Читать книгу Incomparable Budgerigars - All about Them, Including Instructions for Keeping, Breeding and Teaching Them to Talk - Percy Gladstone Frudd - Страница 15

HERE is a story of a young yellow split white budgie. He was not a very desirable bird, for he was not pretty; he was, in fact, a mongrel. His colour precluded him from being useful as an exhibition bird, but any dog lover who may read this story will know how faithful these mongrels, the throw-outs, can be. They make such pals.

While Billy, the unwanted, was quite a baby he was taken from the aviary into the house to be taught to talk. He soon won the affections of his master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. General Dealer.

At first he was very shy and timorous, but he soon got over that. Much can be accomplished by patience and kindness, and eventually Billy lost his fear and once more became his perky little self.

He was a cocky little fellow, full of vitality and ingenuity. Full of mischief, quick on the uptake, he was happy the whole day long.

Each morning Billy woke the hous by ringing his bell. “Time to get up, you sluggards,” said he. “Come on! what about my daily dozen?” he persisted. “Open that cage door!”

He had learnt how to open the door by himself, so at nights it had to be securely fastened, or it would have been ‘Good-bye, budgie’.

Once the cage door was opened Billy took his exercises. First a few times round the room to stretch his wings, then up and down the chandelier chains, mostly using his beak; this was to take the kink out of his neck. Budgies sleep with their heads tucked up under their wings, which gives them a nasty kink in the neck; if you don’t believe it, try it yourself some night.

Then of course his legs were a wee bit cramped; they must be straightened out.

If you slept with one leg tucked up into your tummy you might feel a little creaky in the joints. (All healthy birds sleep standing upon one leg. The lifting of one leg causes the other one to grip so that the bird does not lose its balance while dozing, and so fall off the perch.)

So upside down Billy swung on the chains, gripping with his claws and flapping his wings at a terrific rate meanwhile. This created a pull on his feet and so stretched his joints.

“Well, it’s good to be alive!” said Billy, his exercises over. “Now for a spot of breakfast.” Down he came, to perch on the edge of Mrs. G.D.’s cup, and sipped the tea. “Not sweet enough,” said Billy with a grimace, and he flew over to his master’s cup. “Ah! that’s much better.” Mr. G.D. possessed a sweet tooth. Having drunk his fill, Billy next perched upon his master’s hand and nibbled a few crumbs of bread, chattering between each mouthful.

Exercises over, his hunger appeased, Billy thought it time to spruce up a little, so across to his cage he flew and splashed about in the water-pot for awhile, then to the mantle-shelf, where he carefully preened his feathers before the mirror. “There!” he said, examining himself in the glass, “that should do. Every feather in its place, thanks to ‘Aqua pura’.”

About this time the Yorkshire Observer was pushed through the letter-box. Mr. G.D. lingered over that last cup to scan the morning news. Billy loved to sit on the edge of the paper and read the news too; he chatted all the while, “I wonder what that fellow P.G.F. has to say this morning? Beauty, Penelope, Richard, Samson, Gertie? Bah! They know nothing. See that fly? Well, get a load of this!” and off he went like greased lightning after the fly.

The fly ducked; Billy swerved, did a half-loop, and—gotcher! Back he came and deposited a dead fly upon the paper. “Now, isn’t that clever?” Billy is a dab at catching flies.

Mr. G.D. closed the paper and folded it. Billy suddenly found an overwhelming interest in the electric bulb. He made a great pretence of trying to find where the light goes when switched off, but this was merely a dodge, for he had one eye upon the door leading to the general hardware store at the front of the house.

With a sigh Mr. G.D. put the paper aside and moved towards the door, opened it and passed into the shop. Something else went through first; Billy had flown past his master like a flash. Then the fun began.

“I always believe in trying everything once,” said Billy, as he somersaulted from a chandelier to the edge of a bucket, and then on to the handlebars of a bicycle. “Whoops a daisy! That’s a slippy perch if you like.” He had gone clean over the top and landed on a radio set.

“As dead as door-nails,” he observed, disgustedly, noticing that the dial was not illuminated. “No jazz this morning.” You should see Billy dance on the top of a radio, to the tunes of Henry Hall, and he can out-croon any crooner.

Finding that there was nothing doing on the wireless, and seeing Mr. G.D. making a bee-line towards him with the net, Billy dodged between the suspended rakes and spades into the window. “Bring that net in here and see what happens,” he chuckled, as he proceeded to drop the price tickets from the goods to the bottom of the window, and knocked over a show-card or two.

In the heat of the moment, Mr. G.D. did so, but instantly regretted his hasty action. He missed Billy and hit a glass shade, which fell in tiny pieces. “Darn that bird!” ejaculated Mr. G.D., and tried other methods.

It fairly ticked Billy to note the expressions on the faces of the school children when they pressed their noses to the glass in their excitement, as they watched with joy his merry antics in the window.

