Bonnie Berkshire! It is an expression we often make use of. Bonnie Berks – bonnie even in winter, when the fields are robed in starry snow; bonnie in spring-time, when the fields are rolling clouds of tenderest green, when the young wheat is peeping through the brown earth, when primroses cluster beneath the hedgerows, and everything is so gay and so happy and hopeful that one’s very soul soars heavenwards with the lark.

But Berks I thought never looked more bonnie than it did one lovely autumn morning, when Ida and I and the dogs walked up the hill towards our favourite seat in the old pine wood. It was bright and cool and clear. The hedges alone were a sight, for blackthorn and brambles had taken leave of their senses in summer-time, and gone trailing here and climbing there, and playing all sorts of fantastic tricks, and now with the autumn tints upon them, they formed the prettiest patches of light and shade imaginable; and though few were the flowers that still peeped through the green moss as if determined to see the last of the sunshine, who could miss them with such gorgeous colour on thorn and tree? The leaves were still on the trees; only whenever a light gust of wind swept through the tall hedge with a sound like ocean shells, Ida and I were quite lost for a time, in a shower as of scented yellow snow.

My niece put her soft little hand in mine, as she said – “You haven’t forgotten the manuscript, have you?”

“Oh! no,” I said, smiling, “I haven’t forgotten it.”

“Because,” she added, “I do like you to tell me a story when we are all by ourselves.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but this story, Ida, is one I’m going to tell to Aileen, because it is all about a Newfoundland dog.”

“Oh! never mind,” she cried, “Nero and I shall sit and listen, and it will be all the same.”

“Well, Ida,” I said, when we were seated at last, “I shall call my tale – ”

Blucher: The Story of a Newfoundland

“We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was no rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemed to glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horses could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for the rattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her for one of Dickens’s phantom mails. It was a bitter winter’s morning. The driver’s face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his fear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the folds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad on the desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster in appearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to believe that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, his body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attempted to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the eighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come down if only for a few moments.

“The landlord, – remember, reader, I’m speaking of the far north, where mail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still visible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome the coach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that it was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for mulled porter and soft biscuits became general.

“Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come down that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses’ heads.

“Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn’t seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black, feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses’ noses – here, there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver was a humane man, and pulled up at once.

“‘I’ve driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o’ that fraternity,’ he said; ‘some o’ them’s continually gettin’ in the road at the wrang time. Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a’ the warld like a young warlock.’

“Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the recipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, who was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been badly crushed.

“‘Now,’ cried the guard, ‘I’ll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha’ll gie an auld sang for him? He is onybody’s dog for a gill of whuskey.’

“‘I’ll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,’ said a quiet-looking farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once, and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his purchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before the door of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the little creature’s wounded paw.

“Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was yet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life’s history.

“Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended, and regularly fed, ‘Blucher,’ as he was called, soon grew up into a very fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to his master, than for any large amount of good looks.

“One day the farmer’s shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped up in the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of a field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought up on the bottle by the farmer’s little daughter, and as time wore on grew quite a handsome fellow.

“The lamb was Blucher’s only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucher wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb’s head pillowed on the dog’s neck, or vice versa, just as the case might be. Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the country; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased and happy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they had been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems, in his capacity of chaperon to his young friend, led the poor lamb into mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the daily habit of leading ‘Bonny’ to different cabbage gardens, showing him how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any injury or committing a crime. ‘At all events,’ he might reason with himself, ‘it isn’t I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn’t poor Bonny have a morsel when he seems to like it so much?’

“But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their gardens by the ‘twa thieves,’ as they were called, became so numerous, that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher, moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only one we loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for he still had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave him, especially when the farmer’s calling took him anywhere abroad.

“About one year after Bonny’s demise, the farmer began to notice a peculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it, thinking that no doubt time – the poor man’s physician – would cure it. Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laid about half-past six. Well, one dark December’s day, at the accustomed hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some time little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the night grew darker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious.

“‘Here comes father at last,’ cried little Mary, the farmer’s daughter.

“Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight, there wasn’t a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher now attracted Mary’s attention. He never had much affection for her, or for any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones, as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those strange people, who hate dogs, would have understood him. Mary did, anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow, keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his shoulder to her, saying plainly enough, ‘Don’t you think you could manage to run just a leetle faster?’ Through many a devious path he led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest Blucher brought the daughter to the father’s side.

