Incomparable Budgerigars - All about Them, Including Instructions for Keeping, Breeding and Teaching Them to Talk. Percy Gladstone Frudd
young son through his paces.
Lessons in flying, fighting and feeding were all part of the curriculum. The latter was nearly Richard’s undoing, for young Dick soon learnt to crack seed for himself, and, the foolish boy mistaking something for ‘Niger’ seed, in ignorance he ate it, became ill and quickly died.
Richard, almost heart-broken himself, had to bear silently the wrath of Mr. G., who blamed him for not having fed and taken due care of his offspring.
In due course chick No. 2 came out of the nest, only to meet the same fate as his elder brother. Things began to get warm at Sherburn House. Richard could not talk! Not a word left his tongue; in silence he bore the tempest.
Quad No. 3 followed, and soon he was relegated to the dust-bin. The temperature, by this time, was at fever heat.
Quoth Mr. G., “One more chick—one more chance! If this one goes, then you go too.”
Poor old Richard! Why had someone not taught him to speak in his childhood days? Had he had Beauty’s education he might have told a thing or two, but his lips were sealed.
One day he overheard his young mistress reciting ‘Gelert’s Grave’, all about ‘Llewellyn and his dog’. A cold shiver ran down his spine—visions of the ‘vengeful sword’ flashed to his mind, and he determined to do or die in the attempt. Something had to be done or his life would be forfeit.
Now, while Richard had been soliloquizing on his doorstep at eventide, he had seen and heard, in the twilight, something which had upset even his calm serenity.
Scampering feet; pairs of bright, black eyes flashing up at him; long, sharp teeth crunching up seed—the very same teeth that he had seen making short work of the wood around the flight—these sent him all goosey.
Chick No. 4 must have been born on Friday the 13th, for in spite of his father’s watchful eye, he, too, went the way of all flesh. This last mishap fairly staggered Richard; he thought, ‘Someone will have to die’—well, it should not be him. But what protection were feathers against teeth which ate through wood?
He braced himself up; with his ‘old school cry’ gurgling in his throat, for that was the best he could do in the way of speech, he swooped down and grabbed one of the intruders by the scruff of the neck. It was a battle royal, but Richard won! Judging by the feathers, fur and blood lying about it must have been a sanguinary conflict. The rest of the field fled, and Richard resumed his family duties, for by this time his wife was laying her second round of eggs.
Daylight came, and with it Mr. G. He found the dead chick; he almost exploded with wrath, but wait—what is this? A dead mouse! Great Scot! He looked around—the little bits of ‘Niger seed’ were mouse droppings . . . the poor little Quads had eaten them, knowing no better. That dreaded disease ‘enteritis’ had done the rest.
It was not the end of Richard, however. Saved by the strength of his beak, but it had been a narrow escape. He was now ‘Public Hero No. 1’, but still he was silent, so Mr. G. told the tale for him.
Three other mice followed. ‘An eye for an eye,’ thought Richard—four chicks—four mice! But what it had cost him to fight those battles one will never know.
Still, he did get his reward. Later, he was sent to a show, a red ticket adorned his cage, people fussed over him, and Richard was prouder than ever.
CHAPTER IV
THE ADVENTURES OF THE PRODIGAL SON
How Samson was Cured of Wanderlust
SAMSON was a skyblue budgie, the only one in a nest of light greens; it was probably this difference of colour which made his parents dote on him in his childhood, for he was pampered and spoilt. He soon outgrew all his brothers and sisters and developed into an adult budgie of wonderful physique, hence his name Samson.
As a young man, he was both churlish and swelled-headed. He seemed to be very dissatisfied with his lot, and often vented his temper upon the rest of his relations. We thought it was perhaps a case of ‘familiarity breeding contempt’, and that a change of surroundings would do him good, so we moved him to another flight among fresh companions.
The experiment failed, however, for he soon made their lives most miserable with his arrogance and overbearing manners. My wife and I were at a loss to make him more contented and happy; we had tried to tame him, and often coaxed him, but he did not respond to kindness and become more amiable. At last we put his father, a four-year-old budgie, into the flight with him. Pa was a level-headed, sedate budgie, and we thought that perhaps he might bring Samson to heel somewhat.
THE ADVENTURES OF THE PRODIGAL SON
This later move was also doomed to failure, for Samson bullied the old man terribly. Not one good feature did he seem to have inherited from his parents, and we were about to give him up as a bad job when one day, quite by accident, we found the cause of the trouble.
In the garden, near to the flight where Samson exercised, was a bird-bath. Here many wild birds came to drink and to pick up the crumbs which we put out for them in the hard times, when natural food was scarce.
We had previously noted that when the dull-looking sparrows came to feed and bathe, Samson habitually turned up his nose (beak in his case) in an expression of contempt and muttered something which sounded very much like ‘Swine!’ Surely it was not these harmless creatures who came and went as they pleased which made Samson discontented? No! he considered them far below his dignity; it was another visitor to our garden who was the root of the mischief.
She was beautiful; her body was sleek and very shapely; the jet-black feathers with their even markings and over all a wonderful glossy sheen, suited her well. Her black feet; brilliant yellow beak and bold black eyes completed her ravishing ‘ensemble’.
Miss Delilah Starling was as bad as she was beautiful, and her flashing eyes were filled with cunning. She was feared by most of the others who came to feed. Many a poor little sparrow received a vicious peck for having the temerity to come too near.
We noticed that Miss Delilah hung round the flight where Samson lived and openly flirted with him. One day we saw them in serious conclave, so decided to see what was ‘in the wind’. We did not get all of the conversation, but we did hear something like this—
Samson: “If only I could get out of here! I feel positively stifled!”
Delilah: “My dear, a big strong handsome man like you should be king of the open spaces.”
Samson: “Oh, Miss Delilah, you make me feel my position. If I were out of this prison, I would make you my Queen.”
Delilah: “You wonderful cave-man! You shall be out of here. Listen, and I will tell you of a plan I’ve thought out. . . . Sh-h, bend a little closer, we might be overheard. . . .”
We missed the rest of the conversation, but I thought it wise to remove Samson before more damage should be done by this dark temptress, so I took the net, and prepared to take him from that flight. As I bent my head to enter the low doorway of the flight I felt a rush of wind past my ear, just over my shoulder, and I had the horrible experience of seeing Samson flying swiftly through the air towards Cottingley.
This cunning witch of a Delilah had whispered and told Samson not to dart high and hit the safety portion over the door, but to dive low past my head. He had done so, and was free!
Our hearts were heavy; we knew what lay ahead of Samson. The Autumn had set in; the nights were cold and heavy with dew, maybe mist and frost. The grasses had long since shed their seeds; food was hard to obtain even for the wild birds, who were more experienced than Samson. Only a slow and painful death from starvation awaited him unless he had the sense to return, but we had little hope of that, knowing him.
On first obtaining his freedom Samson forgot all about Delilah, so exciting was