LETTER XVII.
Rottnest Island, 16th March.
Now I really must tell you about the pets. They have been kept waiting quite a long time, and they would amuse you immensely, if you were here to see and play with them.
Monsieur Puppy of course comes first, as he considers himself of the greatest importance; and he certainly is very amusing. He is delighted with the sea and the stretches of soft sand, in which he can dig for imaginary bones, until he completely disappears, and you only see a tightly curled tail wagging amid a shower of sand. The ridiculous part of the Puppy is that he is really only a small, half-bred Japanese pug, and he tries to be all sorts of other dogs! He is positively a capital terrier, and a rat has no chance against him for an instant’s life. Here, he is trying hard to be a retriever or water-dog, and boldly rushes in to fetch out sticks and seaweed and anything you throw—not too far out into the sea. How you would laugh at his puzzled and disgusted face, when he gets a mouthful of salt water, and can’t think why it should be so nasty. When he has floundered on shore he turns round and barks vehemently at the sea, and then dashes up to the house, and asks some one, in his own fashion, to rub him dry! Besides all these occupations he considers himself the watchdog of the establishment, and I often wonder the native lad, who brings down the constant heliographic messages, etc., to the Governor’s office, is not afraid of being torn to pieces by Puppy, who of course never dreams of biting him, but keeps up a furious barking at the poor boy.
I have not time to tell you of half his tricks and accomplishments. The most amusing, perhaps, is the way he drinks the Queen’s health after dinner. It has always been the custom at all Government Houses for the Governor not only to propose the Queen’s health at parties, but every day, when we are quite alone, the first thing after dessert is put on the table, the glasses are filled, and Pater says “The Queen”! Monsieur Puppy has learned that biscuits now begin, and although he has been trained to lie quietly at my feet, without stirring all dinner-time, the moment the magic words are said, Puppy utters a peculiar grunt of satisfaction, disentangles himself from my skirts, in which he has been coiled up, comes out, and sits up to beg, first giving his three cheers or “wuffs.” Sometimes he is so fast asleep and muffled up that he does not hear at first, but if I say the two words again, distinctly, you hear his funny little grunt, and out he comes directly.
He “dies for his country,” and pretends to be an impostor routed by a policeman, and goes “on trust” in every imaginable way, and takes mighty leaps for his biscuits, and does all sorts of tricks. Louis and he are great friends, though poor Puppy goes through a good deal of teasing at Louis’s hands. He is always trying to incite Puppy to catch the crabs which are disturbed by all the digging and scratching in the sand they do between them; but Monsieur has had one lesson which will last him the summer. The first crab Puppy dug out went to bay, with a little bit of rock behind it, and stood there waving its long nippers at the little dog who barked furiously, and made gallant dashes to try and get inside the crab’s guard. But no, it was no use, and Puppy soon perceived that this new kind of rat must be dealt with in some different fashion. After considering a moment—the crab having meantime folded its claws meekly before it, as soon as ever Puppy stopped barking—he gave a sudden swift slap at it, with his front paw, just as a cat would. But the crab was on the look-out; and the next thing we saw was Puppy dancing about on three legs, yelling and howling, with the crab hanging on to his forepaw. It was no use trying to bite, for there was another claw quite ready to seize his ear or nose. So when I could get near enough, for laughing, I boldly seized the crab from behind, and forced the nippers open, and then flung it far away into the sea. Puppy instantly dashed after it; but, all the same, he remembers the lesson.
When we first came over here there were three tame emeus in the paddock, but two of them have been killed by accidents. They were a great deal too tame, for they would walk about the verandah and poke their long necks and spoon-like bills in at every window, snapping up everything they saw. We lost keys, and thimbles, and various other trifles; and I never could keep any bird-seed or fruit for my canaries; the emeus got it all. The horses were always very much afraid of them, and it was dangerous to attempt to mount unless you knew where the emeus were. A tall bird would be sure to come round the corner and frighten your horse out of its wits. They were terrible thieves too, and one of them met its death in consequence of an enraged cook flinging a cleaver at it, when he returned after a moment’s absence, just in time to see the last of his nice dish of mutton-chops disappearing down the emeu’s long throat. The natives had a splendid feast off the emeus who came to grief, and reported, with much satisfied rubbing of their stomachs, that they were “fat fellows.”
There are numberless flocks of pretty little paroquets on the island, something like those Australian zebra-marked paroquets you often see in cages in England, only these are prettier, I suppose from being wild; their plumage is more brilliant and delicate. I used to notice large flocks of these lovely little creatures drinking at the different water-holes about the island, specially at one small shallow pond, just outside the paddock. So I determined to try and tame them, and now they are so perfectly fearless and friendly, that one of my great regrets in leaving Rottnest at the end of this month is knowing how much my paroquets will miss me. I used to scatter canary seed, and put saucers of water, just outside the verandah, in which we always take our afternoon tea, for it is cool, and in deep shade, with a lovely view over the bay. Between us and the sea is what is meant for a lawn; but during these three dry months, when there is scarcely any dew, and not a single drop of rain falls, every blade of grass becomes burnt up and yellow. However, the paroquets are not fastidious, and come down on the lawn in great numbers every afternoon at tea-time.
