The Bird Hospital :: CHAPTER VI. SOME TRANSIENT PATIENTS

CHAPTER VI. SOME TRANSIENT PATIENTS

A young meadow-lark was brought to me one morning by a small boy, whose dog had chased it and broken its leg. I had never had any experience in setting bones, but, as there is always a first time, I thought I could at least try, even if I did not succeed. I found it was not a very easy thing to do alone, but, after trying a number of times, I managed to get my toothpick splint on securely. For several days the leg seemed to be doing nicely, and I felt quite proud of my work and sure the leg was knitting. All at once the bird began to smell very badly, and in a few days it died, so I think it must have been hurt internally.

Another morning I had an orchard oriole brought to me. He, like the Prince of Wales, had been shot. One wing was broken and there was a deep flesh wound underneath. I did not expect to save him, but, after a few days, the wound healed and he was perfectly well, except the broken wing, which did not bother him. He seemed very happy, even if he could only fly a very little, and spent most of his time hopping about on the floor. His favourite perching-place was on the top of a candle on my dressing-table.

One morning he came over to my bed and woke me by pecking my hands. As it was too early for me to wake, I put him on the floor and went to sleep. When I got up, I could not find my pretty Duke. He had never been in my dressing-room, but that morning the light must have attracted him, as my room was dark, and in trying to hop on the edge of the water-jar he fell in.

You can imagine my horror when I saw him in the water dead, with his lovely feathers all spoiled, and I felt I had been a careless nurse.

A cousin brought to the hospital from the country a young snipe. She was so afraid it would get away, she put it into a shoe box which was too small, then tied the cover down tight, without making one hole to let the air in. Consequently, when she arrived, the bird was just gasping and almost dead.

I had never seen a young snipe before, and I was so anxious to save it. It was a beauty. Of course, it was all legs and feet, but they were really beautiful in shape, and the colour like the soft shade of green in young twigs. I worked over it four hours, hoping I might bring it back to life, but it was beyond me. It was a most pitiful sight to see it take so long to die.

I was very glad one day to have the pleasure of looking over a chimney swift, but, as it was an old bird and not hurt in the least, I felt it would be cruel to keep it in the hospital. It was so frightened it did not fly off from my hand for five minutes after I took it out-of-doors.

One day a very tender-hearted little boy, with big tears in his eyes, came and asked me to take in a tiny baby bird not three inches long from end of bill to tip of tail. It was gray with white breast, long pointed white bill, and very large eyes. Its pretty little head was drawn back like a person having spinal meningitis, and it was making a mournful peep. When I took it into my hand, I did not think it could live but a few moments, but it did four hours, suffering all the time, and it seemed as if its pitiful peep would drive me wild. I managed to get a little milk down its throat, but I could not find the cause of the head being drawn back, as there was no sign of any bruise. Finally I saw a black speck sticking out of its bill. I began to pull, and kept on until I had pulled out a quarter of a yard of coarse horsehair. I knew then there was something on the other end, and that the bird could not live with whatever it was in its throat. I gave a quick pull, and you can imagine my surprise when out came a piece of hard white shell, triangular shape, all wound around with the hair. No wonder the little thing peeped, and that its head was drawn back, with that sharp point sticking into its throat. The mother must have rammed it down her baby’s throat, thinking it was some goody.

After I had removed the shell, the little sufferer seemed so relieved; the peeping stopped, and it would try to flop its wee wings when it saw me with the milk. I was in hopes I was going to save it, but it did not have the strength to rally, and it went where all good birdies go.

For a week I had a dear baby robin, who came down-stairs every night to look me up when it was time for him to go to bed in his basket. I had a wild pigeon at the time who delighted in pecking any small bird who came to the hospital. He gave the robin a hard peck on the back of the neck, I suppose striking a nerve, for soon the head began to draw back, and in a few hours he died. Theodore Roosevelt, the wild pigeon, was in the hospital two long years, receiving constant treatment, from burns which he had received by being caught in electric wires.

Then I had a large white domestic pigeon that was taken away from a dog who was tearing him to pieces. Such a sight as he was, covered with blood and mud, when I took him in. The feathers were all torn out of one wing, and he could not stand on his feet. The first thing I gave him a bath in warm water and soap, then found several flesh wounds, which I powdered with talcum powder (never put anything greasy on a bird), and put him in a cot, where I kept him as quiet as possible for several days. He was not at all timid, ate from my hand, drank water from a whiskey glass, as if he had always been fed in that way, never even trying to stand up or get out of his cot. I felt quite encouraged when, after a week, he could perch on my wrist for a few minutes, so I knew that there were no bones broken, but I was afraid that he was never going to have the use of one of his claws, for the toes all turned under when he tried to put it down, but patience and care were my reward, for it got entirely well. You could fairly see the new feathers grow in his wing, and he was delighted when he could flop his wings and exercise. It was very interesting to watch him when he first began trying to walk. I would put him down on the floor. He would lift the lame foot very high, and throw the claws out before putting it down, to prevent the toes turning under. I expected he would want to fly away when he found he was made whole again, but he did not seem to have the slightest desire. He became quite a pet, and when I spoke to him, he would bow his head and say, “Coo-wee, coo-wee, coo-wee,” but he was too large a bird for the house, and he now lives with many of his kind, where he has the best of care.