“He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down by that dreadful disease – paralysis. But for the sagacity and intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher’s work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary kneeling down by her father’s side, than he started off home again at full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more, accompanied by two of the servants.

“The rest of this dog’s history can be told in very few words, and I am sorry it had so tragic an ending.

“During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could seldom, if ever, be prevailed on to leave his master’s bedside, and every one who approached the patient was eyed with extreme suspicion. I think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with Blucher, and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying, I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half frightened at a dog he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and would do him an injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great haste to her father’s bedside. Most incautious haste as it turned out, for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest Blucher was condemned to death. I think, taking into consideration his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master, he might have been forgiven just for this once.

“That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness I do not doubt, for they have erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his life, and although fifty years have passed since its erection, it still stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies.”

Chapter Nine.
Tea on the Lawn, and the Story of a Starling

“Thy spangled breast bright sprinkled specks adorn,
Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinted morn.”

“Sit down, Frank,” said I; “my wife and Ida will be here presently. It is so pleasant to have tea out of doors.”

“Yes,” said Frank, “especially such tea as this. But,” he added, fishing a flower-spray from his cup with his spoon, “I do not want jasmine in mine.”

“Good wine needs no bush,” I remarked.

“Nor good tea no scent,” said my friend.

“Although, Frank, the Chinese do scent some of their Souchongs with jasmine, the Jasminum Sambuc.”

“Oh! dear uncle,” cried Ida, “don’t talk Latin. Maggie the magpie will be doing it next.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the pie called Maggie, who was very busy in the bottom of her cage. I never, by the way, heard any bird or human being laugh in such a cuttingly tantalising way as that magpie did.

It was a sneering laugh, which made you feel that the remark you had just made previously was ridiculously absurd. As she laughed she kept on pegging away at whatever she was doing.

“Go on,” she seemed to say. “I am listening to all you are saying, but I really can’t help laughing, even with my mouth full. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Well, Ida dear,” I said, “I certainly shall not talk Latin if there be the slightest chance of that impudent bird catching it up. Is this better?

“‘My slight and slender jasmine tree,
    That bloomest on my border tower,
Thou art more dearly loved by me
    Than all the wealth of fairy bower.
I ask not, while I near thee dwell,
    Arabia’s spice or Syria’s rose;
Thy light festoons more freshly smell,
    Thy virgin white more freshly glows.’”

“And now,” said my wife, “what about the story?”

“Yes, tea and a tale,” cried Frank.

“Do you know,” I replied, “that the starling is the best of all talking pets? And I do wonder why people don’t keep them more often than they do?”

“They are difficult to rear, are they not?”

“Somewhat, Frank, when young, as my story will show.”

“These,” I continued, “are some kindly directions I have written about the treatment of these charming birds.”

“Dear me!” cried the magpie.

“Hold your tongue, Maggie,” I said, “or you’ll go into the house, cage and all.”

Maggie laughed sneeringly, and all throughout the story she kept interrupting me with impudent remarks, which quite spoiled the effect of my eloquence.

The Starling’s Cage. – This should be as large and as roomy as possible, or else the bird will break his tail and lose other feathers, to the great detriment of his plumage and beauty. The cage may be a wicker-work one, or simply wire, but the bars must not be too wide. However much liberty you allow Master Dick in your presence, during your absence it will generally be as well to have him inside his dwelling-place; let the fastening of its door, then, be one which he cannot pick. Any ordinary wire fastening is of no use; the starling will find the cue to it in a single day. Tin dishes for the bird’s food will be found best, and they must be well shipped, or else he will speedily tear them down. A large porcelain water fountain should be placed outside the cage; he will try to bathe even in this, and I hardly know how it can be prevented. Starlings are very fond of splashing about in the water, and ought to have a bath on the kitchen floor every day, unless you give them a proper bathing cage. After the bath place him in the sun or near the fire to dry and preen himself.

Cleanliness. – This is most essential. The cage and his feeding and drinking utensils should be washed every day. The drawers beneath must be taken out, cleaned, washed, and dried before being put back, and a little rough gravel scattered over the bottom of it. If you would wish your bird to enjoy proper health – and without that he will never be a good speaker or musician – keep all his surroundings dry and sweet, and never leave yesterday’s food for to-day’s consumption.

