Section 2 of 4 - Table of Contents
The male bird, which I knew by the greater brightness of his plumage, and his more slender form, seemed to be fondest of bringing sticks, one of which was too long for the mouth of the jar to admit. It was very amusing to witness his efforts to get the stick in; but it would not do; the stick fell to the ground. All day long, these pretty creatures were busy at their work; one usually watched while the other was in the jar arranging the nest for their expected brood. In about a week, it was evident that their work was completed, for they carried in no more sticks or dried grass. They were gone a great part of the day, I suppose playing, after so much hard work, but they returned at evening. Some one in the neighborhood fired a gun. This scared the bluebirds so that they staid away for two whole days; and, when they returned, it was amusing to see how timidly they entered their house. Then they would fly off to another tree at a distance, and make believe they had nothing to do with the one their nest was in. At last, they grew bolder; and, every evening at sunset, I saw the mother bird go into her nest while her mate went to roost. There was a slight feeling of despondency in my heart when I first went to look out of this window; but when I saw these birds, and witnessed the scene of faithful love and domestic industry and happiness set forth by these little creatures, the spirit of complaint was rebuked within me, and I learned a new lesson of serene trust and assurance that all were cared for by the Creator of all. But I must tell you the rest of the story of the bluebirds; and I am sorry to say, they met with sad trials. The first encroacher, as they supposed him to be, was a woodpecker; he seemed, as I thought, to mean them no harm; but as soon as they heard his tap, tap, tap, they flew at him very angrily and drove him away. A more dangerous enemy was at hand, one that from his size you would not have supposed dangerous to them. A little wren, not nearly so large as the bluebird, came one day to the tree; and, seeing the jar, having examined it, and being pleased with it, resolved to take it for herself. The little thief waited till the bluebirds had gone upon some expedition; and then, without any ceremony, without any fear of any thing, she entered the jar, and was evidently confirmed in her purpose of taking possession of it. Probably she held a consultation with her mate; but this I did not witness, as I did that between the two bluebirds. The next day this pert little Madam Wren, or her mate, I could not tell which, came again, and, perching on the topmost branch of the tree, poured forth a loud triumphant song, and then, as soon as the coast was clear, entered the house she was resolved to appropriate to herself. In a minute after, she appeared at the mouth of the jar with her bill full of the dried grass of which the bluebird's nest was made, which she threw out on the ground disdainfully. Back again she flew, and in an instant brought some more and threw it out. This she did with the most impudent look you can imagine. Then she flew swiftly in and out, like a little termagant, throwing out of the mouth of the jar, sticks, dead leaves, grass, with all the nice soft things which the poor bluebird had been a week in collecting. Every now and then, she came out for a minute and sang as sweetly as if she were not engaged in such a piratical work; and the little rogue looked up in my face so saucily, too, as much as to say, 'Who cares for you?' Then she began singing at the top of her voice, exulting over her work of destruction. Can you suppose it was any sense of honesty that prevented her using the bluebird's nest after having stolen her house? No, Jenny Wren had no principle. You would have laughed to see how scornfully she tossed out those dead leaves. Every thing went out of the nest pell-mell. The little monster! what could the poor bluebirds say or do? This bird evidently had no conscience, at least not a good one, that is plain. Never did general rejoice more over the capture and destruction of a city than this little bit of a bird rejoiced over the destruction of the bluebird's nest, and at the unlawful possession of the house. I saw her carrying in a long stick that suited her better than the short ones that the bluebird had carried in: she found she could not get it in if she took it in the middle; so she changed the place, and held it by the end, and so by that means got it in. She was more cunning than the bluebird. Now you might hear the two little robbers sing again. They are happier than any king can be nowadays. Poor, dear, beautiful bluebirds! What has become of them? Then came the mother. She looked into the jar and saw the destruction of her nest--all her week's work. How distressed she seemed! but the victorious wrens had no pity on her. They drove her away. She disappeared. The saucy conquerors flew in and out of their stolen house twenty times a minute, caring for nothing. They could have had no moral sense; but they were very amusing, and they were nothing but birds; they knew no better; so we must forgive them." "I like stories about animals better than any other stories," said Frank. "I think animals know as much, and sometimes more than we do. So, Mother, do tell us all you can think of about elephants, bears, and lions, as well as dogs, and cats, and birds." "I have laid up in my memory two or three dog and cat stories, which I will tell you, and then I will see what I can remember of lions, bears, and elephants. But first I must tell you what I have lately read about courts of justice among the crows." "What is a court of justice?" asked Harry. "A court of justice is an assemblage of men who meet together to ascertain if any one who is accused of doing a wrong thing has really done it or not. If he is proved to have committed the offence, he is declared to be guilty; if he is not proved to have done it, he is declared not guilty. A writer on the history of the Feroe Islands describes these extraordinary courts as if he had witnessed them. He says, these crow-courts are observed here (in the Feroe Islands) as well as in the Scotch Isles. The crows collect