Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

But, woe is me! I had no soonercommenced operations than the ungrateful beast wheeled upwards round myfinger and bit it well. I went away to mourn.

  When nine years old my opportunities for studying birds and beasts weregreatly increased, for, luckily for me, the teacher of my father'sschool nearly flogged the life out of me. It might have been more luckystill had he finished the job. However, this man was a bit of a dandyin his way, and was very proud of his school. And one fine day whoshould walk in at the open doorway but "Davy," my pet lamb. As soon ashe spied me he gave vent to a joyful "Ba-a!" and as there was a tablebetween us, and he couldn't reach me, he commenced to dance in front ofit.

  "Good gracious!" cried the teacher, "a sheep of all things in my school,and positively dancing." On rushing to save my pet, whom he beganbelabouring with a cane, the man turned all his fury on me, with theabove gratifying result.

  I was sent to a far-off seminary after this.

  Three miles was a long distance for a child to walk to school over arough country. It was rough but beautiful, hill and dale, healthymoorlands, and pine woods. It was glorious in summer, but when thesnows of winter fell and the roads were blocked, it was not quite soagreeable.

  I commenced forthwith, however, to make acquaintance with every livingthing, whether it were a creepie-creepie living under a stone, or a bullin the fields.

  My pets, by the way, were a bull, that I played with as a calf, andcould master when old and red-eyed and fierce, half a dozen dogs, and apeacock belonging to a farmer. This bird used to meet me every morning,not for crumbs--he never would eat--but for kind words and caresses.

  The wild birds were my especial favourites. I knew them all, and allabout them, their haunts, their nests, their plumage, and eggs andhabits of life. I lived as much in trees as on the ground, used tostudy in trees, and often fell asleep aloft, to the great danger of myneck.

  I do not think I was ever cruel--intentionally, at all events--to anybird or creature under my care, but I confess to having sometimes takena young bird from the nest to make a pet of.

  I myself, when a little boy, have often sat for half an hour at a timeswinging on the topmost branches of a tall fir-tree, with my waistcoatpocket filled with garden worms, watching the ways and motions of a nestof young rooks, and probably I would have to repeat my aerial visit morethan once before I could quite make up my mind which to choose. Ialways took the sauciest, noisiest young rascal of the lot, and I wasnever mistaken in my choice. Is it not cruelty on my part, you mayinquire, to counsel the robbery of a rook's nest? Well, there are thefeelings of the parent birds to be considered, I grant you, but when youtake two from five you leave three, and I do not think the rooks mournmany minutes for the missing ones. An attempt was made once upon a timeto prove that rooks can't count farther than three. Thus: an ambush waserected in the midst of a potato field, where rooks were in the habit ofassembling in their dusky thousands. When into this ambush thereentered one man, or two men, or three men, the gentlemen in blackquietly waited until the last man came forth before commencing to digfor potatoes, but when four men entered and _three_ came out, the rookswere satisfied and went to dinner at once. But I feel sure this rule ofthree does not hold good as far as their young ones are concerned. Iknow for certain that either cats or dogs will miss an absentee from alitter of even six or more.

  Books are very affectionate towards their owners, very tricky and highlyamusing. They are great thieves, but they steal in such a funny waythat you cannot be angry with them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  ALL ABOUT MY BIRD PETS.

  "Ye ken where yon wee burnie, love, Runs roarin' to the sea, And tumbles o'er its rocky bed Like spirit wild and free. The mellow mavis tunes his lay, The blackbird swells his note, And little robin sweetly sings Above the woody grot."

  W. Cameron.

  "The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, No blither than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary."

  Idem.

