terrific.’

“Another instance of the same kind,” continued Uncle Thomas, occurred in
South America to an English Miner, who boldly attacked a Condor, single
handed. Seeing several of these animals congregated together, and
guessing that they were attracted by some dead animal, he rode up to
them and found a large flock gathered round the carcass of a Horse. One
of the largest was standing with one foot on the ground and the other on
the Horse’s body, exhibiting great muscular power as he tore off the
flesh in large pieces; sometimes pushing with his leg, and sometimes
shaking his head in his efforts to detach them. As the Miner approached,
one of the Vultures, which seemed to be gorged, flew off to a distance,
of about twenty yards; he rode up to it, and jumping from his horse
seized the bird by the neck. It struggled violently, and the man
declared he never had such a trial of strength in his life. He put his
knee on its breast, and tried with all his might to twist its neck, but
the Condor, objecting to this, fought valiantly; the man all the while
in the greatest terror lest several of its companions, which were flying
overhead, should alight and take part with their comrade. At length,
however, he overcame it, and tearing out the pinion quills of its wing
he brought them off in triumph leaving the bird as he thought dead, but
another horseman, who happened to pass that way some time after, found
it still alive and struggling.

“The tenacity of life of the Vulture is also shown by an adventure which
occurred to a recent traveller in Asia Minor. The bird referred to was
shot about nine o’clock in the morning, and at the time was washing
itself in a stream after its hearty meal upon a dead Camel. ‘It was
wounded on the head and neck, and dropped immediately, but, upon taking
it up, its talons closed on the hand of my servant, making him cry out
with pain. He placed it on the ground, and I stood with my whole weight
upon its back, pressing the breast bone against the rock, when its eye
gradually closed, its hold relaxed, and to all appearance life became
extinct. It was then packed up in my leather hood, and strapped behind
the saddle. The day was oppressively hot, for we trod upon our shadows
as we rode across the plain. Until the evening at eleven o’clock the
Vulture remained tightly bound behind the saddle; my servant, on
unpacking, threw the bundle containing it into the tent, while he
prepared water for cleaning and skinning it. Intending to examine this
noble bird more carefully, I untied the package, and what was my
surprise, to see it raise its head and fix its keen eye upon me! I
immediately placed my feet upon its back, holding by the top of the
tent, and leaning all my weight upon it, but with a desperate struggle
it spread out its wings, which reached across the tent, and by beating
them, attempted to throw me off. My shouts soon brought my servant, who
at length killed it by repeated blows upon the head with the butt end of
his gun.’”

“Is the Vulture like the Eagle?” asked Jane.

“It bears some resemblance to it,” said Uncle Thomas, “but it is far
from possessing the same bold undaunted bearing. From its habits of
feeding on carrion, its head if covered with feathers would soon become
coated over with offensive matter, it, as well as the neck of the
animal, has been left by nature in some species quite free from
feathers, and in others very sparingly furnished. From its habits of
foul feeding, it is at all times exceedingly disagreeable to approach
them, their smell being extremely offensive. I have already told you how
the Condor of South America feeds. A naturalist has recorded a dinner
scene of the Black Vulture of the United States; they also were
luxuriating on the carcass of a dead horse:—

“The ground, for a hundred yards beyond it, was black with Carrion
Crows; many sat on the tops of sheds, fences, and houses within sight;
sixty or eighty in the opposite side of a small run. I counted at one
time two hundred and thirty-seven, but I believe there were more,
besides several in the air over my head, and at a distance. I ventured
cautiously within thirty yards of the carcass, where three or four Dogs,
and twenty or thirty Vultures, were busily tearing and devouring. Seeing
them take no notice, I ventured nearer, till I was within ten yards, and
sat down on the bank. Still they paid little attention to me. The Dogs
being sometimes accidentally flapped with the wings of the Vultures,
would growl and snap at them, which would occasion them to spring up for
a moment, but they immediately gathered in again. I remarked the
Vultures frequently attack each other, fighting with their claws or
heels, striking like a Cock, with open wings, and fixing their claws in
each other’s heads. The females, and I believe the males likewise, made
a hissing sound with open mouth, exactly resembling that produced by
thrusting a red hot poker into water; and frequently a snuffing like a
dog clearing his nostrils, as I suppose they were theirs. On observing
that they did not heed me, I stole so close that my feet were within one
yard of the Horse’s legs, and I again sat down. They all slid aloof a
few feet; but seeing me quiet, they soon returned as before. As they
were often disturbed by the Dogs, I ordered the latter home: my voice
gave no alarm to the Vultures. As soon as the Dogs departed, the
Vultures crowded in such numbers, that I counted at one time
thirty-seven on and around the carcass, with several within; so that
scarcely an inch of it was visible. Sometimes one would come out with a
large piece of entrails, which in a moment was surrounded by several
others, who tore it in fragments, and it soon disappeared. They kept up
the hissing occasionally. Some of them having their whole legs and heads
covered with blood, presented a most savage aspect. Still, as the dogs
advanced, I would order them away, which seemed to gratify the Vultures;
and one would pursue another, to within a foot or two of the spot where
I was sitting. Sometimes I observed them stretching their necks along
the ground, as if to press the food downwards.”

“It seems to be a very filthy creature, Uncle Thomas,” said Harry.

“Its habits are disgusting enough,” said Uncle Thomas, “when regarded
merely as habits; but if we look upon them in the light of Providential
appointments, they in a great measure cease to be so. That some of the
species are not without the lofty bearing which we admire in the Eagle,
is evident from the account which Bruce gives of one which resolutely
attacked his retinue, and stole away their dinner from before their
eyes. ‘Upon the highest top of the mountain Lamalmon, in Abyssinia,
while my servants were refreshing themselves from the toilsome, rugged
ascent, and enjoying the pleasure of a most delightful climate, eating
their dinner in the outer air, with several large dishes of boiled
goat’s flesh before them, this noble Bird suddenly appeared; he did not
stoop rapidly from a height, but came flying slowly along the ground,
and sat down close to the meat, within the ring the men had made round
it. A great shout, or rather cry of distress, called me to the place. I
saw the Vulture stand for a minute, as if to recollect himself; while
the servants ran for their lances and shields. I walked up as nearly to
him as I had time to do. His attention was fully fixed upon the flesh. I
saw him put his foot into the pan, where was a large piece in water
prepared for boiling; but finding the smart, which he had not expected,
he withdrew it, and forsook the piece that he held.’

[Illustration:

  “Into these the Vulture thrust both his claws, and carried them off.”

  Page 66.
]

“There were two large pieces, a leg and a shoulder, lying upon a wooden
platter; into these he thrust both his claws, and carried them off; but
I thought he still looked wistfully at the large piece which remained in
the warm water. Away he went slowly along the ground, as he had come.
The face of the cliff over which criminals were thrown took him from our
sight. The Mahometans that drove the Asses were much alarmed, and
assured me of his return. My servants, on the other hand, very
unwillingly expected him, and thought he had already more than his
share.

“As I had myself a desire of more intimate acquaintance with him, I
loaded a rifle-gun with ball and sat down close to the platter, by the
meat. It was not many minutes before he came, and a prodigious shout was
raised by my attendants, ‘He is coming! he is coming!’ enough to have
dismayed a less courageous animal. Whether he was not quite so hungry as
at his first visit, or suspected something from my appearance, I know
not, but he made a short turn, and sat down about ten yards from me, the
pan with the meat being between me and him. As the field was clear
before me, and I did not know but his next move might bring him opposite
to some of my people, so that he might actually get the rest of the
meat, and make off, I shot him with the ball through the middle of the
body, about two inches below the wings, so that he lay down upon the
grass without a single flutter.”

This having exhausted Uncle Thomas’s Stories about the Vulture, and it
being too late to enter upon another species, the little party bade him
good night.




                              CHAPTER IV.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE VARIOUS KINDS OF FALCONS, AND DESCRIBES
      THE SPORT OF HAWKING AS ANCIENTLY PRACTISED IN ENGLAND.


“What is the name of this Eagle?” said Mary, on a subsequent evening,
pointing to one of the specimens in Uncle Thomas’s Museum. “It seems to
be much smaller than either of those which you have told us about, Uncle
Thomas.”

“That,” said Uncle Thomas, “is not an Eagle. It belongs to the Falcon
family, and is one of the most elegant of the tribe. It is the Peregrine
Falcon, the species principally used when Hawking was practised as a
field-sport. It is a very fine specimen, and was caught in the
neighbourhood. It measured in length sixteen inches; and its wings, from
tip to tip, three feet.

“The Peregrine Falcon,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is found in all the
temperate and colder countries of Europe, but it prefers places where it
can find rocky precipices, in which to build its nest. As it has great
power of wing, however, it can soon transport itself from place to
place. Some one estimates its rate of flight at about an hundred and
twenty miles an hour; but even that is not so rapid as the Gyr-Falcon,
which is said to fly at the rate of one hundred and fifty!

“A Falcon which belonged to Henry IV., King of France, on one occasion
escaped from the Falconry at Fontainbleau, and was caught twenty-four
hours afterwards in the island of Malta. The distance between the two
places has been reckoned at 1350 miles, so that if the Falcon flew the
whole time without stopping, it must have proceeded at the rate of fifty
miles an hour. But as the Falcons never fly by night, supposing that it
rested during the darkness, and flew only during eighteen hours, its
flight was at the rate of seventy miles an hour. Even this computation,
however,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is liable to considerable objections.
The exact moment of its arrival at Malta cannot of course be told, as he
might be in the island some time before he was discovered; and it is
also probable that the day-light would not serve him to travel so long
as eighteen hours.”

“I wonder how any bird escapes the Falcon since he flies so fast,” said
John.

“The Instincts of the birds on which it preys,” said Uncle Thomas,
“teach them many little wiles to escape their enemy, and it is seldom
that the chase is one of mere power of wing. It was to this skill on the
part of the birds that much of the interest of the sport was derived
when Hawking was practised in England. I will tell you about the various
modes of Hawking by and by, but there is a little story of the boldness
and sagacity of the Peregrine, which I must first tell you;—A gentleman
well known as an accomplished naturalist (Mr. Selby) relates that on one
occasion when he was exercising his Dogs upon the moors, previous to the
commencement of the shooting season, he observed a large bird of the
Hawk tribe hovering at a distance, which, upon approaching, he knew to
be the Peregrine Falcon. Its attention seemed to be drawn towards the
Dogs, and it accompanied them whilst they beat the surrounding ground.
Upon their having found and sprung a brood of Grouse, the Falcon
immediately gave chase, and struck a young bird before they had
proceeded far upon the wing, but the shouts of the sportsman, and his
rapid advance, prevented it from securing its prey. The issue of the
attempt, however, did not deter the Falcon from watching their
subsequent movements, and another opportunity soon offering, it again
gave chase, and struck down two birds by two rapidly repeated blows, one
of which it secured and bore off in triumph.”

“The Falcon must have known that the Dogs were in search of game,”
remarked Harry.

“Yes,” said Uncle Thomas, “and it must also have known that they would
put up the birds; and as its general habit is to strike its prey on the
wing, it no doubt reckoned that it would be very convenient to have them
to do so, as its prey frequently escape by lying close and undiscovered
among the herbage when they see their enemy approaching.

“The Gyr-Falcon, which I mentioned to you as exhibiting extraordinary
speed,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is a larger bird than the Peregrine;
the male generally measuring about twenty-two inches in length, and its
wings stretching about four feet. The female, as is universally the case
with birds of prey, is larger than the male. It is a native of the most
northern countries of Europe; the rocky fastnesses of Iceland being its
head quarters. This Falcon, from its great strength of wing, was held in
great repute when the amusement of Hawking was in fashion. In Denmark,
to which kingdom the island of Iceland belonged, there was a law which
inflicted the punishment of death on any person destroying them, and the
King’s Falconer, with a couple of attendants went annually thither in
great state to receive such animals as had been captured during the
year. The rewards paid to the captors were very high, about three pounds
for the best, and from ten to forty shillings for others, according to
the estimation in which they were held.

“Though naturally one of the wildest of birds, the Gyr-Falcon soon
becomes familiar, and, when properly trained, is one of the best
‘Hawkers.’ Even in a state of nature it has been known to throw off its
wild habits. An old gentleman in the South of Scotland was in the habit
of resting during his morning walk on a seat beneath a wooded precipice.
For two or three mornings a young Gyr-Falcon came and sat upon a bough
above his head, and at last grew so familiar as to settle upon his
shoulders. The gentleman was highly delighted with his new acquaintance,
and brought it such food as, from a knowledge of these birds, he knew to
be suitable. At length it ceased to meet him,—probably its wild nature,
as it got older, subduing the gentle confidence which had dictated its
first approaches. He often spoke with lively regret of this interesting
friendship; remarkable in any point of view, but still more so when it
is considered that the Gyr-Falcon is almost never seen in the place
where the incident happened.”