in great numbers, as if they had been all summoned for the occasion. A few of the flock sit with drooping heads, others seem as grave as if they were judges, and some are exceedingly active and noisy, like lawyers and witnesses; in the course of about an hour the company generally disperse, and it is not uncommon, after they have flown away, to find one or two left dead on the spot. Dr. Edmondstone, in his View of the Shetland Islands, says that sometimes the crow-court, or meeting, does not appear to be complete before the expiration of a day or two,--crows coming from all quarters to the session. As soon as they are all arrived, a very general noise ensues, the business of the court is opened, and shortly after they all fall upon one or two individual crows, (who are supposed to have been condemned by their peers,) and put them to death. When the execution is over, they quietly disperse." "I shall never look at a crow, Mother, again," said Harry, "without dislike--cruel creatures." "We don't understand these things," said his mother; "animals have no compassion for their sick companions; they kill them sometimes for being sick. It seems very cruel, but we don't understand enough to judge." "Now, Mother, what new story have you about dogs?" "The story I shall tell you now seems to show that dogs have good hearts, and are compassionate and magnanimous. A dog was placed to watch a piece of ground, perhaps a garden. A boy ran across the forbidden place. The dog chased him. The boy, greatly frightened, ran very fast, fell, and broke his leg. The dog, when he came up and heard the boy's cries, did not touch him, but ran up to the passers by, and barked till he attracted their attention, and brought some one to the aid of the poor boy, who could not move. The faithful creature had performed his duty in driving away intruders; but he had too good a heart, and was too generous to hurt a fallen enemy. In the account I read he was called a Christian dog. His conduct would be a good example to all Christians. I have now a story of a roguish dog that I think we could not praise so much for his goodness as for his cunning. A gentleman in Paris was in the habit of crossing every day one of the bridges over the Seine, on his way to his place of business. One day, a very dirty poodle dog rubbed himself so against his boots as to make it necessary to get a man, who sat at one end of the bridge with blacking, to clean them. The next day the same thing occurred, and again and again, till, at last, the gentleman suspected that the bootblack had taught the dog this trick, in order by that means to get customers. He watched, and saw, when he approached the bridge, Master Poodle go and roll himself in a mud puddle, and then come and rub himself against his boots. The gentleman accused the bootblack of the trick. After a while the man laughed, and confessed his roguery." "That poodle was a brick," said Harry. "One more story of dogs. A surgeon of Leeds, in England, found a little spaniel who had been lamed. The surgeon carried the poor animal home, bandaged up his leg, and after two or three days turned him out. The dog returned to the surgeon's house every morning till his leg was perfectly well. At the end of several months, the spaniel again presented himself, bringing another dog who had also been lamed, and intimating, as plainly as piteous and intelligent looks could intimate, that he desired the same kind assistance to be rendered to his friend as had been bestowed upon himself. But I am forgetting poor puss. Mr. W., a friend of mine, whose word might be taken for any thing, told me an extraordinary anecdote of a cat, which he said he knew to be true. A friend of his was setting out on a voyage to some place, I forget where. Every thing was carried on board, and the two friends were in the cabin about taking leave of each other. "I asked my friend before parting," said Mr. W., "whether he had every thing that he wanted; if there was nothing more that he could think of to make him more comfortable or happy on his voyage." "One thing," he replied, "would add to my pleasure very much, if you would bring it to me. In the counting room of my store is a small white cat; I am very fond of the poor thing, and she will miss me I know; I should like to take her with me." I immediately went ashore and found his little cat looking very sorrowful in his lonely room; I carried her to him. They seemed mutually pleased at meeting." When the vessel returned, Mr. W. received this account from the officers of the ship. They said that his friend made a great pet of the cat, and fed her always at his own meal times. He taught her to stand on her hind legs and ask for her food; he made her jump over a stick for his amusement; in short, he taught her to perform a great many amusing tricks. The officers and men were all very fond of poor little puss. At length, the young man became very ill. The cat would not leave him night or day. At last, one day, she left the cabin and began to run about the ship, making the most terrible mewing. The sailors offered her food; she refused it. She would not be comforted. Finally, her cries turned into a complete howl. She manifested the greatest suffering, and, at last, she ran off to the end of the bowsprit and leaped into the sea. Just at the moment that the poor little faithful, loving cat was swallowed up by the waves, her human friend breathed his last, and they both entered the invisible land together. Such an extraordinary event, and the gloom which a death at sea always casts over a ship's company, both together made the sailors even more than usually superstitious. They all declared that, every night at that same hour when the sick man died, a white cat was seen leaping into the ocean. The white crests of the breaking waves might easily thus appear to an ignorant person who lives, as a sailor does, in the midst of the wonders and sublime scenes which the ocean presents, in the awful terrors of its storms, or the serene glory of its quiet hours. But the love of the poor dumb animal for its master--that was a beautiful reality. I have a story now for you, Frank, about a horse, as I know you are particularly fond of horses. An