  Scottish poets cannot keep birds out of their love-songs any more thanthey can the gloaming star, the bloom of flowers, the scent of goldengorse, or soft winds sighing through woods in summer. And well may thelovely wee linnet be compared to a young and artless maiden, so good andinnocent, so gentle and unobtrusive is the bird, and yet withal soblithe. Nor could a better pet be found for girls of a quiet, retiringdisposition than the linnet. Some call it a shy bird. This hardlycoincides with my own experience, and I dearly like to study thecharacters of birds and animals of all kinds, and have often discoveredsomething to love and admire even in the wildest beasts that ever roamedo'er prairie or roared in jungle. No, the linnet is not shy, but he isunostentatious; he seems to have the tact to know when a little musicwould be appreciated, and is by no means loath to trill his sweet song.He is also most affectionate, and if his mistress be but moderately kindto him, he may _like_ other people well enough, but he will _love_ buther alone, and will often and often pipe forth a few bars, in so low akey that she cannot but perceive they are meant for her ear only.

  Even in the wild state the rose-linnet courts retirement. Thinkingabout this bird brings me back once more to the days of my boyhood. Iam a tiny, tiny lad trudging home from the distant day-school, over awide, wild moorland with about a stone of books--Greek and Latinclassics and lexicons--in a leather strap over my shoulder. I am--as Iever wished to be--alone. That is, I have no human companionship. ButI have that of the wild birds, and the thousand and one wild creaturesthat inhabit this great stretch of heathy wold, and I fancy they allknow me, from yonder hawk poised high in the air to the merlin thatsings on a branch of broom; from the wily fox or fierce polecat to thewee mouse that nestles among the withered grass. I have about a scoreof nests to pay a visit to--the great long-winged screaming whaup's(curlew's) among the rushes; the mire-snipe's and wild duck's near themarsh; the water-hen's, with her charming red eggs, near the streamlet;the peewit's on the knoll; the stonechat's, with eggs of milky blue, inthe cairn; the laverock's, the woodlark's, and the wagtail's, and last,but not least, the titlin's nest, with the cuckoo's egg in it. But Ilinger but a short time at any of these to-day, for on my way to schoolI saw a rose-linnet singing on a thorn, and have been thinking about itall day. I have been three times thrashed for Cicero, and condemned todetention for two hours after my schoolmates are gone. I have escapedthrough the window, however. I shall be thrashed for this in themorning, but I should be thrashed for something, at all events, so thatmatters nothing. The sun is still high in the heavens, summer days arelong, I'll go and look for my linnet's nest; I haven't seen one thisyear yet. The heather is green as yet, and here and there on themoorland is a bush or patch of golden furze, not tall and stragglinglike the bushes you find in woods, that seem to stretch out their necksas if seeking in vain for the sunlight, but close, compact, hugging theground, and seeming to weigh down the warm summer air around it with thesweetness of its perfume.

  Now, on one of those very bushes, and on the highest twig thereof, Ifind my cock linnet. His head is held well up, and his little throatswells and throbs with his sweet, melodious song. But I know this isall tact on the bird's part, and that his heart beats quick with fear ashe sees me wandering searchingly from bush to bush. He is trying tolook unconcerned. He saw me coming, and enjoined his pretty mate to lieclose and not fly out, assuring her that if she did so all would bewell.

  He does not even fly away at my approach.

  "There is no nest of mine anywhere near," he seems to say. "Is itlikely I would be singing so blithely if there were?"

  "Ah! but," I reply, "I feel sure there is, else why are you dressed sogaily? why have you cast aside your sombre hues and donned that crimsonvest?"

  Pop--I am at the right bush now, and out flies the modest wee femalelinnet. She had forgotten all her mate told her, she was so frightenedshe could not lie close. And now I lift a branch and keek in, and amwell rewarded. A prettier sight than
that little nest affords, to anyone fond of birds, cannot easily be conceived. It is not a large one;the outside of it is built of knitted grass and withered weeds, and onthe whole it is neat; but inside it is the perfection of beauty androtundity, and softly and warmly lined with hair of horse and cow, witha few small feathers beneath, to give it extra cosiness. And the eggs--how beautiful! Books simply tell you they are white, dotted, andspeckled with red. They are more than this; the groundwork is white, tobe sure, but it looks as if the markings were traced by the Angers ofsome artist fay. It looks as though the fairy artist had been trying tosketch upon them the map of some strange land, for here are blood-redlakes--square, or round, or oval--and rivers running into them andrivers rolling out, so that having once seen a rose-linnet's egg, youcould never mistake it for any other.