“Perhaps it was a half-trained bird,” suggested Frank.

“Most likely it was,” said Uncle Thomas, “I cannot on any other
supposition account for its familiarity. Besides the Peregrine and
Gyr-Falcons, there were several others which were trained to Hawking;
such as the Merlin, the Kestrel, the Lanner, the Sparrow-Hawk, &c. The
former was held in high estimation as a lady’s Hawk, its weight being
only six ounces, and, besides, being one of the swiftest and boldest of
its tribe, it is most easily tamed and trained.”

“How are Hawks trained?” asked Jane. “I wonder they ever return when
they once fly off after their prey.”

“The training of Hawks,” said Uncle Thomas, “was practised as an art;
and in days when the sport was in high estimation it was one of
considerable importance. The young birds were taken out of the nest when
ready to fly, or caught in traps, and carefully secured in linen bags,
with openings at each end for the head and tail, to preserve their
feathers from injury. On their arrival at the falconry a hood was placed
over their eyes, so as to blindfold them, and, thus imprisoned, they
were left in perfect quiet for a day or two. The training of the
noviciate then began. It was placed upon the wrist of the falconer, and
carried about the whole day, and occasionally stroked with a feather, so
as gradually to accustom it to being handled. Its hood was then taken
off, and it was fed; the falconer making a particular call, which was
invariably used when the bird was fed, and upon no other occasion. When
it was so far trained as to alight on the hand when called, it was
unhooded and ‘put to the lure’—an artificial bird, made of feathers,
which was thrown up into the air, and at which it was induced to fly by
attaching a live Pigeon, or part of a Chicken, which the Hawk was
permitted to eat. To prevent its escape during this part of its
education it was secured by a string. When perfect in this lesson it was
advanced to the dignity of flying at live game, usually by means of a
Duck, which was blindfolded to prevent its escape. By the repetition of
the call when it had struck its quarry the Hawk was taught to return to
its perch upon its master’s wrist, and when this was accomplished its
lesson was complete. To prevent its flying off, it was secured by straps
of leather or silk, called jesses, which were fastened round its legs,
which were also generally ornamented with little bells, so as not to
encumber it or interfere with its flight.”

“Is Hawking ever practised in England now?” asked Jane.

“It is occasionally,” said Uncle Thomas; “but so seldom that, as some
one remarks, when the old gamekeeper of some ancient family crosses us
with a Falcon on his wrist, he looks as if he had stepped out of a
picture-frame, and the sight serves to remind us of a glory which has
departed. It is, however, sometimes to be seen. Here is an account of a
day’s Hawking, in the county of Norfolk.

“In June, 1825,” says the writer, “happening to be in Norfolk, I became
an eye-witness to that most ancient and now very rare sport of Falconry;
and I now relate what I actually saw, and which was to me most novel and
entertaining. The place fixed upon for the sport was in the intermediate
country between the Fens and the Heronry, and in the afternoon of the
day, with the wind blowing towards the Heronry. There were four couple
of casts of the _female_ Peregrine Falcon, carried by a man to the
ground upon an oblong kind of frame, padded with leather, on which the
Falcons perched, to which they were fastened by a thong of leather. Each
bird had a small bell on one leg, and a leather hood, with an oblong
piece of scarlet cloth stitched into it, over each eye, surmounted by a
plume of various-coloured feathers on the top of the hood. The man
walked in the centre of the frame, with a strap from each side over his
shoulder; and when he arrived at the spot fixed upon for the sport, he
set down the frame upon its legs, and took off all the Falcons, and
tethered them to the ground in a convenient shady place. There were four
men who had the immediate care of the Falcons (seemingly Dutchmen or
Germans), each having a bag, somewhat like a woman’s pocket, tied to his
waist, containing a live Pigeon, called a lure, to which was fastened a
long string; there were also some gentlemen attached to the sport who
likewise carried their bags and lures.

[Illustration:

  “At length the Falcon soared above the Heron, and struck it on the
    back.”

  Page 81.
]

“After waiting awhile, some Herons passed, but at too great a distance;
at length one appeared to be coming within reach, and preparations were
made to attack him. Each falconer was furnished with a brown leather
glove on the right hand, on which the Falcon perched; and there was a
small bit of leather attached to the leg of the bird, and which was held
by the falconer between the thumb and finger. Each of the men thus
equipped, with a Falcon on his wrist, and the bag with the lure tied to
the waist, and mounted on horseback, proceeded slowly in a direction
towards where the Heron was seen approaching. As soon as the Heron was
nearly opposite, and at what I conceived a great height in the air, the
falconers slipped the hoods from off the heads of the falcons, and held
each bird on the wrist by the bit of leather, till the Falcons caught
sight of the Heron, and then a most gallant scene ensued. The instant
they were liberated, they made straight for their prey, though at a
considerable distance ahead. As they were dashing away towards the Heron
a Crow happened to cross, and one of them instantly darted at him, but
he struck into a plantation and saved himself: the Falcon dashed in
after him, but did not take him. The other Falcon soon overtook the
Heron, and after flying round in circles for some time, at length soared
above him, and then struck him on the back, and they both came tumbling
down together, from an exceeding great height, to the ground. The other
Falcon, having lost some time with the Crow, was flying very swiftly to
assist his comrade, and had just come up at the time the Falcon and
Heron were falling. At this instant, a Rook happened to fly across; the
disappointed Falcon struck at him, and they both fell together within
twenty yards of the other Falcon and the Heron. When on the ground, each
Falcon began to pull to pieces its victim; but, as soon as the falconers
rode up, the lures were thrown out, and the Falcons suffered to make a
meal (having previously been kept fasting) upon the Pigeon, which was
laid on the carcass of the Heron; and, after they were satisfied, were
again hooded and put up for that day.

“The next cast consisted of two younger birds; and when let loose at
another Heron, they flew up to it very well. But the Heron was an old
one, and supposed to have been caught before; for the moment he was
aware of the presence of his enemies, he began to soar into the air, and
set up a loud croak; and these, not so experienced as the first two
Falcons, would not attack him, but soared about and left him. Upon this,
one of the falconers set up a peculiar call, to which, no doubt, the
birds were trained; when one of them, from a very great elevation in the
air, immediately closed his wings, darted down to the man who called
him, and was taken in hand. This was a very extraordinary manœuvre, and
an instance of tractable sagacity. The other Falcon did not come to the
call, but sailed about in the air. At length a Heron crossed, and the
Falcon attacked it, but again left it. A third Heron also came in his
way; this he also fell to work with, and, after a short struggle,
brought him to the ground in the same style as the first. This last
Heron had his wing broken, and the falconer killed him; but the first
was taken alive, and was afterwards turned out before a single Falcon,
which struck him down in a minute. I understood that when a Heron had
once been taken by a Falcon he never made any more sport. It was the
case with this one; for, the moment he saw his enemy coming towards him,
he lost all his powers, and made a ridiculous awkward defence on the
ground; where the Falcon would soon have despatched him, if the falconer
and his lure had not been near at hand.

“The Heron,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is perhaps the most difficult prey
with which the Falcon has to contend; and it was the skill and
perseverance with which it opposed the attack of the Falcon, which gave
Hawking this bird its peculiar zest. As it flies very high, it is
extremely difficult for the Falcon to rise above it, so as to stoop upon
it, in which act birds of this sort can most conveniently put forth all
their powers. Even when the Falcon manages to attain the ascendancy its
victory is by no means certain. In case the Heron is foiled in this, its
most obvious means of escape, it turns its neck back upon its shoulders,
and projects its bayonet-like bill upwards, behind its wing, and thus,
should its pursuer pounce upon its head and neck, to which the attack of
the Falcon is usually directed, it runs the greatest danger of being
transfixed upon the long and sharp bill of the Heron. This attitude,
indeed, serves another purpose; it protects these most vulnerable parts
from injury, and should the Falcon, notwithstanding the danger to which
it is exposed, strike at the wing of its prey, and thus disable it, on
reaching the ground, the latter is still able to offer the fiercest
resistance.

“Colonel Montague, on one occasion, brought the powers of the two
animals to a direct test. He took a Falcon, about a year old, which had
been taken from its nest before it could fly, and had never had an
opportunity of killing any thing but a small bird occasionally, and
having kept it without food for twenty-four hours, he introduced into
the room where it was kept an old male Heron. As the object was,
however, principally to see how the Instinct of the Falcon would develop
itself, part of the Heron’s bill had been cruelly cut off. As soon as
the Heron was in motion, the Falcon, which was also deprived of the
means of flight, took post on a stool which was at one end of the room,
and as the Heron, regardless of his enemy, traversed the apartment, the
Falcon, motionless, kept her eyes fixed on her destined prey, till after
several turns round the room, she judged the Heron was sufficiently near
to effect her purpose, when she sprung at its head, intending to seize
it with her talons. In this, however, she failed, the stool not having
given her sufficient elevation to reach the high erect head of the
Heron. This failure would probably have cost the Falcon her life, had
the bill of her antagonist been perfect; for she received a blow on her
body that must otherwise have inflicted a severe, if not a mortal wound
from so pointed an instrument, urged with such power. Baffled in this
attempt, and having received a severe blow, it was conjectured that no
farther attack would be made till the calls of hunger became more
urgent. The Falcon, however, soon regained her station, and it was not
long before the Heron, regardless of his foe, again passed very near,
when the Falcon, in a second attempt to seize her prey, as before, was
equally foiled, and again received a severe check from the bill of the
Heron. Finding her efforts had failed from want of the advantages Nature
had assigned her, Instinct directed the Falcon to a box that stood on
the opposite side of the room, which was somewhat higher. Here she again
seemed to meditate another attack, by watching every motion of the
Heron, who continued his rounds with a view to make his escape; and it
was not long before an opportunity offered for the Falcon to make an
assault from her more elevated station. Here she had found a humble
substitute for those powers with which Nature so amply furnished her,
but of which she had been deprived, and at last succeeded in springing
from her perch, and seizing the unfortunate Heron by the head and upper
part of the neck with her talons, which instantly brought him to the
ground. Now the unequal contest was soon determined, for in vain did the
superior weight and strength of the Heron drag and flounder with his
enemy across the floor; in vain did he flap his unwieldy pinions to
shake off the tyrant of the air, nor could even his gigantic legs force
her from the bloody grasp; her work was short and certain; no efforts
could compel her now to quit her deadly gripe, the powerful and only
dreaded weapon of her antagonist was secured and thus disarmed, he
became a sure and easy prey. Scarcely was the gigantic bird prostrate on
the ground than death ensued; for in this noble race of Falcons,
destined for blood and slaughter, torture makes no part of its nature;
but, like what we are told of the generous Lion, exulting in death, but
disdaining cruelty, in less than half a minute did the Falcon tear out
the gullet and windpipe of the Heron, and regale on the head and neck.”

“It was very cruel to cut off the Heron’s bill, Uncle Thomas,” said
Mary.

“I cannot in any view commend the experiment,” said Uncle Thomas;
“though it certainly does in a very striking manner illustrate the
Instinct of the Falcon in securing its prey. Here was a bird taken and
domesticated before it could have seen its parents attack the animals on
which they feed, yet we find that it exhibited all those peculiarities
which distinguish its assaults in its native state—at once fixing on the
most vulnerable part of its victim, and availing itself of the
advantages which it could derive from pouncing down upon it from above,
and thus giving additional force to its blow.

“Some of the Falcons” continued Uncle Thomas, “are very bold in pursuit
of their prey. A Sparrow-Hawk has been known to enter a church while the
congregation was retiring and bear off a Swallow which had taken refuge
within the building. On another occasion a Kestrel pursued a Sparrow in
at the window of a house, and so eager was it to secure its prey that
the window was closed, and both were taken before it could escape. A
person once saw a Falcon, called in America the Duck-Hawk, pursuing an
aquatic bird, called the Razor-Bill, which, instead of assaulting as
usual with the death-pounce from the beak, he seized by the head with
both claws, and made towards the land; his prisoner croaking, screaming,
and struggling lustily; but being a heavy bird he so far overbalanced
his aggressor that both descended fast towards the sea, when just as
they touched the water, the Falcon let go his hold and ascended; the
Razor-Bill as instantaneously diving below.

“Wilson mentions an instance in which the Sparrow-Hawk was not deterred
from pouncing on its prey even by the presence of a sportsman, with his
gun ready to shoot it. ‘One day,’ says he ‘I observed a bird of this
species perched on the highest top of a large poplar, on the skirts of a
wood; I was in the act of raising the gun to my eye, when he swept down
with the rapidity of an arrow into a thicket of briars about thirty
yards off, where I shot him dead, and on coming up found a small
Field-Sparrow quivering in his grasp. Both our aims had been taken at
the same instant and unfortunately for him both were fatal.’

