Читать книгу Incomparable Budgerigars - All about Them, Including Instructions for Keeping, Breeding and Teaching Them to Talk - Percy Gladstone Frudd - Страница 12

RICHARD, the strong silent budgie was very handsome and very sedate. Whereas Beauty ‘talked’ quite a lot, he only ‘thought’. Sitting on his doorstep or perch, he always brought to my mind ‘The Thinker’ by Rodin.

It takes many kinds of budgies to make ‘budgie- dom’; but there, Richard occupies no mean place.

Richard was a family man; his duty was to produce and rear winners if possible for his master, Mr. G. He took his job seriously, and was very house-proud.

When we first made his acquaintance, Richard was the father of four tiny baby chicks; he was fond of his wife, and very proud of the ‘detached’ villa which hung on the aviary wall, housing his family.

My word 1 he had a busy time. Being the father of ‘Quads’, and with a wife to feed into the bargain, was no sinecure for Richard. How he worshipped those babies! All day long he journeyed to and fro to the seed-pot and then to the nest. Only the choicest seeds did he pick out, the remainder he carefully dropped over the edge of the pot to save further re-sorting. Time and time again he filled his crop and then disgorged the seed into that of his wife, who partially digested it before passing it on to her babies.

He never left the house empty-handed, either; he always brought out the dried excreta on his return journeys. So did Richard keep his home sweet and clean.

BATTLES OF A FATHER OF QUADS

At eventide, when his family were all fed and settled down for the night, only then did he rest. Filling his crop for the last time that day, he settled down on the tiny perch outside the entrance to his home to meditate upon the responsibilities of a father of ‘Quads’.

Eventually the great day arrived when the first chick left the nest. He was just like velvet; his first suit spotless, he looked just like a tiny ball of green, yellow and black fluff. Old Richard had a field-day; he rushed his family duties and then put his 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.