Читать книгу Autobiography of Matthew Scott, Jumbo's Keeper; also Jumbo's Biography (Matthew Scott) - illustrated - (Literary Thoughts Edition) - Matthew Taubold Scott - Страница 6

I have already remarked in the previous chapter that I was born at Knowsley, near Liverpool, England, on the estate of Lord Derby. My father was born at the same place, and was “brewer” to the earl.

My dear, good, and much-loved mother was born on the same estate.

Our family consisted of sixteen sons and one daughter—a goodly number—and I am the fifteenth son (though “better late than never”).

I lost my dear father when I was four years old—he lived to the age of three score years and ten.

My mother lived to survive him several years.

When I was sent to London in 1851, I left the dear old soul hearty and in good spirits, proud of her boy’s going up to the biggest city in the world. I verily believe the good woman thought her fifteenth son was going to turn out something unusual. Although she used to say that I was “a rough, naughty lad, full of devilment,” she also said, in her quaint way, “if you take that lad and strip him naked, and put him on top of a mountain anywhere on the globe, he can get his own living; for, if there’s nobody round the neighborhood of the mountain, he will have the birds and animals feed him, like old Elijah and the raven in the wilderness, or, like John the Baptist, he will live on locusts and honey, and clothe himself with the skins of animals.”

Oh! my dear young readers, such a mother is worth more to you than all the world. You just listen to your mother, and mark every word she says when she advises and directs you, and you cannot fail to get along in life.

I returned from London to Knowsley to visit the dear soul once before she died.

However, to continue my story, I grew up at Knowsley, and at ten years of age was engaged to feed the feathered tribes at the private menagerie of the earl, who was a great lover of birds and beasts, and who spent much time and money in their importation and breeding in Great Britain. I had a great love (I suppose it was inherent) for birds, and I also was proud to earn a few shillings a week for my dear old mother. So I turned in under the guidance of my brother, who had charge of the aviary, and was put to work at cleaning, feeding, breeding, and generally attending to the parrots—that talkative tropical bird, whose tongue imitates so well the speech of man and woman.

It was, perhaps, the happiest week’s work I ever put in, and I assure my readers it was a delightful occupation.