“A gentleman, who brought up a young Sparrow-Hawk, has published a very
interesting account of its habits in a state of domestication. The
experiment of domesticating such an animal was rather a hazardous one,
as he had at the same time a stock of fancy Pigeons which he greatly
prized. It seems, however, that kindness and ease had softened the
nature of the Hawk, or the regularity with which he was fed rendered the
usual habits of his family unnecessary to his happiness; for, as he
increased in age and size, his familiarity increased also, leading him
to form an intimate acquaintance with a set of friends who have been
seldom seen in such society. Whenever the Pigeons came to feed, which
they did oftentimes from the hand of their almoner, the Hawk used also
to accompany them. At first the Pigeons were shy, of course; but, by
degrees, they got over their fears, and ate as confidently as if the
ancient enemies of their race had sent no representative to their
banquet. It was curious to observe the playfulness of the Hawk, and his
perfect good nature during the entertainment; for he received his morsel
of meat without any of that ferocity with which birds of prey usually
take their food, and merely uttered a cry of lamentation when the carver
disappeared. He would then attend the Pigeons in their flight round and
round the house and gardens, and perch with them on the chimney-top, or
roof of the mansion; and this voyage he never failed to make early in
the morning, when the Pigeons always took their exercise. At night, he
retired with them to the dove-cot; and though for some days he was the
sole occupant of the place, the Pigeons not having relished this
intrusion at first, he was afterwards merely a guest there; for he never
disturbed his hospitable friends, even when their young ones, unfledged
and helpless as they were, offered a strong temptation to his appetite.
He seemed unhappy at any separation from the Pigeons, and invariably
returned to the dove-house after a few days purposed confinement in
another abode, during which imprisonment he would utter most melancholy
cries for deliverance: but these were changed to cries of joy on the
arrival of any person with whom he was familiar. All the household were
on terms of acquaintance with him; and there never was a bird who seemed
to have won such general admiration. He was as playful as a kitten, and
literally as loving as a dove.

“But that his nature was not altogether altered, and that,
notwithstanding his education, he was still a Hawk of spirit, was proved
on an occasion of almost equal interest. A neighbour had sent us a very
fine specimen of the smaller Horned Owl, which he had winged when flying
in the midst of a covey of Partridges; and after having tended the
wounded bird, and endeavoured to make a cure, we thought of soothing the
prisoner’s captivity by a larger degree of freedom than he had in the
hen-coop, which he inhabited. No sooner, however, had our former
acquaintance, the Hawk, got sight of him, than he fell upon the poor Owl
most unmercifully; and from that instant, whenever they came in contact,
a series of combats commenced, which equalled in skill and courage any
of those which have so much distinguished that hero, who to the boldness
and clearness of vision of the Hawk, unites the wisdom of the bird of
Athens. The defence of the poor little Owl was admirably conducted; he
would throw himself upon his back, and await the attack of his enemy
with patience and preparation; and, by dint of biting and scratching,
would frequently win a positive, as he often did a negative victory.
Acquaintanceship did not seem in this case likely to ripen into
friendship; and when his wing had gained strength, taking advantage of a
favourable opportunity, the Owl decamped, leaving the Hawk in possession
of his territory.

“The fate of the successful combatant was, however, soon to be
accomplished; for he was shortly after found drowned in a butt of water,
from which he had once or twice been extricated before, having summoned
a deliverer to his assistance by cries that told he was in distress.
There was great lamentation, when he died, throughout the family; and it
was observed by more than one person, that that portion of the dove-cot
in which he was wont to pass the night was, for some time, unoccupied by
the Pigeons, with whom he had lived so peaceably even during the wars of
the unfortunate Owl.

“In the East,” continued Uncle Thomas, “Hawking is still practised. In
Persia, Sir John Malcolm saw the mode in which it is conducted in
hunting Deer and smaller game. The hunters proceed with Hawks and
Greyhounds to the places frequented by these animals. When the Antelope
is seen, they endeavour to get as near it as possible, but the timid
animal, the moment it sees its enemies approach, darts off at a rate
swifter than the wind. The horsemen, having slipped the Dogs, follow at
full speed. If it is a single Deer they at the same time fly the Hawk;
but if a herd, they wait till the Dogs have selected a particular
animal. Skimming along the ground, the Hawk soon overtakes the Deer, and
as it is trained, pounces upon its head, and either stops it altogether
by pecking out its eyes, or retards it so much that it is soon overtaken
by the dogs. When he was at Shiraz, Sir John was presented with a very
fine Royal Falcon. ‘Before going out,’ says he, ‘I had been amused at
seeing Nuttee Beg, our head Falconer, a man of great experience in his
department, put upon his bird a pair of leathers, which he fitted to its
thighs, with as much care as if he had been the tailor of a fashionable
horseman. I enquired the reason for so unusual a proceeding. ‘You will
learn that,’ said the consequential master of the Hawks, ‘when you see
our sport,’ and I was convinced, at the period he predicted, of the old
fellow’s knowledge of his business. The first Hare seized by the Falcon
was very strong, and the ground rough. While the bird kept the claws of
one foot fastened in the back of its prey, the other was dragged along
the ground, till it had an opportunity to lay hold of a tuft of grass,
by which it was enabled to stop the course of the Hare, whose efforts to
escape would, I do think, have torn the Hawk asunder, if it had not been
so provided’.

[Illustration:

  “The Hawk soon overtakes the Deer, pounces upon its head, and pecks
    out its eyes.”

  Page 96.
]

“These,” said Uncle Thomas, “are nearly all the stories which I
recollect about Hawks and Hawking, so I must stop for the night. I must
not, however, omit to mention, as a curious fact in the natural history
of these animals, that though in confinement Hawks do not retain their
vigour more than a few years, it is probably a very long-lived bird. One
is said to have been caught in Southern Africa, in the year 1793,
wearing a gold collar, dated 1610, and known at that time to have
belonged to James I. Though more than 180 years old, it was still in
complete vigour.”

His little auditors then bid him good bye.




                               CHAPTER V.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT OWLS, AND OF THE CURIOUS PECULIARITIES IN
      THEIR STRUCTURE WHICH ENABLE THEM TO SEEK FOR AND SECURE THEIR
      PREY DURING THE NIGHT.


“The Owls,” said Uncle Thomas, on their next meeting, “are perhaps one
of the most interesting families of Birds of Prey. They are, with one or
two exceptions, night birds; that is, they seek their prey during the
night, or in the dim twilight when scarcely any other animal can see.”

“But how, then, can they perceive their prey?” asked Jane.

“By a peculiar formation,” said Uncle Thomas, “the eye of the Owl has
been fitted for use just when from the habits of the bird it is most
wanted. The pupil of its eye, which, when there is little light, expands
to a great extent, and enables it to see distinctly the smallest
objects, is of such extreme sensibility that if light is admitted it
contracts, and prevents the bird from seeing at all. You will understand
this better if you examine carefully the eye of a Cat, which to a
certain extent has the same property as that of the Owl. When it is
subjected to a moderate light, you will perceive that the pupil is of a
certain size, but if a much stronger light is admitted it contracts till
you scarcely perceive it, and in this state it is nearly as useless as
if it was covered by the eyelid.”

“But Cats can see to hunt in the sunshine,” said Mary; “I saw Puss
watching some birds in the garden to-day.”

“Though I used the Cat’s eye as an illustration,” said Uncle Thomas, “I
did not mean you to understand that those of the Owl and it are exactly
the same. From possessing less sensibility, perhaps, that of the Cat can
be used in broad day-light, when the Owl is nearly blind. Accordingly,
when one happens to be dislodged by any accident during sunshine, it is
immediately attacked with impunity by whole flocks of small birds, who
never cease their persecutions till it again finds refuge in some dark
and snug retreat.

“Besides this singular power of vision, which it has in common with all
animals which seek their prey in the twilight,” continued Uncle Thomas,
“the Owl has other peculiarities in its structure, which are in a great
measure confined to itself. Its skull is larger in proportion to the
size of the bird than that of most other animals, and the bone is thin
and fine, so that no space is lost, nor is it troubled with more weight
than is absolutely necessary. A considerable part of the interior of the
skull is occupied by two large cavities, in which the nerve by which the
impression of sound is conveyed to the brain is expanded to an unusual
size, and thus the sense of hearing is much more acute than in most
other animals.”

“What can it want with this?” asked Harry. “At night, when every thing
is so still there can be no difficulty in hearing, I should think.”

“One minute, if you please, Harry,” said Uncle Thomas; “there is another
peculiarity in the structure of the Owl, of which I wish to tell you;
and when I have pointed out their nice adaptation to each other, and the
beautiful manner in which they all subserve the habits of the animal, I
think you will admit that they are all made in wisdom. The other
peculiarity to which I refer is in the plumage of the bird. The wings of
some birds, as they fly along, make a whistling noise, which arises from
the air acting on their hard and rigid feathers. Not so those of the
Owl. The feathers of its wings are fringed with a sort of silky down, so
remarkably soft and elastic that they seem scarcely to stir the air. It
can thus noiselessly pounce down upon an unwary Mouse as it stirs among
the leaves in the waning twilight, before it has the slightest suspicion
of the presence of its enemy, who has, perhaps, been guided to the spot
by the tiny stirring of a decayed leaf. You will thus perceive how the
various peculiarities of which I have told you act upon each other. The
Owl hears a squeak or a rustle among the leaves, and flies noiselessly
to the spot; were it not, however, for the acuteness of its sight, its
prey must still escape; but thus, provided, it soon spies it out and
secures it.

“That the ear is greatly used by the Owl in directing it to its prey,”
said Uncle Thomas, “is evident, from the fact that they are frequently
attracted to the spot where the rustic sportsman has stationed himself
for the purpose of shooting them, by imitating the squeaking of a Mouse.

“With us,” continued Uncle Thomas, “the Owl generally inhabits hollow
trees, old ruins, church steeples, or the dark recesses of some
uninhabited building, where it can roost undisturbed during the day.
Wilson, the delightful writer from whose work I have often read to you,
thus describes the haunts of the Great Tufted Owl:—‘His favourite
residence is in the dark solitudes of deep swamps covered with a growth
of gigantic timber; and here, as soon as the evening draws on, and
mankind retire to rest; he sends forth such sounds as seem scarcely to
belong to this world, startling the solitary pilgrim as he slumbers by
the forest fire:—

                        ‘Making night hideous.’

Along the mountainous shores of the Ohio, and among the deep forests of
Indiana, alone, and reposing in the woods, this ghostly watchman has
frequently warned me of the approach of the morning, and amused me with
its singular exclamations;—sometimes sweeping down and around my fire,
uttering a loud and sudden waugh O! waugh O! sufficient to have alarmed
a whole garrison. He has other nocturnal solos no less melodious, one of
which very much resembles the half-suppressed screams of a person
suffocating or throttled, and which cannot fail of being extremely
entertaining to a lonely or benighted traveller, in the midst of an
Indian wilderness.’”

“Entertaining, does he say?” asked Jane. “I should rather think
terrifying, Uncle Thomas.”

“He speaks ironically,” said Uncle Thomas, “and thinks exactly as you
do. The hooting of the Owl, however, we must not regard as a mere
incident in nature, without any use but that of frightening benighted
travellers. It is one of those wise provisions to assist it in procuring
its prey. As it sits in waiting on some solitary eminence, or pursues
its stealthy flight over the places where it knows they frequent, it
utters its well known, and discordant note. Terrified at the unexpected
presence of their enemy, its prey shrink and endeavour to escape, and it
is ten chances to one if the Owl is close at hand that he discovers them
either by the eye or the ear.

“Some of the larger Owls, such as the Great Tufted one, of whose haunts
I have just read you Wilson’s description, feed on small birds,
Squirrels, Rabbits, and young Partridges, and as they are very voracious
eaters, it is astonishing how many they will destroy. On one occasion a
sportsman fired at a very large one, and broke its wing. He took it home
to a farm house, where, after remaining for several days, it
disappeared, no one could tell how. Almost every day after its
mysterious departure Hens and Chickens also vanished, one by one, in the
same unacountable manner, till in eight or ten days very few were left
remaining. The Fox and the Weasel were alternately the reputed authors
of the mischief, until one morning the old lady of the house, herself,
rising before day to bake, in passing towards the oven surprised her
late prisoner, the Owl, regaling himself on the body of a newly-killed
Hen! The thief instantly made for his hole under the house, from which
the enraged matron soon dislodged him with the brush-handle, and
dispatched him without mercy. In this snug retreat were found the
greater part of the feathers and many very large fragments of her whole
family of Chickens.