At first only two or three came; but I suppose they reported favourably of their feasts off bird-seed and cake crumbs, for every evening the number of my guests increases; and they arrive earlier. If I am lying down upstairs, and feel lazy about getting up to afternoon tea (remember I have been up since daylight, and very busy until about two o’clock, when we all take a siesta), Louis looks over the balcony, and cries out, “Oh there are such quantities of paroquets, the lawn is quite covered with them;” and then I have to get up directly and go down. The moment one appears, a green cloud seems to lift itself up from the ground, but only a very little way. I fling out a handful of seed, and the cloud drops down on it directly. Then we go to tea, and the boldest of the little birds come close to our feet picking up crumbs, quite fearlessly. They are so sweet and charming and it is great fun to watch their squabbles, and their cleverness. They know four o’clock quite well, and you can see them collecting in the trees round about, soon after three. As soon as ever the tea-table is brought out they all fly down on the lawn, and I feel that it is very wrong of me ever to keep them waiting.
Well, those are some of my wild pets. Now for my tame ones. Once a week, on Sunday afternoons, all the cockatoos and parrots are let out of that big cage I have told you about, and invited to tea on the lawn. This is their great treat and delight, and I really believe they know Sunday quite well, for as soon as ever I appear at the door of their cage to go in and bring them out, I am greeted with wilder yells and shrieks of joy than usual, and there is great hurry and eagerness to secure a good seat on my shoulder or arm, for the short journey to the front of the house. When we arrive I have to sit down on a shawl on the what-ought-to-be grass, and all the birds come to tea with me, drinking out of my cup (if it is at all too hot they invariably tip it over), nibbling at my cake, and eating voraciously of the little heap of canary seed I have taken the precaution to provide. Then they make excursions in every direction, exploring, tearing up the grass-roots, and doing all the mischief they possibly can.
The “Biaco”—native name for a lovely soft pink and gray parrot—is sadly jealous, and leads every one near me a life of bites and pecks. The Puppy, who can’t understand why he should be turned away from his favourite place at my feet, has a dreadful time of tweaks and nips of tail and ears. I wonder he does not snap at the birds, but he is too much astonished at these sudden attacks to do more than jump aside. The cockatoos are not a bit afraid of him, and will stalk him in the most absurd way, watching till he is asleep, and then sidle round a corner, make a sudden swift dash and nip at his tail, or even his foot. It is sheer spite, nothing else, and Puppy can’t understand it at all. Even my special pet, a wee gray paroquet, with orange wattles and long tail feathers, from the Toojay district, is spiteful to the Puppy, and will climb down, from its favourite perch on my shoulder, to bite poor Puppy’s tail. I have one splendid brilliant parrot, with a long tail of every colour of the rainbow, but it is too fierce and wild to let out of the cage. It whistles very well, and picks up every tune it hears. The only name we know it by is the absurd one of “twenty-eight,” because its wild note is exactly like those words.
Among my pets, however, is a large cockatoo from Albany. It is an ugly bird, of a dirty white plumage, with a pale yellow crest, and a large light blue ring round its eye. I never saw so large and cruel-looking a beak, and, although it is as tame as possible, and seems incapable of biting, I confess to some inward tremors when it lays this beak affectionately against my face and kisses me all over, or takes my finger gently between its strong jaws. This bird talks capitally, and picks up every word at once. It barks and mews like a dog or cat, and used to shout and call out exactly like the children it heard passing in the street in Perth on their way to school. “Come along, Tommy,” or else “Wait for me, can’t yer?” and so forth. All the other parrots seem afraid of it, so I suppose that beak can bite if needful.
Besides the white cockatoo I have five “jokolokols.” This is the native name for the prettiest of all the wild cockatoos, but it is also the most delicate, and can seldom be brought to England. It is a large handsome bird of a milk-white plumage, which looks so exquisitely clean that visitors often ask me if I wash my “jokolokols.” No; they wash themselves, the dear things, and preen their lovely feathers among the gum bushes and wattle trees in the cage. Their snowy wings are lined with delicate pink, and the crest—a very large one—is superb, with its fan of shaded crimson feathers standing boldly up at the least alarm. Round the beak and eyes is a circle of shaded pink feathers, fading softly off into the white plumage. Two very young birds, fully fledged, but with ridiculous callow beaks, were brought to me some time ago in Perth, and I have had to finish rearing them. Such a business as it has been, and such appetites as those birds possessed! They were never satisfied, and were wont to begin and shriek for their breakfast at daylight. Louis and I took it in turns to feed them with bread crumbs and sweet rusks soaked in tepid water, and we used to shovel quantities of this soft stuff down their capacious throats. It was no matter if even I had just given them an enormous supper, whenever they caught a glimpse of me in the garden, they set up wild and clamorous yells for “more,” and I used often to be quite cross when father would say, “I am sure you starve those poor birds; you had better go and feed them.” That was just what the jokolokols wanted, and they were delighted to get an extra supper. They are very handsome birds now, and you may imagine how tame they must be. They had to learn to feed themselves, however, during one of my excursions last year, when they were left to the gardener’s care, and he had not time to spoil them as I did.