Arab chief with his tribe had attacked in the night a caravan, and had plundered it; when loaded with their spoil, however, the robbers were overtaken on their return by some horsemen of the Pacha of Acre, who killed several, and bound the remainder with cords. The horsemen brought one of the prisoners, named Abou el Mavek, to Acre, and laid him, bound hand and foot, wounded as he was, at the entrance to their tent. As they slept during the night, the Arab, kept awake by the pain of his wounds, heard his horse's neigh at a distance, and being desirous to stroke, for the last time, the companion of his life, he dragged himself, bound as he was, to the horse which was picketed at a little distance. "Poor friend," said he; "what will you do among the Turks? You will be shut up under the roof of a khan, with the horses of a pacha or an aga; no longer will the women and children of the tent bring you barley, camel's milk, or dourra, in the hollow of their hands. No longer will you gallop, free as the wind of Egypt, in the desert. No longer will you cleave with your bosom the water of the Jordan which cools your sides, as pure as the foam of your lips. If I am to be a slave, at least may you go free. Go, return to our tent which you know so well; tell my wife that Abou el Marek will return no more; but put your head still into the folds of the tent, lick the hands of my beloved children." With these words, he untied with his teeth the fetters, and set the courser at liberty. But the noble animal, on recovering its freedom, instead of bounding away alone, bent its head over its master, and, seeing him in fetters, took his clothes gently in its teeth, lifted him up, set off at full speed, and, without ever resting, made straight for the distant but well-known tent in the mountains. The horse arrived in safety, laid his master down at the feet of his wife and children, and immediately dropped down dead with fatigue. The whole tribe mourned him, the poets celebrated his fidelity, and his name is still constantly in the mouths of the Arabs of Jericho. And now, boys, let us talk about the elephant a little. I have been reading something of his history, and I am disposed to think that, of all animals, he is, on the whole, the most intelligent." "More intelligent than the dog, Mother?" "Yes, it seems so to me. He is not so disinterested, so loving, but he reasons more than any other animal. He is also capable of very strong attachment, but he will not bear ill treatment. The elephant seems revengeful. The dog still loves the master who is unkind to him. The elephant will learn to assist his master in his work. An elephant who belonged to the Duke of Devonshire would come out of her house when her keeper called her, take up a broom, and stand ready to sweep the paths and grass when he told her to do so. She would take up a pail or a watering pot, and follow him round the place, ready to do his bidding. Her keeper usually rode on her neck, like the elephant drivers in India, and he always spread over her a large, strong cloth for alighting, which the elephant, by kneeling, allowed him to do. He desired her to take off the cloth. This she contrived to do by drawing herself up in such a way that the shrinking of her loose skin moved the cloth, and it gradually wriggled on one side, till, at last, it would fall by its own weight. The cloth, of course, fell all in a heap; but the elephant would spread it carefully on the grass, and then fold it up, as you fold your napkin, till it was small enough for her purpose; then she held it up with her trunk for a moment, and, at last, with one jerk, threw it up over her head to the centre of her back, where it remained for use, out of the way, ready for next time, and as nicely placed as if human hands had put it there. A few years ago, an elephant in London was taught to take part in a play. She came in and marched very properly in a procession. At the waving of her keeper's hand, she would kneel down and salute any individual, or put a crown on the head of the true prince. She would eat and drink with great propriety of manner, and make her reverence to the audience. But all this is nothing to what the elephants were taught by the Romans. The keepers, by treating their elephants with the utmost kindness, taking care of them as to health, and doing every thing to make them happy, acquired over them the greatest power. The elephants learned to love music. They were at first frightened by the loud instruments; but, after a while, became very fond of all, particularly of the gentle flute, at which they would show their delight by beating time with their great feet. The keepers accustomed them to the sight of great multitudes of people. At one time, when a particular exhibition of the docility of elephants was required, twelve of the most sagacious and well trained were made to march into the theatre with a regular step. At the voice of their keeper, they moved in harmonious measure, sometimes in a circle, and sometimes divided into parties, scattering flowers around them. In the intervals of the dance, they would beat time to the music, and were careful to keep in proper order. After this display, the elephants were feasted, as the Romans were in the habit of feasting themselves, in grand style. Splendid couches were placed, ornamented with paintings and covered with tapestry. Before the couches, upon tables of ebony and cedar, was spread the banquet, in vessels of gold and silver. When the feast was prepared, the twelve elephants marched in; six gentleman elephants dressed in the robes of men, and six lady elephants attired in women's clothes. They lay down in order upon the couches; and then, at a certain signal, extended their trunks, and eat their suppers with the most praiseworthy moderation and propriety. "Not one of them," says the historian of the elephant, "appeared the least voiacious, or manifested the least desire for more than his share of the food, or an undue proportion of the delicacies. They were as moderate also in their drink, and received the cups that were presented to them with the greatest decorum and temperance."Prev Next All
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