“It is only the large Owls, however,” continued Uncle Thomas, “which
prey upon poultry; the lesser ones confine their depredations to the
smaller animals, such as Mice, Rats, &c., and are thus very useful to
mankind in destroying such animals as would otherwise do much mischief
to the crops. Some of the species also feed on fish, a fact as to which
naturalists were long incredulous, on account of the want of adaptation
in the structure of the Owl, as they thought, to capture such a
description of prey. Recent observation has, however, confirmed the fact
beyond a doubt. Not only have they been seen to carry fish to feed their
young, but the bones have frequently been observed close under the nest.
Many years ago the Duchess of Portland had a quantity of gold and silver
fish in a pond in the flower garden at Bulstrode. As the fish were
frequently missed, and suspecting that they were stolen, a watch was
kept in order to detect the thief. He was soon discovered in the shape
of several common brown Owls, which alighted on the side of the pond,
and, waiting the approach of the fish, captured and devoured them. A
naturalist, speaking of this singular habit of the Owl, relates that, on
one occasion, a person standing on a bridge in the twilight of a July
evening, watching an Owl carrying Mice to its nest, was surprised to see
it suddenly drop perpendicularly into the water. Thinking that it had
been seized with a fit, or had met with some unacountable accident, he
ran to the end of the bridge to procure a boat to go to its rescue, but,
before he could do this, he saw the Owl rise out of the water, bearing a
fish in its claws, and convey it to its nest.”

“The Owl must be very clear sighted, indeed, to see a fish in the water
at night,” said Harry.

“The fact is so well established,” said Uncle Thomas, “that it admits of
no doubt. The explanation which some naturalists give of the manner in
which the fish are decoyed towards it is, I admit, a little more
questionable. They suppose that the luminous appearance of its large
bright eyes attract the fish, and that it stares at them till they come
within reach of its beak or talons.”

“I have seen the Cat’s eyes glaring in a dark room,” said Jane; “I
suppose it is something of the same kind, Uncle Thomas.”

“Quite so,” said Uncle Thomas; “and though, from its very great
singularity, the supposition at first startles us, one of the American
Bitterns possesses a power something akin to it. The bird lives almost
entirely on fish, and, when in search of its prey, it is said to decoy
them within reach by a light from its breast of considerable brilliancy,
which is described, by those who have seen it, as equal to the light of
a common torch.”

“But are fish attracted by light?” asked Mary.

“Oh, yes,” said Uncle Thomas; “sportsmen in every country use torches to
take them, spearing them as they come to the surface of the water, to
gaze on the singular and unusual appearance.

“In America,” continued Uncle Thomas, “some species of Owls are very
numerous. A rambler among the forests of the ‘Far West’ says, that it is
almost impossible to travel eight or ten miles in any of the retired
woods there without seeing several of them, even in broad day; and, at
the approach of night, their cries are heard proceeding from every part
of the forest around the plantations. Should the weather be lowering,
and indicate the approach of rain, their cries are so multiplied during
the day, and especially in the evening, and they respond to each other
in tones so strange, that one might imagine some extraordinary fête
about to take place among them. On approaching one of them, its
gesticulations are of a very extraordinary nature. The position of the
bird, which is generally erect, is immediately changed. It lowers its
head and inclines its body, to watch the motions of the person beneath;
throws backward the lateral feathers of the head, which thus has the
appearance of being surrounded by a broad ruff; looks towards him as if
half blind, and moves its head to and fro in so extraordinary a manner
as almost to induce a person to fancy that part dislocated from the
body. It follows all the motions of the intruder with its eyes; and
should it suspect any treacherous intentions, flies off to a short
distance, alighting with its back to the person, and immediately turning
about, with a single jump, to recommence its scrutiny.”

“Another writer,” continued Uncle Thomas, “relates a very amusing story
of the terror of a party of hunters, which shows how strongly
superstitious feelings sometimes affect the mind:—‘The Virginian Horned
Owl,’ says Richardson, ‘is found in almost every quarter of the United
States, and occurs in all parts of the fur countries, where the timber
is of a large size. Its loud and full nocturnal cry, issuing from the
gloomy recesses of the forest, bears some resemblance to the human
voice, uttered in a hollow sepulchral tone, and has been frequently
productive of alarm to the traveller, of which an instance occurred
within my own knowledge. A party of Scottish Highlanders, in the service
of the Hudson’s Bay Company, happened in a winter journey to encamp
after night-fall in a dense clump of trees, whose dark tops and lofty
stems, the growth of centuries, gave a solemnity to the scene that
strongly tended to excite the superstitious feelings of the Highlanders.
The effect was heightened by the discovery of a tomb which, with a
natural taste often exhibited by the Indians, had been placed at this
secluded spot. Our travellers, having finished their supper, were
trimming their fire preparatory to retiring to rest, when the slow and
dismal notes of the Horned Owl fell on the ear with a startling
nearness. None of them being acquainted with the sound, they at once
concluded that so unearthly a voice must be the moaning of the spirit of
the departed, whose repose they supposed they had disturbed, by
inadvertently making a fire of some of the wood of which his tomb had
been constructed. They passed a tedious night of fear, and with the
first dawn of day hastily quitted the ill-omened spot.’”

“Have not all Owls got horns?” asked Mary. “This one,” pointing to one
of the specimens in Uncle Thomas’s collection, “seems to have none.”

[Illustration:

  “The slow and dismal notes of the Horned Owl fell on the ear, with
    startling nearness.”

  Page 112.
]

“No!” said Uncle Thomas; “it is only particular species which are so
ornamented. They are, however, improperly called ‘horns,’ and sometimes
‘ears,’ as the protuberance consists merely of a little bunch of
feathers, without any corresponding configuration of the skull; indeed,
in some species the tuft is imperceptible when the bird is in a state of
repose, but is elevated whenever its attention is excited; so that in a
dead bird it requires a very careful examination to perceive them.

“In ancient times,” continued Uncle Thomas, “the Owl was regarded as the
symbol of wisdom; and in the present day a superstition of the same kind
lingers among the North American Indians. We are told that among the
Creeks the younger priests constantly wear a white mantle, and have a
skin of the Great White Northern Owl cased and stuffed very ingeniously,
so well executed as almost to appear like the living bird, having large
sparkling glass beads, or buttons, fixed in the head for eyes. This
insignia of wisdom and divination they wear sometimes as a crest on the
top of the head, at other times the image sits on the arm, or is borne
in the hand. The bearers are also distinguished from other people by
their taciturnity, grave and solemn countenance, dignified step, and by
their singing to themselves songs or hymns, in a low sweet voice as they
stroll about the town.

“Owls,” continued Uncle Thomas, “have been remarked as showing very
great affection for their young, frequently visiting them and feeding
them long after they have been taken from the nest, and even when placed
in a state of confinement. It is thus that we get glimpses of the
surpassing wisdom and beauty of the works of the Almighty. The whole of
the Owl tribe, as I have already told you, are extremely voracious
feeders; and in the earlier stages of their existence, from the time
that they leave the nest until their powers are sufficiently matured to
enable them to provide entirely for themselves, they must be unable to
procure sufficient food to satisfy their almost insatiable appetite.
Here, then, is both the necessity and the cause for this extraordinary
affection, of which I will by and by give you one or two examples. If
the parent Owls were not endowed with this extraordinary affection, the
young would starve, and the race soon become extinct. A young Owl
having, on one occasion, escaped from the nest before it was fully
fledged, was caught and placed in a hen-coop. To the surprise of the
captors, in the morning a fine young Partridge was found lying dead
before the door of its place of confinement. For fourteen days the same
mark of attention was repeated, the provision sometimes consisting of
one kind, and sometimes of another. Though he well knew whence the
supply proceeded, the gentleman to whom the captured bird belonged kept
watch for several nights, accompanied by his servant, to observe when
and how the supply was brought, but they watched in vain. So long as
they remained at the window nothing was brought, but whenever it was
left for a short time unoccupied, the Owls deposited their provision and
escaped unobserved. This continued till the usual time when the Owls
leave their young to shift for themselves.”

“I suppose if one was to attempt to rob an Owl’s nest of its young, it
would fight very fiercely,” said Harry.

“Some of the species are occasionally very bold in defence of their
nestlings,” said Uncle Thomas; “and, if their territory is invaded,
evince great alarm. A carpenter, some years ago, passing through a field
near Gloucester, was suddenly attacked by an Owl that had a nest in a
tree near the pathway. It flew at his head, and the man struck at it
with his adze that he had in his hand, but missed his blow. The enraged
bird repeated the attack, and fastening her talons in his face,
lacerated him very severely.

“Before I conclude my account of the Owl,” continued Uncle Thomas, “I
must tell you of a very curious experiment made by a gentleman named
Waterton, who lives in Yorkshire. Some years ago he resolved to
establish a colony of Owls, and accordingly had a dwelling made for them
on the ruins of an old gateway. The place was about four feet square, a
nice perch was fixed for them to sit upon, and the ivy which grew round
the gateway was trained to cover and conceal the whole. In about a month
after these preparations were made for their reception, it was duly
examined and fixed upon as a desirable place of residence by a pair of
Barn Owls. Their example was soon followed, and in time not only filled
the ‘ivy mantled tower,’ but extended into the trees in the vicinity.
Mr. Waterton had so constructed the tower that he could see into the
colony without disturbing the Owls, and as they were never injured, they
soon became familiar, showing no symptoms of fear, even when strangers
mounted the ladder to look into their retreat.”

“How very curious!” said Mary.

“Singular it certainly is,” said Uncle Thomas, “but it has other and
better qualities to recommend it. From diligently observing the habits
of the Owls, Mr. Waterton discovered several curious facts connected
with their natural history, which, besides their interest merely as
pieces of information, are very useful, and show the adaptation of the
various parts of the creation to each other. For instance, the Owl is by
many persons deemed a noxious creature, and is hunted and killed
whenever opportunity offers. On the contrary, it is one of the greatest
friends of mankind. Mr. Waterton estimates that when the Owls have their
broods to provide for, they bring to the nest from four to five mice
every hour, so that in the course of a year the quantity of mice
consumed must be immense: how much to the advantage of the farmer’s crop
it is impossible to say. Again, whenever an Owl is discovered near a
pigeon-house, it is immediately attacked and killed, from the idea that
they destroy the young pigeons. Mr. Waterton’s observations show that,
instead of doing damage, they are of great use in freeing such places
from Rats and other vermin, by which they are generally frequented, and
his remarks are confirmed by other observers. A person whose Pigeons
were frequently destroyed laid it to the charge of a pair of Owls which
visited the dove-cot. He accordingly watched, and at last shot one of
the birds as it flew out. On picking it up, however, he was astonished
to find that, instead of a young Pigeon, its prey consisted of a huge
Rat. Mr. Waterton’s experience amounted to this: as soon as the Rats
were excluded from his pigeon-house, the Pigeons rapidly increased in
number, notwithstanding that it continued to be frequented by the Owls,
and they were encouraged all about the place. On one occasion, when he
was seeking to destroy some Rats, he killed a large one as it emerged
from its hole. Expecting to get another shot, he remained still, and
allowed the Rat to lie where it had fallen. In a short time a Barn Owl
pounced upon it and carried it off, though, had it chosen, it might as
readily have flown into the Pigeon-house and feasted on the young brood.

“These instances,” said Uncle Thomas, “are sufficient to show how much
mischief may be done by ignorance of the habits of an animal, and how
useful it is to study the nature of the creatures with which Providence
has surrounded us. We may at all times feel assured that they have been
so placed for our good, and that this good can only be realized by
availing ourselves of, or at least by not counteracting the instincts
and habits with which He has endowed them.”

Uncle Thomas then dismissed his little charges for the evening,
informing them that to-morrow night he would narrate some Tales about
Storks and Cranes, of both of which he had some very interesting
information to communicate.




                              CHAPTER VI.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE HERON, AND ITS PLACE OF RETREAT; AS WELL
      AS ABOUT THE AFFECTION AND GENTLENESS OF THE STORK AND THE CRANE.


“Good Evening, Uncle Thomas! Good Evening!” said each of the little
circle, as on the following evening they drew their chairs around him,
to listen to the Stories which he had promised to tell them about the
Storks and Cranes. They knew from what Uncle Thomas had said, as he bid
them good bye on the previous evening, that he had something curious to
tell them, and although both Mary and Jane had some questions to ask
him, they restrained their curiosity for the present, and Uncle Thomas
began:—

“The Herons, Storks, and Cranes,” said Uncle Thomas, “were formerly
comprehended by the naturalists in one family, but they vary so much in
their habits and structure that they are now generally regarded as
distinct. The Heron stays with us all the year, while the Storks and the
Cranes are birds of passage, most of them never appearing in England at
all. The Heron lives almost entirely on fish, which he watches with
great assiduity, sitting on some solitary place, the very picture of
patience, waiting till an unwary fish comes within its reach, when it
darts its powerful bill at it, and so quick and certain is it in its
movements that it seldom fails to secure its prey.”

“Are Herons found elsewhere than in England?” asked Harry.