  "I think," said Ida, "I should like a linnet, if I knew how to treatit."

  "Well," I continued, "let me give you a little advice. I haveinterested you in this bonnie bird, let me tell you then how you are totreat him if you happen to get one, so as to make him perfectly happy,with a happiness that will be reflected upon you, his mistress."

  I always counsel any one who has a pet of any kind to be in a mannerjealous of it, for one person is enough to feed and tend it, and thatperson should be its owner.

  Of course, if you mean to have one as a companion you will procure amale bird, and one as pretty as possible, but even those less bright incolour sing well. Let his cage be a square or long one, and just asroomy as you please; birds in confinement cannot have too much space tomove about in. Keep the cage exceedingly clean and free from damp, givethe bird fresh water every morning, and see that he has a due allowanceof clean dry seed. The food is principally canary-seed with some rapein it, and a small portion of flax; but although you may now and thengive him a portion of bruised hemp seed, be careful and remember hemp isboth stimulating and over-fattening. Many a bird gets enlargement ofthe liver, and heart disease and consequent asthma, from eating toofreely and often of hemp. In summer it should never be given, but incold weather it is less harmful.

  Green food should not be forgotten. The best is chic-weed--ripe--andgroundsel, with--when you can get it--a little watercress. There aremany seedling weeds which you may find in your walks by the wayside,which you may bring home to your lintie. If you make a practice ofdoing this, he will evince double the joy and pleasure at seeing you onyour return.

  Never leave any green food longer than a day either in or over the cage.So shall your pet be healthy, and live for many years to give youcomfort with his sweet fond voice. I may just mention that the linnetwill learn the song of some other birds, notably that of the woodlark.Sea-sand may be put in the bottom of the cage, and when the bird beginsto lose its feathers and moult, be extra kind and careful with it,covering the cage partly over, and taking care to keep away draughts.After the feathers begin to come you may put a rusty nail in the water.This is a tonic, but I do not believe in giving it too soon.

  Let me now say a word about another of my boyhood's pets--the robin.

  But I hardly know where or how I am to begin, nor am I sure that mytheme will not run right away with me when I do commence. My wingedhorse--my Pegasus--must be kept well in hand while speaking about mylittle favourite, the robin. Happy thought, however! I will tell younothing I think you know already.

  The robin, then, like the domestic cat, is too well known to needdescription. We who live in the country have him with us all the yearround, and we know his charming song wherever we hear it. He may seemto desert our habitations for a few months in the early spring-time, forhe is then very busy, having all the care and responsibility of a familyon his head; but he is not far away. He is only in the neighbouringgrove or orchard, and if we pay him a visit there he will sing to usvery pleasantly, as if glad to see us. And one fine morning we find himon the lawn-gate again, bobbing and becking to us, and looking as proudas a pasha because he has his little wife and three of the family withhim. His wife is not a Jenny Wren, as some suppose, but a lovely weerobin just like himself, only a trifle smaller, and not quite so red onthe breast nor so bold as her partner. And the young ones, whatcharmingly innocent little things they look, with their broad beaks andtheir apologies for tails! I have often known them taken for juvenilethrushes, because their breasts are not red, but a kind of yellow withspeckles in it.

  "Tcheet, tcheet!" cries Robin, on the gate, bobbing at you again; "throwout some crumbs. My wife is a bit shy; she has never been much insociety; but just see how the young ones can eat."

  Well, Robin is one of the earliest birds of a morning that I know. Heis up long before the bickering sparrows, and eke before the mavis. Hissong mingles with your morning dreams, and finally wakes you to the joysand duties of another day, and if you peep out at the window you willprobably see him on the lawn, hauling some unhappy worm out of its hole.I have seen Robin get hold of too big a worm, and, after pulling apiece of it out as long as a penholder, fly away with a frightened"Tcheet, tcheet!" as much as to say, "Dear me! I didn't know there wereyards and yards of you. You must be a snake or something."

