Incomparable Budgerigars - All about Them, Including Instructions for Keeping, Breeding and Teaching Them to Talk. Percy Gladstone Frudd

      Now, in the year 1934, Greywing Olive Budgerigars were very scarce. It was a ‘New Shade’, and not many people had them. There was great excitement in our aviaries that year—we had bred our first baby greywing olive budgerigar.

      She was a little gem. How we fussed over her! Dr. Dafoe and the ‘Quins’ were easily out-shone. All visitors to our aviaries were invited to ‘Come up and see our baby greywing olive’. Eventually this reached the ears of one, ‘Mae West’, who said, “Who is this Olive person?” and remarked petulantly, “You should come up and see ME sometime,” thereby gaining everlasting fame.

      When this precious mite was about eight weeks old she was liberated with the rest of her family into a large flight, here to exercise and develop into an adult budgerigar.

      She was a vivacious little creature, and spent much time watching her reflection in the water-pot, as she tucked the feathers behind her ears. Oh yes, budgies have ears. Besides, it was the fashion in 1934.

      Later she developed into a beautiful young lady, and had learnt all the rudiments of budgie love. Having her eyes conveniently placed one on either side of her head by nature, she was able, whilst watching her reflection with one eye, to keep in view with the other a certain young gentleman not far away, and notice the effect that her preening and sprucing produced upon him.

      Now in the next flight was a greywing cobalt budgie. He was a year older than G.W.O. He had been ‘run over’—a term that we use when we allow a budgie to develop rather than take a wife, to get size and become a better show bird. This he had done, and he was now a big handsome fellow, having many wins to his credit.

      But G.W.C. was by no means slow, he was rather quick on the uptake. He had spotted G.W.O. the very first day she had been turned into the flight next to him. Unfortunately for him the partition between them consisted of a double row of netting with a space of two inches in the centre.

      I watched him as he clung to his side of the wire, making love to G.W.O. It was love at first sight. He knew every move of the game.

      He would fly swiftly to the netting and give his call, which invariably brought G.W.O. to a position opposite him. He would then ‘rub noses’ on the wire and tap it with his beak, in a succession of sharp taps. His mask and feathers stood out like a ruffle round his neck, while he crooned his lay. The notes of his song were sweet, and they fell on the ears of G.W.O. like drops of sheer liquid delight. He would dart away like an arrow in flight; a swift loop, a dive and he was back again in the same spot, repeating the performance again and again.

      One day, as I watched this play, I found myself humming quietly a little tune that I had dismissed with indifference from my mind about twenty-six years previously—‘Penelope loved a Pierrot on the Portobello Pier’, and then, ‘Penelope loved a Pierrot in an aviary quite near’.

      G.W.C. reminded me of a pierrot with his white, close-fitting skull-cap, his mask all stuck out like a ruffle, his spots like pom-poms, his grey satin coat, his blue pants and sash. So, subconsciously, a tune that had meant nothing at all had suddenly seemed to ‘fit’ after a lapse of many years. Thus G.W.C. became ‘Pierrot’ and G.W.O. became ‘Penelope’.

      “Her mother had said, ‘Come away, my dear,’

      But Penelope said, ‘No fear, Ma dear,

      From my Pierrot, my hero, my Pierrot

      On the Portobello Pier.’ ”

      Penelope’s mother was a cross-tempered old grey-wing mauve. We thought that she must have been crossed in love; but eventually found out that her hubby, ‘Yellow Olive’, had, in the excitement of seeing her first eggs inadvertently put his foot on one and crushed it, so that she had sat upon a sticky yolk and rather ‘mucked up’ her latest in pantees.

      A trifle maybe, yet she never seemed to get over it. Anyway, she scolded Penelope rather badly, saying the usual, “No good will come of this, etc., etc.,” and being 1934, not 1908, Penelope just replied, “Sez you!”

      The course of true love never did run smooth, and a terrible accident occurred that nearly resulted in a tragedy for poor little Penelope. Of late, she had been copying Pierrot’s dives and loops, but she varied hers with a quick dash to a swing, where, suspended head downwards, she would slide down the wire until her feet touched the wood. Then a somersault in mid-air, a quick recovery, a dash, a swerve and she was back upon the wire opposite Pierrot.

      One day she slipped. Over-confidence had let her down. The loop at the top of the swing had become loose and instead of sliding down the wire as usual, she found herself suspended in mid-air, head downwards, unable to get free. The numbered ring upon her leg had slipped over the projecting point of the wire, and there she hung, screaming and struggling to get free.

      Her screams upset Pierrot, who added his to the din, and her mother of course added a vibrant, “I told you so.”

      My wife rushed into the aviary, and to her horror found poor Penelope in a terrible state. Her frantic struggles had broken her thigh, the flesh had given way, the bone protruded. Blood was streaming down her body; she was a pitiful sight. My wife swiftly disengaged the leg and took Penelope into the house and endeavoured to stop the bleeding.

      I came home shortly afterwards. I looked at Penelope and shook my head.

      “She is too far gone,” I exclaimed, and prepared to put her quickly and painlessly out of her misery, when the old song again came to my mind. “What a climax to such a beautiful romance,” I said.

      But wait. There was just one chance in a million.

      “Get wool, Iglodine and silk thread,” I cried, and, taking out my nail scissors, sterilized them by the simple method of holding over a burning match.

      One quick ‘snip’ and the flesh parted. So did Penelope—with a leg. The bone was trimmed, the wound bathed in Iglodine, the stump was tied round with some silk thread and covered with a tiny pad of boracic wool.

      Poor Penelope was far gone, so we put her into a cage without perches. It was touch and go, but we fed her often with a fountain pen filler, and she hung on to life. In twenty-four hours she began to eat some soaked seed. Eventually, in about two weeks, Penelope pulled off her bandage with her strong beak, and behold—a clean healed stump was revealed.

      Now she was removed to a cage with perches, and she soon learnt how to balance herself on one foot. It was a very tiring job, and she often came down and laid her body on the floor of the cage, to rest her weary leg.

      Her strength regained, a very demure Penelope was returned to the flight. It was a heart-rending sight; we had thought that her dream of love had ended. However, she clung to the wire with her beak and one remaining leg, but she could not respond to Pierrot’s song of love. She was unable to use her beak and hang on at the same time, and so she was bereft of speech, and could only listen.

      Old Pierrot was nearly bowled over at her plight; but his love was strong and true, so he never let her see that. He still sang his lay, if anything, stronger than ever.

      Our hearts bled for them, and so impressed were we with Pierrot’s fidelity we determined on a daring experiment. They were both put into a breeding pen. They were united at last; their joy was unbounded. The nest was hung, and we fixed a double perch close to the entrance to enable Penelope to get in or out more easily.

      We thought that she would never make that tiny hole that served as the entrance to her miniature ‘Villa’. But love soon found a way, and in about two weeks’ time Penelope was sitting on four beautiful white eggs. Joy came to the heart of Pierrot. The eggs