“Oh yes,” said Uncle Thomas, “there are a great many varieties, some of
which are to be found in almost every part of the world. They have been
seen in all parts of America; and when some adventurous traveller
penetrates into the wild deserts of Africa, he sees the solitary Heron
sitting in the same watchful attitude on the banks of those unfrequented
rivers and marshes, seeking his prey just as we see them here. They like
those countries most, however, which are covered with tall forests, and
which abound in rivers and stagnant waters, as in those places they can
most readily obtain their food, which they devour in immense quantities.
In the Backwoods of America, accordingly, they are very abundant. Here
is a description of the haunts of the Great Heron, and of his habits,
which will convey more information to you in a few lines than I could
give you in as many pages:—

“Their favourite places for building and rearing their young are
generally in the gloomy solitudes of the tallest cedar swamps, where, if
unmolested, they continue annually to breed for many years. These swamps
are from half a mile to a mile in breadth, and sometimes five or six in
length, and appear as if they occupied the former channel of some
choked-up river, stream, lake, or arm of the sea. The appearance they
present to a stranger is singular: a front of tall and perfectly
straight trunks, rising to the height of fifty or sixty feet, without a
limb, and crowded in every direction, their tops so closely woven
together as to shut out the day, spreading the gloom of a perpetual
twilight below. On a nearer approach they are found to rise out of the
water, which, from the impregnation of the fallen leaves and roots of
the cedars, is of the colour of brandy. Amidst this bottom of
congregated springs, the ruins of the former forest lie piled in every
state of confusion. The roots, prostrate logs, and in many places the
water, are covered with green mantling moss; while an undergrowth of
laurel, fifteen or twenty feet high, intersects every opening so
completely as to render a passage through laborious and harassing beyond
description; at every step you either sink to the knees, clamber over
fallen timber, squeeze yourself through between the stubborn laurels, or
plunge to the middle in ponds made by the uprooting of large trees, and
which the moss concealed from observation. In calm weather the silence
of death reigns in these dreary regions; a few interrupted rays of light
shoot across the gloom; and, unless for the occasional hollow screams of
the Herons, and the melancholy chirping of one or two species of small
birds, all is silence, solitude, and desolation. When a breeze rises, at
first it sighs mournfully through the tops; but, as the gale increases,
the tall, mast-like cedars wave like fishing-poles, and, rubbing against
each other, produce a variety of singular noises, that, with the help of
a little imagination, resemble shrieks, groans, or the growling of
bears, wolves, and such-like comfortable music.

“On the tops of the tallest of these cedars the Herons construct their
nests; ten or fifteen pairs sometimes occupying a particular part of the
swamp. The nests are large, formed of sticks, and lined with smaller
twigs; each occupies the top of a single tree. The eggs are generally
four in number, of an oblong pointed form, larger than those of a Hen,
and of a light greenish blue, without any spots. The young are hatched
about the middle of May, and remain on the trees till they are full as
heavy as the old ones, being extremely fat before they are able to fly.
They breed but once in the season. If disturbed in their breeding place,
the old birds fly occasionally over the spot, sometimes crying like a
Goose, sometimes uttering a coarse hollow grunting noise, like that of a
Hog, but much louder. The Great Heron is said to be fat at the full
moon, and lean at its decrease; this may be accounted for by the fact of
their fishing regularly by moonlight, through the greater part of the
night, as well as during the day. The principal food of the Heron is
fish, for which he watches with the most unwearied patience, and seizes
them with surprising dexterity. At the edge of the river, pond, or
sea-shore, he stands fixed and motionless, sometimes for hours together.
But his stroke is as quick as thought, and as sure as fate to the first
luckless fish that approaches within his reach; these he sometimes beats
to death, and always swallows head foremost. He is also an excellent
mouser, and is of great service in our meadows in destroying the
Short-tailed, or Meadow Mouse, so injurious to the banks. He also feeds
eagerly upon Grasshoppers, and various winged insects, particularly
Dragon-flies, which he is very expert at striking.”

“But there are no such places in England for Herons to frequent, are
there?” asked Harry.

“None exactly answering the description which I have just read,” said
Uncle Thomas; “but there are nevertheless several Heronries in England,
and as they are both rare and ornamental, they are very carefully
preserved. That the Herons still continue in England, and are not quite
extirpated, like some other species which have altogether passed away
before the progress of cultivation, is partly owing to the care of the
proprietors of the heronries, and partly to their own extreme vigilance,
and the determination with which they resist the attacks of their
enemies. A gentleman on one occasion managed to get within shot of a
Heron, which was watching for its prey, wading in the stream a little
above a waterfall. He fired, and wounded the bird, and sent his Dog into
the river, to bring it to land. As soon as the Dog came within its reach
the Heron drew back its head, and struck the Dog with all its force with
its sharp and powerful bill. With such power had this been done, that it
transfixed the poor little Dog; and on the sportsman again firing and
killing the Heron, both it and the Dog floated down the foaming
waterfall.

“They are, moreover,” continued Uncle Thomas, “very kind and
affectionate to their young. Mr. Jesse, a pleasing writer on Natural
History, relates that a young bird having fallen out of a nest, at
Walton-on-Thames, where there is a fine heronry, it was taken away in
the evening by a gentleman, who carried it to his house at some miles
distance, and turned it into a walled garden. The next morning, one of
the old birds was seen to feed it, and continued to do so till the young
one made its escape. This bird must have gone over a very considerable
space of ground in search of the young Heron.”

“What is the difference between a Stork and a Heron?” asked Jane. “We
were looking at a picture of them to-day and did not observe much
difference.”

“In their appearance,” said Uncle Thomas, “there is considerable
similarity; but the Stork is smaller than the Heron, and its habits are
very different. In every country in which the Stork is found it is a
bird of passage, and does not remain stationary like the Heron. Which of
you can tell me in what part of the Bible the migration of the Stork is
mentioned?”

This was rather a puzzling question to Uncle Thomas’s young friends.
They all had seen it, or thought they had, but no one could tell where
it was to be found. Harry and John were quite certain that it occurred
in Genesis, and Mary thought it was in the Psalms; but on Uncle Thomas
telling them that neither was correct, Jane wisely declared her
ignorance of the matter, and Frank declined to offer an opinion.

“Here it is, then,” said Uncle Thomas, “in the Book of Jeremiah, chap.
viii. v. 7, in which the Prophet contrasts the wilful ignorance of his
countrymen with the instinctive knowledge of the Stork. ‘Yea,’ he says,
‘the Stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times, and the Turtle and
the Crane and the Swallow observe the time of their coming; but my
people know not the judgment of the Lord.’”

“In the countries which the Storks inhabit,” continued Uncle Thomas,
“they are most useful birds, performing, to a certain extent, the office
of the Vulture, by consuming such small animals as are left after the
periodical subsidence of the rains with which those countries are
regularly visited, as well as for the quantities of reptiles and other
noxious creatures which they destroy. In Holland, where, from its
flatness and humidity, such animals are very numerous, the Stork is
carefully protected by the inhabitants; and in all the Eastern cities
they look upon it with a feeling little short of veneration, considering
it a sacred bird, which they are forbidden to kill. At Constantinople so
secure are they from molestation that they are said to build their nests
in the streets; but, in other countries, they prefer a lofty situation,
such as the roof of a house, or the steeple of a minaret. A recent
writer describes the scenes of affection which are exhibited during the
breeding season as very interesting. ‘Nothing,’ says he, ‘can be more
pleasing than to view an assemblage of the nests of the Stork. Divided
as they always are into pairs, sometimes only the long elastic neck of
one of them is seen peering from its cradle of nestlings, the male
standing by on one of his long slim legs and watching with every sign of
the closest affection; while other couples on the adjacent walls are
fondly entwining their pliant necks and mixing their long bills; the one
sometimes bending her neck over her back, and burying her head in the
soft plumage, while her companion, clacking his long beak with a
peculiar sharp and monotonous sound, raises her head and embraces it
with a quivering delight; while from the holes and crannies of the walls
below the storks’ nests, thousands of little blue Turtle-doves flit in
all directions, keeping up an incessant cooing by day and night.’”

“Dear kind creatures!” exclaimed Jane, as Uncle Thomas finished the
sentence.

“Kind they certainly are,” said Uncle Thomas, “beyond any thing recorded
of unreasoning animals. The young Storks have often been observed to
lavish the most affectionate and assiduous care on their aged and infirm
parents, when they were no longer able to seek food for themselves; and
so kind and attentive are they to their young, that both parents never
leave the nest at the same time, one of them always remaining to watch
over it during the other’s absence, and steadily keeping its eyes all
the while fixed on its little charge. A great many years ago, a fire
broke out in a house in Holland, on which was built a Stork’s nest
containing a brood of young nestlings unable to fly. On the mother’s
returning laden with food, she discovered the danger which threatened
her offspring, and made several attempts to save them, but finding all
her efforts ineffectual, she at length spread her wings over the nest to
protect them, and in that attitude expired with them in the flames!”

[Illustration:

  “He once saw a tame Stork, frolicking with some children, who were
    playing at ‘hide and seek.’”

  Page 135.
]

“Even when reduced to a state of domestication,” continued Uncle Thomas,
“and excluded from the society of its species, the kindness of the Stork
shows itself towards human beings. A gentleman relates that he once saw
a tame Stork frolicking with some children which were playing at ‘hide
and seek,’ running its turn when touched, and distinguishing the child
whose turn it was to pursue the others so well as to be on its guard as
watchfully as any of its young companions.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have a Stork in our garden, Harry?” asked Jane.

“Yes,” said Harry, “if it would run about like this one; but I want to
hear about the migration of the Stork. It must surely be something
singular, since it is spoken of in the Bible.”

“I do not know that there is any thing peculiar in the migration of the
Stork,” said Uncle Thomas, “or that it displays more instinctive
sagacity in the matter than the ‘Turtle and the Crane and the Swallow,’
with which it is mentioned. Perhaps their abundance in the Holy Land,
and the reverence in which the Stork was held, had some influence on the
Prophet’s language. A traveller in the East says, ‘Returning from Cana
to Nazareth, I saw the fields so filled with flocks of Storks that they
appeared quite white with them; and when they arose, and hovered in the
air, they seemed like clouds.’

“They generally leave their more northerly winter-quarters,” continued
Uncle Thomas, “about the month of July or August. Previous to their
departure, they assemble in large flocks, and appear to hold a
consultation as to their future movements, and sometimes several
meetings take place before they take flight. When they fairly set out,
they mount high into the air; so high as to be invisible to the eye,
unless when passing a ridge of mountains. A traveller tells us of
several flights which he saw passing over Mount Carmel, each of which
extended more than half a mile in breadth, and was upwards of three
hours in passing. Here is a fine poetical description of a meeting of
Storks preparing to migrate:—

          “Where the Rhine loses its majestic force
          In Belgian plains,—won from the raging deep
          By diligence amazing, and the strong
          Unconquerable hand of Liberty,—
          The Stork assembly meets; for many a day
          Consulting deep and various, ere they take
          Their arduous voyage through the liquid sky.
          And now, their route design’d, their leaders chose,
          Their tribes adjusted, clean’d their vigorous wing,
          And many a circle, many a short essay,
          Wheel’d round and round, in congregations full
          The figured flight ascend, and, riding high
          The aerial billows, mixes with the clouds.”

“Is not the Crane a bird of the same sort as the Stork, Uncle Thomas?”
asked Harry.

“It belongs to the same family, the long-legged or stilt-birds,” said
Uncle Thomas, “and their manners and habits are very similar to those of
the Stork. They also are very affectionate birds. A gentleman residing
in England had for some years been possessed of two brown Cranes; one of
them at length died, and the survivor became inconsolable. He was
apparently following his companion, when his master introduced a large
mirror into the aviary. The bird no sooner beheld his reflected image,
than he fancied she for whom he mourned had returned to him; he placed
himself close to the mirror, plumed his feathers, and showed every sign
of happiness. The scheme answered completely, the Crane recovered his
health and spirits, passed almost all his time before the looking-glass,
and lived many years after, at length dying from an accidental injury.

“There is another bird,” said Uncle Thomas, “which some naturalists have
classed with the Cranes, whose long legs and scarlet plumage cause them
to look at a distance like so many soldiers. Mr. Rennie, in his
‘Architecture of Birds,’ mentions that during the French Revolutionary
war, when the English were expected to make a descent upon St. Domingo,
a negro having perceived, at the distance of some miles, in the
direction of the sea, a long file of Flamingos, ranked up and preening
their wings, forthwith magnified them into an army of English soldiers.
Their long necks were mistaken for shouldered muskets, and their scarlet
plumage had suggested the idea of a military costume. The poor fellow
accordingly started off to Gonalves, running through the streets, and
vociferating that the English were come. Upon this alarm the commandant
of the garrison instantly sounded the tocsin, doubled the guards, and
sent out a body of men to reconnoitre the invaders; but he soon found,
by means of his glass, that it was only a troop of red Flamingos, and
the corps of observation marched back to the garrison, rejoicing at
their bloodless expedition. During Captain Owen’s voyage, the officers
found them so numerous on the coast of Africa, that every shoal was
covered with them ‘looking at a distance,’ as they describe them, ‘like
large variegated plains, and upon nearer approach resembling files of
soldiers. When the sun was shining upon them, nothing could surpass the
beauty of their dazzling appearance.’”

