The Bird Hospital :: CHAPTER III. DEWEY

CHAPTER III. DEWEY

One morning my mother called to me, saying: “Here comes Charlotte with a bird.” I wondered at first whether my little friend was bringing me another sparrow, but, when I saw him, I could not help exclaiming: “What a perfect beauty!” And the way he cuddled down in my hand immediately won my heart.

He was straightway named Dewey, but what kind of bird he was, I never found out. Some people said he was an oriole, others a meadow-lark, while others not a meadow-lark, but some kind of a lark. Again he seemed a little like a blue jay, and, in fact, had points like a dozen different kinds of birds. When he was first brought to me, he was evidently about six weeks old, quite large and fluffy, but very much of a baby, for he knew nothing about feeding himself.

His tail was long, olive on top, yellow underneath; wings black, with cream colour on the edges: on the lower feathers just a line, on the upper ones quite a little wider, at the top short yellow feathers, making lovely little scallops; head and back olive-brown; rump more on the yellow, with a tinge of blue under the wings, and belly only tinted. As he grew older, he kept changing, and when nine months old his breast was light orange, belly light yellow, head and back deeper olive, rump deeper yellow. At one time he broke his tail off, and when it came in, the upper feathers were black, with yellow a quarter of an inch at the rump, while the under feathers were yellow and black. On his head were almost invisible stripes of black, and on his neck pretty broken, wavy ones. His eyes were large and bright, and his bill, so every one said, was the handsomest they had ever seen, it was so very long, and pointed as a needle. Underneath it was ivory-white, and on top black, with a white star at the head. But the admiration of all were his legs and claws, as he kept them so clean, and they were a beautiful blue, just the shade of malachite. He was seven inches long, and when nearly a year old began getting black spots over his eyes and on his throat. Now, what kind of a bird was he? Do you know? At any rate, I know he was a little rogue, and an imp for getting in mischief.

When he was given me, I installed him right away as an inmate of my hospital, where I then had two birds, Tricksey, a beautiful canary, and Cervera, a dirt-coloured sort of bird, with big, staring eyes and a bill almost as large as his head, which was perfectly flat. He was about the size of the canary, but only had his baby feathers and one tail feather. Surely, he was not a handsome bird, and I could not blame Dewey for never liking him.

When night came, I tried putting Dewey in the cage with Tricksey and Cervera, but Cervera pecked at him so much, and made poor Dewey’s life so miserable, I had to take Cervera out, and make him sleep in a basket by himself. Tricksey and Dewey, however, became great friends, and immediately put their wings close together and went to sleep.

In the morning, when the birds were let out on the floor, it was amusing to see Cervera mimic everything Tricksey did. If Tricksey took a drink, Cervera would, and would follow everywhere he went. When Dewey saw Taffy coming into the room for the first time, every nerve quivered with fright, as he did not know what that huge striped thing with shining green eyes was. Tricksey stood near Dewey, and I feel sure he whispered in his ear: “You need not be at all afraid; that is only Taffy, the cat, and we are the best of friends,” for after that he never had the least fear of Taffy. Taffy jumped into my lap, the three birds stood on the table, and I fed them by turns their bread and milk.

I soon found Dewey was a great mischief. One morning I left him loose in my room, and, on my return, what a sight greeted my eyes! He had taken all the pins and anything he could pick up, and thrown them on the floor. He had overturned a basket filled with ribbons and lace; some of the ribbons he had left on the floor, while with others he had decorated his cage, and in the cage I found a pair of heavy sleeve links, which he had thrown in his drinking-cup, while on the floor of the cage were two large coral hairpins, two shell pins, some studs, and another pair of cuff-buttons.

For a moment I stood speechless, then said: “You rogue of a bird, how shall I punish you?” But I did not have the heart to punish him, and, taking him in my hand, kissed him again and again.

When Tricksey had the asthma very badly, sometimes a little whiskey on some sugar would relieve him. It was funny to see Cervera manoeuvre to get Tricksey off the perch, so he could eat the sugar and whiskey himself. Tricksey, however, I am sorry to say, grew worse instead of better, and one morning I was awakened early by his hard breathing. I took him off his perch, and found his claws ice-cold. He lay in my hand a few moments, pitifully gasping for breath, then threw back his pretty head, and all was over. We were heart-broken, and shed many tears, for we were powerless to bring back to life that little bird we loved so dearly.

I really felt sorry for Cervera. I believe he missed Tricksey, and for days seemed to be looking for him. One evening, like a flash, he flew out of the window, and I was never able to find him again. From then on, I could give more time to Dewey, as he was my only visitor left in the hospital.