I saw such an absurd race or chase, whichever you like to call it, between two of my parrots, or rather between a small clever gray parrot, who talked perfectly well, and a strange fierce cockatoo of great physical strength and prowess, but no intellect. This cockatoo, called “Joe,” could not speak a word, and was very jealous of the admiration and petting the little pink and gray parrot attracted to itself. Each bird had one wing cut, so they were on equal terms as to flying; but the white cockatoo could walk, or waddle rather, much faster, and chased the gray on every possible opportunity. Generally there was a bush or tree or friendly passer-by, with whom the parrot could take refuge; but on this occasion the cockatoo had set out to run poor little Griselda down. Every chance was in his favour, for the race took place on a long narrow terrace walk, with neither bush nor tree very near, and the parrot had only been able to secure a very short start.
I was really within easy saving distance, though they could not see me, and should certainly have interfered had I thought Griselda was in danger; but it was very amusing to watch the way she daunted and delayed the cockatoo. Even by the help of her beak on the ground, which she used as a third leg, the poor little bird could not keep much ahead of the cockatoo, who waddled more swiftly and easily. When he got too near, quite close behind in fact, the parrot would stop short, turn round so as to face her enemy, stretch her wings out, crane her head forward, and yell at the pitch of her voice the word “Boy,” in the most perfectly human tone. The cockatoo had evidently never heard any of his species speak, and must have considered this human voice, proceeding from a bird’s throat, nothing less than witchcraft or sorcery. He always stopped dead short, and remained as it were turned to stone by surprise, standing motionless, with his beautiful crest raised high up, staring stupidly at Griselda who, the moment she had produced the intended effect, turned round and scuffled away once more as fast as ever she could. The instant Joe could pull himself together he started after her in hot pursuit, to be again checked by the word “Guard,” called in equally distinct tones. There was no need for my interference at all, and Griselda saved herself by her own cleverness entirely.
Besides their Sunday afternoon tea-parties with me, the parrots and cockatoos are let out whenever I can spare time, and they all assemble at the door of their cage the moment they see me, in case I am able and willing to open it. As soon as they are let out they waddle and flutter off to their favourite places in the garden or on the lawn. There is generally some particular berry they love, and I keep them well supplied with raw vegetables. Once, and once only, they found their way to the kitchen-garden, and had a field-day among the green peas! Some of them can fly in spite of their cut wings, and keep me in a state of anxiety by their prolonged excursions to the nearest tree-tops. However, when the others are put back into the aviary—they always walk in of their own accord—I am sure to hear a rustle and cry behind or above me, and this is the truant, swiftly descending from his lofty branch in a great hurry, and terribly afraid of being shut out.
And now I have only left myself a little space to tell you of my canaries. They have been sent to me from Sydney and from Melbourne. Such beauties, as yellow as gold, and the cocks sing splendidly. They have an enormous cage divided in two, and with nests all round in which they rear many families. It was a terrible business moving this great cage over here just after Christmas. The instant it was taken down from its stand or table the poor baby canaries tumbled out of the nests in every direction. I was in despair, and gave them up for lost. However, I collected the little bare and hideous creatures (more like bubbles with beaks than respectable young birds!), put them in a basket, fed them as well as I could for a day or so, and then, the moment we arrived here, returned them to their parents’ care. Strange to say they all lived, and are now as big as the old ones.
The cage stands on the sheltered side of the verandah, where the wind is not too strong, and the gay singing of my little pets enlivens the house without deafening us. They are so happy with incessant fresh baths and heaps of green food. Two pair of very well-bred canaries were sent to me the other day from England in a small travelling cage. The voyage had proved a terribly long one, and my little birdies must have felt it dreadfully. They arrived quite bald, and had not a feather of a tail left among them, but I am sure they will soon recover. The cocks sing away as if nothing was the matter, and it was pretty to see their astonishment and delight at the space provided for them. They behaved exactly as we should do after many weeks of a sea-voyage. They first took a bath—a series of baths in fact—and then flew down on the heap of green food, and ate as if they never meant to stop! I can’t bear to keep a canary in a small cage; but these birds have as much room as they can possibly want—over 6 feet each way, and lots of gravel and water and green food. The ants are our only trouble, and if I do not take care that the saucers of water in which the castors of the cage stand are always full, a swarming line of ants makes its way up the mahogany legs, and then the whole cage has to be turned out.
Sometimes an emeu comes gravely stepping round the corner and looks in, then I hear a terrified “tweeing,” and have to go and drive away the greedy intruder. Or else one of the cows puts her head in at the verandah in search of pears, and I am obliged to bribe her to follow me round to her proper side of the house by a large slice of water-melon. So you see my pets bully me a good deal, in one fashion or another.