“They should be called soldier-birds, I think,” said Jane.

“They deserve the name,” said Uncle Thomas, “as well from their smart
scarlet uniform as from their habits, which seem, from all accounts, to
be strictly military. They assemble into large flocks, and while fishing
or reposing they form themselves into long lines of regular rank and
file, and post sentinels, whose duty it is to give the alarm in case of
danger. If any thing suspicious attracts the attention of these watchful
guardians, they utter a loud trumpet-like cry, and the whole body
marches off in regular order.

“There are two other peculiarities about the Flamingo,” continued Uncle
Thomas, “of which I must not fail to tell you, they differ so much from
those of any other bird. The one is in the construction of the bill,
which is crooked in such an extraordinary manner as at first sight to
seem a deformity, and to excite wonder as to the mode in which the
animal feeds. The wonder soon ceases, however, when we see it in the act
of scooping up its food, which consists of the spawn of fishes and other
soft substances. It turns its head quite round, so as to have the crown
close to the ground, and thus converts its upper mandible into a sort of
spoon, which its long and flexible neck easily enables it to do. So
serviceable, indeed, is its long neck to it, that on one occasion, when
a Flamingo had its leg broken, it continued to walk about by using its
neck as a crutch!”

“Oh, indeed!” said Harry; “how very odd! What a strange figure it would
be!”

“The other peculiarity to which I alluded,” said Uncle Thomas, “is in
the construction of its nest, which, instead of being built in a tree,
or some elevated place, like the Storks and Herons, is generally
constructed on the ground; but as the long legs of the bird would, if it
were quite close to the ground, be constantly in the way, it heaps up a
quantity of mud and earth into a conical shape, and places its nest on
the top, so that, when sitting on the nest, its legs hang on each side
without inconvenience.”

“A most singular contrivance, indeed!” said Harry.

“And a most wise one, too,” said Uncle Thomas, “when we consider, that
in the creature’s haunts it would have the greatest difficulty, if it
did not find it altogether impossible, to fall in with a tree or bush of
sufficient height to place its nest upon. But I must stop for the
evening. To-morrow I mean to tell you about another long-legged bird,
but one differing very much from those which we have spoken of to-night,
both in its haunts and its habits; and we shall see, too, how God has
adapted it for the station in which He has placed it. So, good night.”

“Good night, Uncle Thomas!”




                              CHAPTER VII.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT SOME INTERESTING PECULIARITIES IN THE HABITS
      OF THE OSTRICH AND THE EMU, AS WELL AS ABOUT THOSE OF THE TURKEY
      IN ITS NATIVE FORESTS.


“Good evening, Uncle Thomas!” said half-a-dozen little voices at once,
as the party burst into the room. They had been romping as they came
along the pleasant green lane leading to Uncle Thomas’s cottage, and,
fond as they were of his Stories, it was some time before they could
settle down to listen to his account of the Ostrich.

When, at length, order was sufficiently established, Uncle Thomas began.
“The Ostrich,” he said, “is one of the most singular of birds, whether
we regard its structure or habits. Though possessing wings, like other
birds, it never flies, but, as it runs rapidly across the plains, it
uses them to assist its speed. It inhabits the barren deserts of Africa,
and the adaptation of the animal to the mode of life for which it is
intended is one of the most striking proofs of God’s superintending
care, the comprehensiveness of which is such, that we are assured that
not even a sparrow falls to the ground without His knowledge and
consent.

“Though, from the shyness of the animal,” continued Uncle Thomas, “and
the difficulty of watching its habits in a state of nature, less is
known of them than could be wished, we still know enough to cause us to
wonder and admire. It feeds on the stunted herbage of the desert, and
has sometimes to pass over long ranges of sterile plains in search of
food. It builds no nest, but merely hollows out a place in the sand and
deposits its eggs; not, however, to leave them entirely, as has been
sometimes said, to be hatched by the fostering heat of the sun. During
the day, when the heat is very powerful, and the sun beats directly into
the nest, there is no necessity for her remaining to cover them, as they
thus derive quite as much warmth as she could impart, or is useful.
Besides, from the cause already explained, the Ostrich is often under
the necessity of absenting herself for considerable periods in search of
food; but no sooner does the evening set in, than she hastens to resume
her place on the nest, and sits patiently till the bright sunshine of
another day sets her again at liberty.

“A traveller in Africa, who had an opportunity of observing the Ostrich,
says that it runs as rapidly as a good saddle-horse at full speed; and a
philosophical writer, speaking of the providential arrangements of
nature, says, ‘There is not in the whole range of nature a more
beautiful instance of adaptation than that which subsists between the
Ostrich and the desert. The desert is a singular locality in nature, and
the Ostrich is singularly formed and fitted for the severe labour which
it has there to encounter. In its walking structure this bird is not
excelled by any animal, even by those swift Antelopes which are her near
neighbours. We find, too, that wherever one species of action is
required, in a very high degree, the organization of the animal is in a
great measure concentrated upon that. Flight would have been of
comparatively little use to such a bird, in the situation in which it
has been placed by nature. Wings for flight, to bear up so weighty a
bird as the Ostrich in swift motion through the air, would have demanded
a waste of muscular exertion, for the supply of which sufficient food
could not have been found in the Ostrich’s country. Besides, wings would
have been of no use in the desert, because there is nothing there which
a vegetable feeding bird could catch upon the wing, and the height of
the Ostrich is quite sufficient to reach the top of the tallest
vegetable in her pastures. There is, therefore, a very fine instance of
economy in the wings of the Ostrich being so little developed, as that
they are useful for flight, because this enables the whole power of the
bird, in so far as motion is concerned, to be concentrated upon the
legs, and the muscles by which these are moved.’

“A very interesting story,” continued Uncle Thomas, “is told of the
affection of a pair of Ostriches which were formerly in the Jardin du
Roi, at Paris. The sky-light in the roof of the apartment in which they
were kept having been broken, the glaziers proceeded to repair it, and,
in the course of their work, let fall a triangular piece of glass. Not
long after this, the female ostrich was taken ill, and died after an
hour or two of great agony. The body was opened, and the throat and
stomach were found to have been dreadfully lacerated by the sharp
corners of the glass which she had swallowed. From the moment his
companion was taken from him, the male bird had no rest; he appeared to
be incessantly searching for something, and daily wasted away. He was
removed from the spot, in the hope that he would forget his grief; he
was even allowed more liberty, but in vain, and he literally pined
himself to death.”

“Are Ostriches very strong birds?” asked Jane.

“So strong,” said Uncle Thomas, “that when caught and tamed by the
natives of Africa, they sometimes mount the children on their backs, and
the Ostriches run about quite easily with their burdens. Here is a print
of a scene of this kind, in which the little riders and their fond mamas
seem highly pleased with the amusement.”

“Oh, delightful!” cried Jane.

“It is said,” continued Uncle Thomas, “that one of the ancient Egyptian
monarchs had a chariot drawn by Ostriches; and such is their power of
limb, that they can readily lay a Dog prostrate by a single blow.”

“But they are very stupid birds, are they not?” asked Harry. “When about
to be taken by their pursuers, they thrust their heads into the bushes,
expecting that, as they do not see their enemy, he may not be able to
see them.”

[Illustration:

  “Children mount on their backs, and the Ostriches run about quite
    easily with their burdens.”

  Page 148.
]

“I know that such an impression exists,” said Uncle Thomas; “but it is
an erroneous one. Like many other fabulous tales, however, this seems to
retain its hold on the public mind, even in spite of the great increase
of our knowledge within the last few years.”

“Oh!” cried Jane, who, during the conversation which we have just
recorded, had been turning over the pages of the book from which Uncle
Thomas read the extract about the adaptation of the Ostrich to the
locality in which it is found. “See here!” pointing to the figure of an
Emu; “here is a very singular bird; I thought at first it was an
Ostrich; it is very like one!”

“No, my dear,” said Uncle Thomas, “that is the Emu; a bird which in some
measure resembles the Ostrich, but it is only found in New Holland. If
you compare it with the figure of an Ostrich, you will find that it
differs considerably. Its legs are shorter, its body not so handsome in
its form, and its feet has three toes, while that of the Ostrich has two
only. There are, besides, some other points of dissimilarity.

“The Emu,” continued Uncle Thomas, “inhabits the plains and ‘bushes’ of
Australia, but so numerous are the enemies by which they are now
surrounded,—settlers, bushmen, Wolves, and Wild-Dogs, that the race
seems threatened with extirpation. Not only are their eggs reckoned good
food, but some parts of their flesh, though not highly prized, is still
palatable. Besides their swiftness, in which they resemble the Ostrich,
they kick with great vigour; and are thus able to defend themselves
against the Dingo or native Dog, but the trained one, which is brought
to attack them on the side, is almost certain of victory.

“There is a curious provision of nature,” continued Uncle Thomas, “in
the construction of this bird, consisting of an internal pouch,
connected with the windpipe, the use of which long puzzled naturalists.
At length some one more ingenious than his neighbours, or better
acquainted with the animal’s habits, solved the difficulty by pointing
out that it was intended to enable it to escape from the inundations to
which the plains of New Holland are particularly liable, and without
which provision the heaviness of the Emu would probably cause it to sink
and be drowned.”

“How can it prevent it from sinking?” asked Mary.

“Pretty much in the same manner,” said Uncle Thomas, “as fishes are
enabled at pleasure to rise to the surface of the water. Fishes, you
know, are furnished with what is called an air-bladder, which they have
the power of filling and emptying at pleasure; when they wish to sink
they force out the air, and their bodies being thus rendered
specifically heavier than water, descend; and on the contrary, when they
wish to rise, by inflating it they ascend. The ‘air-bladder,’ if I may
so call it, of the Emu acts much in the same way. As the animal walks
about it is, of course, of no use, and is allowed to remain empty; but,
whenever it is threatened with drowning it is inflated, and the Emu is
thus enabled to float with its head above the surface of the water.

“Mr. Jesse gives an account of a singular peculiarity in the habits of
the Emu,” continued Uncle Thomas, “so contrary to the usual operations
of Nature, that I am inclined to suppose it a mere accidental
circumstance; it is this:—‘The only instance,’ he says, ‘which I have
met with in which the hen bird has not the chief care in hatching and
bringing up the young is in the case of the Emu at the farm belonging to
the Zoological Society, near Kingston. A pair of these birds have now
five young ones: the female, at different times, dropped nine eggs in
various places in the pen in which she was confined. These were
collected in one place by the male, who rolled them gently and carefully
along with his beak. He then sat upon them himself, and continued to do
so with the utmost assiduity for nine weeks, during which time the
female never took his place, nor was he ever observed to leave the nest.
When the young were hatched, he alone took charge of them, and has
continued to do so ever since, the female not appearing to notice them
in any way. On reading this anecdote, many persons would suppose that
the female Emu was not possessed of that natural affection for its young
which other birds have. In order to rescue it from this supposition I
will mention that a female Emu, belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, at
Chiswick, lately laid some eggs; and as there was no male bird, she
collected them together herself and sat upon them.’”

“That is a very curious circumstance,” said Frank, “do you think the
birds do so in their native haunts?”

“I should think not,” said Uncle Thomas. “I once heard a similar
instance of a Turkey-cock hatching a brood of young. On one occasion, a
female Turkey belonging to a gentleman in Sweden was sitting upon eggs,
and as the cock in her absence began to appear uneasy and dejected, he
was shut up with her. He immediately sat down by her side; and it was
soon found that he had taken some eggs from under her, which he covered
very carefully. The eggs were put back under the female, but he soon
afterwards took them again. This induced the owner, by way of
experiment, to have a nest made, and as many eggs put in it as it was
thought the Turkey-cock could conveniently cover. The bird seemed highly
pleased with this mark of confidence; he sat with great patience on the
eggs, and was so attentive to the care of hatching them, as scarcely to
afford himself time to take the food necessary for his support. At the
usual period, twenty-eight young ones were produced; and the cock, who
was in some measure the parent of this numerous offspring, appeared
perplexed on seeing so many little creatures pecking around him, and
requiring his care.”

“Does the Turkey come from New Holland as well as the Emu?” asked Mary.