  Robin sings quite late at night too, long after the mavis is mute andevery other bird has retired. And all day long in autumn he sings.During the winter months, especially if there be snow on the ground, hecomes boldly to the window-ledge, and doesn't ask, but demands his food,as brazenly as a German bandsman. Sparrows usually come with him, butif they dare to touch a bit of food that he has his eye on they catchit. My robin insists upon coming into my study in winter. He likes thewindow left open though, and I don't, and on this account we have littlepetulancies, and if I turn him out he takes revenge by flying againstthe French window, and mudding all the pane with his feet.

  Almost every country house has one or two robins that specially belongto it, and very jealous they are of any strange birds that happen tocome nigh the dwelling. While bird-nesting one time in company withanother boy, we found a robin's nest in a bank at the foot of a greatash tree. There were five eggs in it. On going to see it two daysafter, we found the nest and eggs intact, but two other eggs had beenlaid and deposited about a foot from the bank. We took the hint, andcarried away these two, but did not touch the others. The eggs are notvery pretty.

  While shooting in the wildest part of the Highlands, and a long way fromhome, I have often preferred a bed with my dog on the heather to thesmoky hospitality of a hut; and I have found robins perched close by meof a morning, singing ever so sweetly and low. They were only trying toearn the right to pick up the crumbs my setter and I had left at supper,but this shows you how fond these birds are of human society.

  In a cage the robin will live well and healthily for many years, ifkindly and carefully treated. He will get so tame that you needn't fearto let him have his liberty about the room.

  Let the cage be large and roomy, and covered partly over with a cloth.The robin loves the sunshine and a clean, dry cage, and, as to food, heis not very particular. Give him German paste--with a little bruisedhemp and maw seed, with insects, beetles, grubs, garden and meal worms,etc. Let him have clean gravel frequently, and fresh water everymorning. Now and then, when you think your pet is not particularlylively, put a rusty nail in the water.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  THE REDSTART, THE GOLDFINCH, THE MAVIS, AND MERLE.

  "They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd."

  Cowper.

  I was creeping, crawling, and scrambling one afternoon in the days of myboyhood, through tall furze at the foot of the Drummond Hill, which inEngland would be called a mountain. It was the Saturday half-holiday,and I was having a fine time of it among the birds. I was quite a mileaway from any human dwelling, and, I flattered myself, from any humanbeing either. I was speedily undeceived though. "Come out o' there,youngster," cried
a terrible voice, almost to my ear. "I thought yewere a rabbit; I was just going to chuck a stone at your head."

  I crept forth in fear and trembling.

  A city rough of the lowest type--you could tell that from the texture ofthe ragged, second-hand garments he wore; from his slipshod feet, hishorrid cap of greasy fur, and pale, unwholesome face.

  He proceeded to hoist a leafless branch, smeared with birdlime, in aconspicuous place, and not far off he deposited a cage, with a bird init. Then he addressed me.

  "I'm goin' away for half an hour, and you'll stop here and watch. Ifany birds get caught on the twigs, when I come back I'll mebbe gie yousomething."

  When he came back he did "gie me something." He boxed my ears soundly,because I lay beside the cage, and talked to the little bird all thetime instead of watching.

  You may guess how I loved that man. I have had the same amount ofaffection for the whole bird-catching fraternity ever since, and I do adeal every summer to spoil their sport. I look upon them as followersof a most sinful calling, and just as cruel and merciless as theslave-traders of Southern Africa. Many a little heart they break; theyseparate parent birds, and tear the old from their young, who are leftto starve to death in the nest.

  The redstart was a great favourite with me in these joyous days. Insize and shape he is not unlike the robin; but the bill is black, theforehead white, the rest of the upper part of the body a bluish grey.The wings are brownish, the bird wears a bib of black, but on the upperportion of the chest and all down the sides there is red, though not sobright in colour as the robin's breast. That is the plumage of thecock-bird, so these birds are easily known. They make