One morning I saw a baby sparrow on a piazza, and a cat just ready to spring at it. I got in ahead of the cat, and brought her home with me. I wish all of the people who say they hate the English sparrow could have known this one, whom I named “Monie.” She was a perfect little beauty, and full of all sorts of antics. Every feather shone like satin, and her colouring was the soft shade of brown you see in otter fur. She loved to tease the other birds, especially the canaries. She would go inside the cage when they were on top and bite their claws and try to pull them through the bars. Then she would hang with one claw caught on the top of the cage and go through all sorts of performances. I had a box which rested on a low table, divided off into two compartments, one filled with gravel and the other with food. In the centre of one side was part of a broomstick, with any number of perches all sizes on it, and a platform over the other side where a brass cage stood. The box and perches, being painted light green, made a pretty sight when the perches were filled with many birds of different size and colour. There was a platform that rested on the window-sill, where Teddy, the pigeon, liked best to stay. He would walk back and forth or sit there most of the day, looking out of the windows. When, he wanted to walk in the gravel or get something to eat, he would walk down the little steps into the box with a great deal of dignity.

Monie always insisted upon perching on one of the largest perches, and very often she would fall on to the floor, and, as her wing was clipped, she could not get back in the box until I picked her up. At that time there were some mice who came and ate with the birds. Taffy did not seem to think they had any right there, and often tried to catch them. Twice he picked Monie up off from the floor, thinking she was a mouse, and brought her down-stairs. When he saw me, he came right up to me and let me take her out of his mouth, as if he was glad to get rid of her. The next time I missed her, I looked ten minutes, then I heard Taffy ring his bells, and he kept it up until I found him behind a heavy curtain, lying down with his paws under him, and holding Monie very carefully in his mouth. I put out my hand and he laid her in it, and she was not hurt in the least. After that I tried my best to make Monie sleep on a smaller perch, but she was as wilful as she was pretty, and no other perch seemed to suit her. Her wilfulness caused her death, for she fell off in the middle of the night when the room was dark. Taffy picked her up and she squealed like a mouse. As he held her tighter, she squealed louder, and Taffy thought he had a mouse sure. I jumped out of bed, but, by the time I got a light, he had choked her to death. When he saw that he had Monie instead of a mouse, he put her into my hand, and no person could have shown more grief.

Late one evening a small boy came to the door and asked if I did not want to buy a white rat. To get rid of the boy, I bought the rat, thinking I would give it to our boy the next morning, but he was so bright and cunning, I named him Billy Watt, and kept him many months. He was a most interesting pet and very much like a squirrel in all of his ways. Taffy thought it was “adding insult to injury” to ask him to be polite to Billy Watt, but he soon understood he was to treat him as politely as the birds.

One day Billy Watt bit Monie so the blood came. I took him in one hand, Monie in the other, and let her bite his nose, ears, and paws, and it frightened him almost to death when he found a bird could bite as well as a rat, and he never touched her again.

It was hard to make people believe, who did not see it, that Taffy would sleep for hours in my room, with birds flying around and Billy Watt asleep in a basket near by.

The largest patient I ever had was a turkey-buzzard, and the smallest full-grown bird a Parola warbler.

When Taffy beheld Mr. Buzzard perched on the back of a chair, his wrath knew no bounds. He did not spring at him, simply sat down in front of him, and by the growling and spitting you would have thought there were a dozen of cats instead of one.

One day our neighbour’s crow came to visit us, and insisted upon sitting in Taffy’s chair, which did not suit his Royal Highness at all. He stood upon his hind legs with his front paws on the chair, and smelled Mr. Crow all over, but Mr. Crow did not mind in the least and would not move, so Mr. Taffy jumped into the chair and curled himself up by the side of the crow, and they spent the day together.

Once I read with the greatest interest an article about a Parola warbler, and felt I would like very much to know the authoress, and tell her there was another person who had come in as close contact with one as she did. One can read dozens of beautiful descriptions of these daintiest of fairies, but no one can have the slightest conception of their beauty, or half appreciate them, until they have held one in their hand. Mine was caught by a cat, but it lived all day, so I had plenty of time to study every exquisite feather.

I hope the day may come when I shall be fortunate enough to see another, but they are very rare, especially in Central New York.

The Parola warbler was the first bird that opened John Burroughs’s eyes to the beauty of birddom.

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