“The Turkey,” said Uncle Thomas, “is a native of North America, and was
unknown to Europeans before the discovery of that country. In some parts
of America, however, it is now quite extinct as a wild bird, being only
found in a state of domestication; but in the more western parts, where
the native forests exist, it is still plentiful. The best account of the
Turkey in its native haunts is that afforded by Prince Lucien
Buonaparte, which Harry will have the goodness to read to us:—

“The wild Turkeys do not confine themselves to any particular kind of
food; they eat maize, all sorts of berries, fruits, grasses, Beetles,
and even Tadpoles; young Frogs and Lizards are occasionally found in
their crops; but when the pecan nut is plentiful, they prefer that fruit
to any other nourishment. Their more general predilection is, however,
for the acorn, on which they rapidly fatten. When an unusually profuse
crop of acorns is produced in a particular section of country, great
numbers of Turkeys are enticed from their ordinary haunts in the
surrounding districts. About the beginning of October, while the mast
still remains on the trees, they assemble in flocks, and direct their
course to the rich bottom lands. At this season they are observed in
great numbers in the Ohio and Mississippi. The time of this irruption is
known to the Indians by the name of the _Turkey month_.

“The male Turkeys, usually termed _gobblers_, associate in parties,
numbering from ten to a hundred, and seek their food apart from the
females; whilst the latter either move about singly with their young,
then nearly two-thirds grown, or, in company with other females and
their families, form troops, sometimes consisting of seventy or eighty
individuals, all of whom are intent on avoiding the old males, who,
whenever opportunity offers, attack and destroy the young, by repeated
blows on the skull. All parties, however, travel in the same direction,
and on foot, unless they are compelled to seek their individual safety
by flying from the hunter’s-Dog, or their march is impeded by a large
river. When about to cross a river, they select the highest eminences,
that their flight may be the more certain; and here they sometimes
remain for a day or more, as if for the purpose of consultation, or to
be duly prepared for so hazardous a voyage. During this time the males
gobble obstreperously, and strut with extraordinary importance, as if
they would animate their companions, and inspire them with the utmost
degree of hardihood; the females and young also assume much of the
pompous air of the males, the former spreading their tails, and moving
silently around. At length the assembled multitude mount to the tops of
the highest trees, whence, at a signal note from a leader, the whole
together wing their way towards the opposite shore. All the old and fat
ones cross without difficulty, even when the river exceeds a mile in
width; but the young, meagre, and weak, frequently fall short of the
desired landing, and are forced to swim for their lives. This they do
dexterously enough, spreading their tails for a support, closing their
wings to the body, stretching the neck forwards, and striking out
quickly and forcibly with their legs. If, in thus endeavouring to regain
the land, they approach an elevated or inaccessible bank, their
exertions are remitted, they resign themselves to the stream for a short
time, in order to gain strength, and then with one violent effort escape
from the water. But in this attempt all are not successful; some of the
weaker, as they cannot rise sufficiently high in air to clear the bank,
fall again and again into the water, and thus miserably perish.
Immediately after the Turkeys have succeeded in crossing a river, they
for some time ramble about without any apparent unanimity of purpose,
and a great many are destroyed by the hunters, although they are then
least valuable.

“When the Turkeys have arrived in their land of abundance, they disperse
in small flocks, composed of individuals of all sexes and ages
intermingled, who devour all the mast as they advance: this occurs about
the middle of November. It has been observed that, after these long
journeys, the Turkeys become so familiar as to venture on the
plantations, and even approach so near the farm-houses as to enter the
stables and corn cribs in search of food; in this way they pass the
autumn, and part of the winter. During this season great numbers are
killed by the inhabitants, who preserve them in a frozen state, in order
to transport them to a distant market.

“Early in March they begin to pair; and, for a short time previous, the
females separate from, and shun their mates, though the latter
pertinaciously follow them, uttering their gobbling note. The sexes
roost apart, but at no great distance, so that, when the female utters a
call every male within hearing responds, rolling note after note, in the
most rapid succession; not as when spreading the tail and strutting near
the hen, but in a voice resembling that of the tame Turkey, when he
hears any unusual or frequently repeated noise. When the Turkeys are
numerous, the woods from one end to the other, sometimes for hundreds of
miles, resound with this remarkable voice of their wooing, uttered
responsively from their roosting-places. This is continued for about an
hour; and, on the rising of the sun, they instantly descend from their
perches, and the males begin to strut, for the purpose of winning the
admiration of their mates.

“If the call be given from the ground, the males in the vicinity fly
towards the individual, and, whether they perceive her or not, erect and
spread their tails, throw the head backwards, distend the comb and
wattles, strut pompously and rustle their wings and body feathers, at
the same moment ejecting a puff of air from the lungs. Whilst thus
occupied, they occasionally halt to look out for the female, and then
resume their strutting and puffing, moving with as much rapidity as the
nature of their gait will admit. During this ceremonious approach, the
males often encounter each other, and desperate battles ensue, when the
conflict is only terminated by the flight or death of the vanquished.

“About the middle of April, when the weather is dry, the female selects
a proper place in which to deposit her eggs, secure from the
encroachment of water, and, as far as possible, concealed from the
watchful eye of the Crow. This crafty bird espies the hen going to her
nest, and, having discovered the precious deposit, waits for the absence
of the parent, and removes every one of the eggs from the spot, that he
may devour them at leisure. The nest is placed on the ground, either on
a dry ridge, in the fallen top of a dead leafy tree, under a thicket of
sumach or briars, or by the side of a log; it is of a very simple
structure, being composed of a few dried leaves. In this receptacle the
eggs are deposited, sometimes to the number of twenty, but more usually
from nine to sixteen; they are whitish, spotted with reddish brown, like
that of the domestic bird. Their manner of building, number of eggs,
period of incubation, &c., appear to correspond throughout the Union, as
I have received exactly similar accounts from the northern limits of the
Turkey range to the most southern limits of Florida, Louisiana, and the
western wilds of Missouri.

“The female always approaches her nest with great caution, varying her
course so as rarely to reach it twice by the same route; and on leaving
her charge, she is very careful to cover the whole with dry leaves, with
which she conceals it so artfully as to make it extremely difficult,
even for one who has watched her movements, to indicate the exact spot;
hence few nests are found, and these are generally discovered by
fortuitously starting the female from them, or by the appearance of
broken shells, scattered around by some cunning Lynx, Fox, or Crow. When
laying or sitting, the Turkey hen is not easily driven from her post by
the approach of apparent danger; but if an enemy appears, she crouches
as low as possible, and suffers it to pass. A circumstance related by
Mr. Audubon will show how much intelligence they display on such
occasions: having discovered a sitting hen, he remarked that, by
assuming a careless air, whistling, or talking to himself, he was
permitted to pass within five or six feet of her; but if he advanced
cautiously, she would not suffer him to come within twenty paces, but
ran off twenty or thirty yards with her tail expanded, when, assuming a
stately gait, she paused on every step, occasionally uttering a chuck.
They seldom abandon their nests on account of being discovered by a man,
but should a Snake, or any other animal, suck one of the eggs, the
parent leaves them altogether. If the eggs be removed, or destroyed, she
again commences laying, although otherwise she lays but one nest of eggs
during the season. Several Turkey hens sometimes associate, perhaps for
mutual safety, deposit their eggs in the same nest, and rear their
broods together.

“When the process of incubation is ended, and the mother is about to
retire from the nest with her young brood, she shakes herself violently,
pecks and adjusts the feathers about the belly, and assumes a different
aspect; her eyes are alternately inclined obliquely upwards and
sideways; she stretches forth her neck, in every direction, to discover
birds of prey or other enemies; her wings are partially spread, and she
softly chucks to keep her tender offspring close to her side. They
proceed slowly, and, as the hatching generally occurs in the afternoon,
they sometimes return to pass the first night in the nest. While very
young, the mother leads them to elevated dry places, as if aware that
humidity during the first few days of their life would be very dangerous
to them, they having then no other protection than a delicate, soft,
hairy down. In very rainy seasons wild Turkeys are scarce, because, when
completely wetted, the young rarely survive.

“At the expiration of about two weeks, the young leave the ground on
which they had previously reposed at night under the female, and follow
her to some low branch of a tree, where they nestle under the broadly
curved wings of their vigilant and fostering parent. The time then
approaches in which they seek the open ground or prairie land, during
the day, in search of strawberries, and subsequently of dewberries,
blackberries, and Grasshoppers; thus securing a plentiful food, and
enjoying the influence of the genial sun. They frequently dust
themselves in shallow cavities of the soil or on ant-hills, in order to
clean off the loose skin of their growing feathers, and rid themselves
of ticks and other vermin. The young Turkeys now grow rapidly, and in
the month of August, when several broods flock together, and are led by
their mothers to the forest, they are stout and quite able to secure
themselves from the unexpected attacks of Wolves, Foxes, Lynxes, and
even Cougars, by rising quickly from the ground, aided by their strong
legs, and reaching with ease the upper limbs of the tallest tree.
Amongst the numerous enemies of the Wild Turkey, the most dreaded are
the large diurnal and nocturnal birds of prey, and the Lynx, who sucks
their eggs, and is extremely expert at seizing both parent and young: he
follows them for some distance in order to ascertain their course, and
then, making a rapid circular movement, places himself in ambush before
them, and waits until, by a single bound, he can fasten on his victim.

“Turkeys are very watchful birds, and act as guardians of each other;
the first who observes a Hawk, Eagle, or other enemy, giving a note of
alarm, on which all within hearing lie close on the ground. As they
usually roost in flocks, perched on the naked branches of trees, they
are easily discovered by the large Owls, and when attacked by these
prowling birds, often escape by a somewhat remarkable manœuvre. The Owl
sails around the spot to select his prey; but notwithstanding the almost
inaudible action of his pinions, the quick ear of one of the slumberers
perceives the danger, which is immediately announced to the whole party
by a _chuck_; thus alarmed, they rise on their legs and watch the
motions of the Owl, who, darting like an arrow, would inevitably secure
the individual at which he aimed, did not the latter suddenly drop his
head, squat, and spread his tail over his back; the Owl then glances
over without inflicting any injury, and at the very instant that the
Turkey suffers himself to fall headlong towards the earth, when he is
secure from his dreaded enemy.”

“Thank you, Harry!” said Uncle Thomas. “We shall now stop for the
evening; but before you go, I must tell you of a little adventure with a
Lynx, which happened to a gentleman who was enjoying the sport of
Turkey-shooting:—‘Having seen a large flock of Turkeys at some
distance,’ says he, ‘I approached them with great caution, when singling
out a large cock, and being just on the point of firing, I observed that
several young cocks were affrighted, and, in their language warned the
rest to be on their guard against an enemy, who I plainly perceived was
industriously making his subtle approaches towards them, behind the
fallen trunk of a tree, about twenty yards from me. This cunning
fellow-hunter was a large Wild-cat or Lynx; he saw me, and at times
seemed to watch my motions, as if determined to seize the delicious prey
before me, upon which I changed my object, and levelled my piece at him.
At this instant my companion, at a distance, also discharged his gun,
the report of which alarmed the flock of Turkeys, and my fellow-hunter,
the Lynx, sprang over the log, and trotted off.’”

[Illustration:

  “He seemed to watch my motions, as if determined to seize the
    delicious prey.”

  Page 168.
]




                             CHAPTER VIII.

  UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT PARROTS, THEIR SEEMING INTELLIGENCE, AND
      RELATES SEVERAL CURIOUS STORIES OF THEIR POWER OF IMITATING THE
      HUMAN VOICE.


“To-night,” said Uncle Thomas, on the following evening, “I am going to
tell you about a family of Birds, which, from the splendour of their
plumage, and the ease with which they can be taught to imitate the human
voice, have continued to be great favourites ever since their
introduction into Europe.”

“Oh! it is Parrots you mean, I suppose, Uncle Thomas!” said Jane.

“It is so, Jane,” said Uncle Thomas; “and I have many very curious
stories to tell you about them.”

“Where do Parrots come from?” asked Mary.

“They are found in all the tropical countries,” said Uncle Thomas; “in
the West Indies, in Africa, in the Islands of the Pacific and Indian
Oceans, and one species is a native of America. There are a great many
varieties which are known by the names of Parrots, Macaws, Cockatoos,
Parrakeets, Lories, &c., but notwithstanding the favour which is shown
to them when domesticated, very little is known of their habits in a
wild state. This arises in a great measure from the nature of their
places of resort. They chiefly inhabit the luxuriant forests of the
tropics, feeding on the nuts and berries, of which there exists an
everlasting succession; but so luxuriant is the growth of the vegetable
kingdom in these regions, that the forests are in most cases quite
impenetrable by man. Many of the most luxuriant, indeed, grow in
marshes, so as to be quite inaccessible, and in all of them the
exhalations, which are constantly given out by decaying vegetable
matter, renders the air pestilent to human beings; and should a
traveller attempt to explore them, he would never return to publish the
tale of his adventures.”