One day, when I had him in the dining-room, I gave him a piece of sweet apple, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. The next morning Dewey was missing, and I looked for him everywhere up-stairs, as he had never gone down-stairs by himself, but he was nowhere to be found. At last I happened to go down in the dining-room, and there, quiet as a mouse, he sat on the sideboard, eating his fill of apple. After that, when he wanted anything down-stairs, he went for it himself.

He loved grapes better than any other fruit, and, no matter where he was, if I only said, “Dewey, would you like a grape?” he would fly to me, light on my finger, and go with me into the closet for one. One morning I again thought he was lost, but he was found safely in the dark closet eating a grape. When he wanted one, he would hop back and forth on the back parlour table, then on top of a high-back chair, and tease until one was given him. He liked best to have me hold a grape in my right hand, while he perched on my left, when he would suck all the rich, sweet juice next the skin first, then he would take the pulp over on a table and knock it until all the seeds came out before he ate it.

He liked flies, too, but spiders were his especial treat, and when he saw me with my handkerchief done up in my hand, he seemed to know what was inside, and would light on my finger, open the handkerchief, and take Mr. Spider out. He liked bananas, too, and would go to the fruit-dish and open one by himself.

Often in the morning at breakfast, he would perch on the plate or finger-bowl beside me, and eat his bit of orange. Usually I had my orange in my room, and sometimes Dewey would get so impatient he would fly over to the bed, back to the orange, and beg me to get up. He always took a drink out of the finger-bowl, and in the autumn, although he was put to bed by five o’clock, at seven he would be awakened and taken down to the dining-room for dessert.

One night he evidently became tired of waiting, and by himself went into the dining-room very quietly. We heard a great splashing, and the first thing we knew he had plunged into a finger-bowl and was having a bath to his heart’s content, soaking everything as well as himself. Of course, it was very cunning, but, after he had done it for three nights, we decided two baths a day were too much for him. Dewey, however, had made up his mind that if he could not take a bath in the finger-bowl at night, he would in the morning, and, as he refused to go near his old bath-tub, I had to give in to him, and the bowl was given him for his own.

DEWEY READY FOR HIS BATH

It is surprising how few children have seen a bird take a bath, so I often had little visitors come in to see Dewey at his ablutions. One afternoon he wanted a second bath so badly that he went into the dining-room, got into a finger-bowl without any water, and positively would not get out until water had been put in and he had his bath. Just to try him once, I put the bowl on the floor in front of Taffy, but it did not bother Dewey in the least; in he went just the same. There was a bowl of Wandering Jew on the dining-table, and several times he took a bath in the centre of it. It was indeed a beautiful picture, but when I found he was tearing the vine to pieces, I decided it was not so pretty, and I gave Dewey many lectures for it; but he heeded them not, and, if taken away, would walk (for he could walk as well as hop) all over the table on the ends of his toes, and look everywhere but toward the bowl. Then, when no one was looking, he would grab a piece of the Wandering Jew and fly with it to the top of a picture. One day he trimmed all the pictures, and there was none left in the bowl, so after that he had to look for new mischief.

The next day he could not be found for a long while, and where do you suppose I at last found him? Sitting in the midst of some huge white chrysanthemums. If he had been sitting there quietly, no harm would have been done, but the imp had been busy every minute, looking for delicious black bugs, and to get them he was obliged to tear out all the petals.

Once he tasted some wine, and liked it so well that whenever any one came in and had some cake and wine, he would fly down on their plate, take a bite of cake, hop up on the wine-glass and take a sip of wine. In the autumn we had some very fine cider, and whenever any one came in, we would offer them some. One day Dewey saw some on the luncheon-table, and, hopping on the edge of the glass, took a taste. One taste did not seem enough for him, however, and he liked it so well that after that I gave him some each day in a whiskey glass. He was a regular little gourmand, and liked all kinds of fresh fruit and preserves, but wine jelly and whipped cream was the best of all.

Sometimes I used to take him down to dinner with me, when I would give him his own little table-cloth, and have a plate for him by my side. He would usually take a little of everything, and chicken and cranberry jelly seemed especially to tickle his palate. Sometimes he did not behave very well, and he would go tiptoeing across the table to my mother’s plate, hop on the edge, and see if she had anything he liked. When dinner was ready to be served, he would often fly over to the sideboard, make holes in all the butter balls, then he would take some mashed potato and boiled onions and put them to cool in a big hole he had made in an apple.