“Well, the window needed dressing again, anyhow,” said Mr. G.D., after the struggle was over and Billy was safe in his cage—to stay, for being a naughty boy.

He did not stay long, however, for Mrs. G.D. soon forgave him and he was freed once more; but this time the door leading to the shop was closed.

Billy then noticed some sparrows mopping up the crumbs on the window ledge outside. He tried to get at them. “You big stiffs,” said he, but somehow he was held back by an invisible hand. He never knew what held him back. He knows that it’s there, but he can’t see it. The first time that he was let out of the cage, he made a perfect swallow dive for the garden; he came to on the floor beneath the window, and thought he must have been dozing, for the stars were coming out, as well as a bump upon his head.

Just at that moment the sparrows flew away; an April shower deferred till August sent little drops of water scurrying down the pane. Billy had a great game while it lasted, chasing the drops as they ran down the window. He tried to gobble them up but failed. “This is a dry job, licking up water that isn’t even wet,” he said, as he gave up in disgust.

Later, Billy saw a patrol of Boy Scouts in the garden, going through their tactics; it amused him to see their evolutions with their poles. Down to the ash-tray he went, picked up a match-stick and flew back to the window, where he tried to follow their movements with his little pole.

He tried vaulting, but his match-stick went down the crevice between the two sashes and he bumped his nose upon the latch.

“Oh, shucks! Did you see me make that pole disappear, Ma? I’m a conjurer.”

The Scouts had gathered around their leader to receive final instructions for the day before being dismissed. “Now don’t forget, boys, you must do at least one good deed every day.” This puzzled Billy; what that meant he did not know, but he still listened with interest.

Two of the young ‘Cubs’ paused before going home. “What are you going to do, Joe?” said one.

“I think I’ll go and get in the coals for Mrs. Murphy; she’s not so well to-day,” replied Joe.

“Eureka!” exclaimed Billy, “I’ll get the coals in, too.” Down to the coal scuttle he flew—and dirty work it was. Mrs. G.D. heard the scuffle in the scuttle and started to investigate.

“Pa, come here quick; we have got a black budgie at last,” she cried. In the excitement of the moment she had forgotten about Billy.

Mr. G.D. soon dispelled her joy, however. “Give the little devil a bath,” he said. He was still sore about the episode of the shop window.

“Why. . . . Good heavens, it’s Billy! Oh, how could you!” exclaimed Mrs. G.D., and she proceeded to give him a good tubbing. Like all other boys, Billy did not like soap and water, and when he was put in his cage near the fire to dry he just went into a corner to sulk.

While there he ruminated over that problem of the good deed; those young cubs had let him down badly with that one about the coals.

Later that evening, the way’s work done, Mr. G.D. settled down with his pipe and the Telegraph & Argus. He was immersed in the gossip of the day, when his wife put down her knitting and said, “I’ll let Billy have a fly round; it will help to dry him thoroughly before he settles down for the night.” So the cage door was opened and out flew the little scamp.

Totally ignoring Mrs. G.D., whom he hated for that scrubbing, Billy flew to the edge of the paper and commenced to tear tiny pieces from the edge with his sharp beak, much to the annoyance of Mr. G.D.

“Here, get up there out of the way,” said Mr. G.D., as he pushed Billy on to his shoulder.

“Oh, all right, don’t push,” replied Billy, “I’ll go on to the grand-stand.” He had spotted some lessons in slimming by Margot Thinn in the paper in his master’s hands, and thought he would have a better view, so he climbed on to his master’s head. He was bending over in his excitement to see how Margot retained the perfect figure, when he slipped and landed fair and square in the ladies’ beauty parlour.

“Now, who the heck pushed me?” cried Billy, as he flew back to his stand to see what had tripped him up. There he noted for the first time a little bald patch on his master’s head.

“Ye Gods! how does he expect me to get a grip on that?” he said. Then he glanced across to Mrs. G.D. “Well, she’s got far too much.” He paused; a sudden inspiration had flashed into his mind. “I’ve got it 1 A good deed every day.” He flew to his mistress and took a great delight in pulling from her head some of the superfluous hairs.

Back to his master he flew, and then endeavoured to stick these on to the bald patch. Billy was doing his good deed for the day.

He did not quite succeed, and his transplanting efforts tickled Mr. G.D. so much—his pate, not his sense of humour—that Billy was once more relegated to his cage, where again he sulked.

Poor Billy, his ‘good deed’ nearly proved to be his undoing, for next morning he failed to ring his bell. When Mrs. G.D. came down she found him in the bottom of the cage. Long hairs protruded from his beak. They had entered his crop; he was crop-bound and had had a fit.

The hairs were gently withdrawn; Billy was given a nip of brandy and he recovered. Well, he had done his best, and for a little man he had had a very busy day.