“Do they talk as they fly about in a wild state?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Uncle Thomas, “they do not; that is entirely the effect of
education. Their native cry is harsh and discordant, and has been not
inaptly called a scream. It is their faculty of imitation which enables
them to utter words and phrases in tones so like the human voice as to
be readily mistaken for it. Many curious stories are told of their
powers in this way, and some of them would almost lead us to believe
that the creature was endowed with human intelligence. Mr. Jesse was so
surprised by what he saw and heard of one at Hampton Court, that he
requested the sister of its owner to furnish him with some particulars
respecting it. Here they are in her own words:—

“As you wished me to write down whatever I could collect about my
sister’s wonderful Parrot, I proceed to do so, only premising that I
will tell you nothing but what I can vouch for having myself heard. Her
laugh is quite extraordinary, and it is impossible to help joining in it
oneself, more especially, when in the midst of it she cries out, ‘don’t
make me laugh so, I shall die, I shall die,’ and then continues laughing
more violently than before. Her crying and sobbing are curious, and if
you say ‘Poor Poll, what is the matter?’ she says, ‘So bad, so bad, got
such a cold,’ and after crying for some time, will gradually cease, and
making a noise like drawing a long breath, say ‘better now,’ and begin
to laugh.

“The first time I ever heard her speak was one day when I was talking to
the maid, at the bottom of the stairs, and heard what I then considered
to be a child call out, ‘Payne (the maid’s name), I am not well, I’m not
well!’ And on my saying, ‘What is the matter with that child?’ she
replied, ‘It is only the Parrot, she always does so when I leave her
alone, to make me come back;’ and so it proved, for on her going into
the room, the Parrot stopped, and then began laughing quite in a jeering
way.

“It is singular, that whenever she is affronted in any way she begins to
cry, and when pleased, to laugh. If any one happens to cough or sneeze,
she says, ‘What a bad cold.’ One day when the children were playing with
her, the maid came into the room, and on their repeating to her several
things which the Parrot had said, Poll looked up, and said quite
plainly, ‘No I didn’t.’ Sometimes when she is inclined to be
mischievous, the maid threatens to beat her, and she often says, ‘No you
won’t.’ She calls the Cat very plainly, ‘Puss, Puss,’ and then answers,
‘_Mew_;’ but the most amusing part is, that whenever I want to make her
call it, and to that purpose say, ‘Puss, Puss,’ myself, she always
answers, ‘_Mew_,’ till I begin mewing, and then she begins calling
‘Puss’ as quick as possible. She imitates every kind of noise, and barks
so naturally, that I have known her to set all the Dogs on the parade at
Hampton Court barking, and I dare say, if the truth was known, wondering
what was barking at them! and the consternation I have seen her cause in
a party of Cocks and Hens by her crowing and chuckling has been the most
ludicrous thing possible. She sings just like a child, and I have more
than once thought it was a human being; and it is most ridiculous to
hear her make what we should call a false note, and then say, ‘Oh la!’
and burst out laughing at herself, beginning again quite in another key.
She is very fond of singing, ‘Buy a Broom,’ which she says quite
plainly; but, in the same spirit as in calling the Cat, if we may say,
with a view to make her repeat it, ‘Buy a broom,’ she always says ‘Buy a
_brush_,’ and then laughs as a child might do when mischievous. She
often performs a kind of exercise which I do not know how to describe,
except by saying that it is like the lance exercise. She puts her claw
behind her, first on one side and then on the other, then in front, and
round over her head, and whilst doing so, keeps saying, ‘Come on, come
on!’ and when finished, says ‘Bravo, beautiful!’ and draws herself up.
Before I was as well acquainted with her as I am now, she would stare in
my face for some time, and then say, ‘How d’ye do, Ma’am?’ this she
invariably does to strangers. One day, I went into the room where she
was, and said, to try her, ‘Poll, where is Payne gone?’ and to my
astonishment, and almost dismay, she said, ‘Down stairs.’

“That looks very much as if it understood what was said to it,” remarked
Harry.

“It does so,” said Uncle Thomas; “and can only be accounted for by
supposing it to be one of those curious coincidences which sometimes
surprise us. I can, however, tell you a story in which, though the
Parrots could only utter a couple of phrases each, they used them as
naturally as if they had a whole vocabulary at command:—

“A tradesman who had a shop in the Old Bailey, opposite the prison, kept
two Parrots, the one green, and the other grey. The green Parrot was
taught to speak when there was a knock at the street door; the grey put
in his word whenever the bell was rung; but they only knew two short
phrases of English a-piece, though they pronounced these very
distinctly. The house in which their owner lived had a projecting
old-fashioned front, so that the first floor could not be seen from the
pavement on the same side of the way; and one day when they were left at
home by themselves, hanging out of a window, some one knocked at the
street door. “Who’s there?” said the green Parrot, in the exercise of
his office. “The man with the leather!” was the reply; to which the bird
answered with his farther store of language, “Oh, ho!” The door not
being opened immediately as he expected, the stranger knocked a second
time. “Who’s there?” said the green Parrot again.—“Who’s there!” said
the man with the leather, flying into a passion, ‘Why don’t you come
down?’ to which the Parrot again made answer, ‘Oh, ho!’ This response so
enraged the visitor that he dropped the knocker and rang furiously at
the house bell; but this proceeding brought the grey Parrot, who called
out in a new voice, ‘Go to the gate.’—‘To the gate?’ muttered the
appellant, who saw no such convenience, and imagined that the servants
were bantering him. ‘What gate?’ cried he, getting out into the kennel,
that he might have the advantage of seeing who it was that spoke to him.
‘Newgate,’ responded the grey Parrot, just at the moment when his
species was discovered.

“Capital!” said Frank, laughing.

“So you see, Frank,” said Uncle Thomas, “that the appropriate answers
given by Parrots are not always the result of intelligence.

“Perhaps the most celebrated Parrot,” continued Uncle Thomas, “whose
sayings and doings figure in history, is one—a blue Macaw—which belonged
to the late Dr. Thornton, who bought it for fifteen guineas, to grace
his museum. When in a confined exhibition-room in Bond-street, where it
was kept chained by the leg, it made those screaming noises so offensive
in its tribe, and seemed sulky and unhappy; but being brought to the
doctor’s house (his botanical exhibition having closed), from motives of
humanity, the chain was removed that confined it to its perch. At first
its feet were so cramped, and the muscles so much weakened from long
disuse, that it could not walk. It tottered at every step, and appeared,
in a few minutes only, greatly fatigued. Its liberated feet, however,
soon acquired uncommon agility, its plumage grew more resplendent, and
it became completely happy. It no longer indulged in screams of
discontent, and all its gestures denoted gratitude. Its food, was now
changed, it breakfasted with the family, having toast and butter; and
dined upon potatoes, hard dumplings, with fruit occasionally after
dinner. Like other Parrots, it never drank. Its sense of smell was
uncommonly quick. It soon learned to know the time of meals, which it
marked by a continued agitation of the wings, and anxiously running up
and down its pole.

“When it received food it half opened its wings, and contracted the
pupils of its eyes, and uttered a pleasing note of thankfulness. If it
got any food of which it was not very fond, it held it in his left foot,
and having eaten a little, threw the rest down; but if the food was nice
and abundant, it carefully conveyed it to its tin reservoir, and left
for another repast that which it could not immediately consume. It soon
forgot its barbarous sounds, and imitated words; and for hours together
amused itself by saying, ‘Poll,’—‘Macaw,’—‘Turn him out,’—‘Pretty
fellow,’—‘Saucy fellow,’—‘What’s o’clock,’ laughing, and calling out the
names of the doctor’s children. If any of them were hurt, it gave the
first alarm; nor did it desist until they were attended to. The doctor’s
son, observing the sagacity of this bird, undertook to instruct it. He
taught it at the word of command to descend from its perch and stand
upon his finger; then, by another order, it turned itself downwards, and
hung upon the fore-finger by one foot, although the body was swung about
with considerable violence. Being asked how a bad person should be
served? it seized its master’s finger, suspended itself by its bill,
like one hanging. At the command of its master it extended his wings to
show their beauty. It would then fan the spectators with his wings; it
was next put on the ground, and walked as readily backwards as forwards,
with its two toes in front, and two behind. It would then clamber like a
sailor up the mizen-mast and with its two open mandibles embraced its
perch, which was nearly two inches in thickness. Placed there, it was
asked—if a certain gentleman were to come near him, how he should be
served? It shook its head several times, raised its wings, erected its
feathers and opening its mouth, laid hold of a finger, seemingly in
earnest, and kept biting it, as though it would have taken it off,
opposing every resistance; and when it liberated the finger, uttered a
scream. It was then asked how it would serve its master?—when it would
silently bite his finger, caress it with its beak and tongue, and hold
its head down, as expecting it to be scratched. Nor is this all: a nut
being given to it, while on the lower part of his stand, it mounted the
upright stick, and the nut disappeared without the spectator being able
to tell how. At the word of command it presented the nut to the company,
held it in its paw, and then cracked it. It had been taught to conceal
the nut under its tongue, in the hollow of the under mandible. When a
peach-stone was given to it, it found out its natural division, and by
repeated efforts contrived to open it and eat the kernel. When nuts were
presented to it, it became agitated, and had so much sagacity that,
without cracking, when it took up a bad nut, it very indignantly threw
it on the ground. It was remarkably fond of music; and with motions of
its feet along the perch, movements of its wings, and its head moving
backwards and forwards, it danced to all lively tunes, and kept exact
time. If, however, any person sung or played in wrong measure it quickly
desisted.

“This interesting animal was very friendly to strangers, but put on a
terrific appearance towards children, and was very jealous of infants.
In rainy weather the blue feathers looked green; and also in clear
weather when there were vapours in the sky; hence it was an admirable
weather-gauge. What proved a peculiar sagacity in its imitations was,
that these it effected sometimes without its voice: for example, there
was a scissors-grinder who came into the street, where the bird was
kept, every Friday. All Parrots have a file in the inside of the upper
mandible, with which they grind down the under bill, and in this they
are employed for an hour every evening. This sound people usually
mistake for snoring. This scraping was attempted, but its nice ear
marked the difference, and had recourse to his claws, which it struck
against the perch, armed with tin, and, observing the time of the
turning of the wheel, it effected a most exact imitation, which it
repeated every Friday.”

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.


                                THE END.




            Clarke, Printers, Silver Street, Falcon Square.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               BINGLEY’S

                    ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR CHILDREN,

                    Uniform with the present Volume.


  1. STORIES ABOUT DOGS, illustrative of their Sagacity and Fidelity. By
        THOMAS BINGLEY. With Engravings after LANDSEER. Price 4_s._,
        neatly bound.

  2. STORIES ABOUT INSTINCT, illustrative of the Characters and Habits
        of Animals. With Engravings after LANDSEER. 4_s._, neatly bound.

  3. STORIES ABOUT HORSES, illustrative of their Intelligence, Sagacity,
        and Docility. Embellished with Twelve Engravings on Steel.
        4_s._, neatly bound.

  4. TALES OF SHIPWRECKS, and other Disasters at Sea, including the
        Wreck of the Forfarshire, and other recent Losses. Embellished
        with Engravings by E. LANDELLS. 4_s._, neatly bound.

“The Juvenile Works of Mr. Bingley are too well known to the Public to
need our commendation. * * * From the happy colloquial character of the
Tales they will, we doubt not, soon find their way into the hands of
every family, as well as into the general elementary establishments for
youth.”—_Shipping Gazette._




                     JUVENILE WORKS JUST PUBLISHED.


                                   I.

                           BIBLE QUADRUPEDS;

            OR, THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE ANIMALS MENTIONED
                             IN SCRIPTURE.

New Edition, embellished with Sixteen Engravings. Price 5_s._, neatly
bound.

“This is an excellent little tome for young people, cherishing, at the
same time, a love for the Holy Volume and a taste for Natural
History.”—_Literary Gazette._

“On the whole, we have been pleased with it; the design is good, the
illustrations good, and the work well written.”—_Athenæum._

                                  II.

                    PETER PARLEY AND THE CORONATION.

                     Price 4_s._, handsomely bound,

         PETER PARLEY’S VISIT TO LONDON DURING THE CORONATION;

   In which he describes that splendid ceremony, and tells his young
            friends many amusing anecdotes of the Queen, &c.

     Illustrated with Six Coloured Plates of the Principal Scenes.


                                  III.

                          TALES OF ENTERPRISE,

                      FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF YOUTH.

  Embellished with Engravings on Steel, handsomely bound, 2_s._ 6_d._


                                  IV.

                       BOB, THE SPOTTED TERRIER,

                   OR, MEMOIR OF A DOG OF KNOWLEDGE.

        New Edition, many Engravings, 1_s._ 6_d._, neatly bound.


                                   V.

                         DICK, THE LITTLE PONY;

            FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF LITTLE MASTERS AND MISSES.

        New Edition, many Engravings, 1_s._ 6_d._, neatly bound.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales about Birds, by Thomas Bingley

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