Few people know that birds are ever sick to their stomachs. Dewey had been in the habit of eating a little shaved hickory-nut, that was put in a half-shell and kept in a dish on the back parlour table. When he came down-stairs, he would usually take a taste, and it seemed to agree with him. For a change one day, I gave him some chestnut, and when I came in the room a little later, I found him huddled up in a corner, trying to go to sleep. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was not well, for he never acted that way in the daytime. I put him back in his cage, and sat down beside him. He would close his eyes and open his bill, and I thought he was dying until all of a sudden he opened his bill very wide, and out came the chestnut in a lump half an inch long and one-quarter wide.

My writing-desk was a favourite place of his. He would get into the drawers, pigeonholes, and ink, and pictures and all sorts of small things he would throw on the floor. Once he stole several dimes and pennies, and he could lift a silver dollar, and often would carry a coffee-spoon all about the room, so you see he had a very strong bill.

If anything was lost, I always blamed it on Dewey. One day I looked high and low for my thimble. I asked Dewey where it was; he pretended not to hear me, but, as I was going into my dressing-room, he dropped it down on my head from the top of the portiÈre. He would often perch on a basket on top of the bookcase in the writing-room. One day I left a new white veil there, and when I went to look for it, I found Dewey had improved it greatly in his own estimation. There were about ten little holes right in the front of it, some round and some star shaped.

As he grew older, he would not sleep in his cage. For a few nights he insisted on sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the top of the curtain, where I put a piece of soft flannel over some cotton on the ledge and on the wall, so he would not take cold. If it was very cold, he would go behind the frill of the curtain out of every one’s sight, but, if it was warm, he would turn around so his tail would hang over the outside. When I would come in in the evening, he would open his eyes and nod to me, and, if not too sleepy, would come down and sit on my hand. He would never chirp or peep, and when he hid and heard me call, “Dewey, Dewey,” he would not answer, but would fly down on my head, shoulder, or hand.

Taffy often would get very angry with him, and sometimes I know he felt like killing him. Dewey would wake up early in the morning, and take his exercise by flying back and forth from a picture on one side of the room to the head of the bed. When Taffy was on the foot of it, he would fly very low, almost touching him with his wings, as much as to say: “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty? Why don’t you wake up?” Taffy would reply in words of his own that are not used in polite society, and the next thing I would see his tail disappearing around the corner of the door.

Before Dewey went to sleep at night, he would exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to take a nap in a chair in the back parlour. Dewey kept flying over him, making a whizzing sound with his wings. When Taffy could endure it no longer, he went into the writing-room and sat down by me. Dewey came in and perched on the table to have a little luncheon. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a velvet paw, and gave Dewey such a slap he fell on to the floor. The bird was not hurt in the least, but flew up on the picture, and seemed to laugh at the punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy got. Taffy did not take his punishment with the best of grace, and there were many naughty words he said, while he scratched and bit, but at last he was conquered, and after that always behaved like a little gentleman toward Dewey.

The first time he saw the snow, Dewey seemed wild with delight, and flew to the window, trying to catch the pretty white flakes, but when he heard sleigh-bells, they seemed to strike terror to his heart, as I suppose he thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all he knew about bells were those on Taffy’s collar.

At one time I was ill, and had to send for a physician whom Dewey had never seen. When the doctor came up-stairs, Dewey hid behind the curtain, watching him intently as he fixed the white powder in a paper. When the doctor laid it on the table, down swooped Dewey, grabbed it, and flew with it to his cage. My mother at this time was ill for many weeks, and it kept Dewey busy, as he would carry off all her sleeping powders. One day he put them behind her bed, evidently thinking that there they would not taste so badly and do her just as much good. He would always watch the doctor intently, as he mixed the medicine, and Dewey seemed to think it great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in the medicine-case. He would stand on the ends of his toes and crane his neck to watch him drop the medicine into the tumblers.

Dewey’s end came at last, however, in a tragic manner. Some Christmas roses were brought in to me one day, and they looked so tempting to Dewey that he took several bites from them, and the next day took some more. He acted queer after that, and kept opening his bill. I thought he had something in his throat, and gave him some water, which seemed to help him for the time being. The next afternoon I found him panting on the floor. I took him to an open window, gave him some wine, and the attack seemed to pass, and apparently he was as well as ever when I went down to dinner that night. When I returned to my room late in the evening, there was no bird to greet me from the curtain. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling Dewey stiff and cold.

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