Food. – Do not give the bird salt food, but a little of anything else that is going can always be allowed him. Perhaps bread soaked in water, the water squeezed out, and a little new milk poured over, forms the best staple of diet. But, in addition to this, shreds of raw meat should be given, garden worms, slugs, etc. Carry him round the room on your finger, stopping when you see a fly on the wall or a picture-frame, and holding the starling near it. He will thus soon learn to catch his own flies, and take such delight in this kind of stalking that, as soon as he can speak, he will pester you with his importunities to be thus carried round.

White fish these birds are very fond of, and also fresh salmon. Fruit should be given to them now and then, a fig being considered by them an especial delicacy. A little chickweed or other green food is also relished. This may be placed on the top of the cage. Finally starlings, no matter how well you feed them, will not thrive without plenty of exercise. The male bird is the better talker, and more active and saucy, as well as more beautiful and graceful in shape and plumage. Be assured the bird is very young before purchasing it.

My Starling “Dick.”

I feel very lonely now since my starling is gone. I could not bear to look upon his empty cage, his bath and playthings, so I have had them all stowed away; but the bird will dwell in my memory for many a day. The way in which that starling managed to insinuate itself into my heart and entwine its affections with mine, I can never rightly tell; and it is only now when it is gone that I really know how much it is possible for a human creature to love a little bird. The creature was nearly always with me, talking to me, whistling to me, or even doing mischief in a small way, to amuse me; and to throw down my pen, straighten my back, and have a romp with “Dick,” was often the best relaxation I could have had.

The rearing of a nest of starlings is always a very difficult task, and I found it peculiarly so. In fact, one young starling would require half-a-dozen servants at least to attend it. I was not master of those starlings, not a bit of it; they were masters of me. I had to get out of bed and stuff them with food at three o’clock every morning. They lived in a bandbox in a closet off my bedroom. I had to get up again at four o’clock to feed them, again at five, and again at six; in fact, I saw more sunrises during the infancy of that nest of starlings than ever I did before or since. By day, and all day long, I stuffed them, and at intervals the servant relieved me of that duty. In fact, it was pretty near all stuffing; but even then they were not satisfied, and made several ineffectual attempts to swallow my finger as well. At length – and how happy I felt! – they could both feed themselves and fly. This last accomplishment, however, was anything but agreeable to me, for no sooner did I open their door than out they would all come, one after the other, and seat themselves on my head and shoulders, each one trying to make more noise than all the rest and outdo his brothers in din.

I got so tired of this sort of thing at last, that one day I determined to set them all at liberty. I accordingly hung their cage outside the window and opened their door, and out they all flew, but back they came into the room again, and settled on me as usual. “Then,” said I, “I’m going gardening.” By the way they clung to me it was evident their answer was: “And so are we.” And so they did. And as soon as I commenced operations with the spade they commenced operations too, by searching for and eating every worm I turned up, evidently thinking I was merely working for their benefit and pleasure. I got tired of this. “O bother you all!” I cried; “I’m sick of you.” I threw down my spade in disgust; and before they could divine my intention, I had leaped the fence and disappeared in the plantation beyond.

“Now,” said I to myself, as I entered the garden that evening after my return, and could see no signs of starlings, “I’m rid of you plagues at last;” and I smiled with satisfaction. It was short-lived, for just at that moment “Skraigh, skraigh, skraigh” sounded from the trees adjoining; and before I could turn foot, my tormentors, seemingly mad with joy, were all sitting on me as usual. Two of them died about a week after this; and the others, being cock and hen, I resolved to keep.

Both Dick and his wife soon grew to be very fine birds. I procured them a large roomy cage, with plenty of sand and a layer of straw in the bottom of it, a dish or two, a bath, a drinking fountain, and always a supply of fresh green weeds on the roof of their domicile. Besides their usual food of soaked bread, etc, they had slugs occasionally, and flies, and earthworms. Once a day the cage-door was thrown open, and out they both would fly with joyful “skraigh” to enjoy the luxury of a bath on the kitchen floor. One would have imagined that, being only two, they would not have stood on the order of their going; but they did, at least Dick did, for he insisted upon using the bath first, and his wife had to wait patiently until his lordship had finished. This was part of Dick’s domestic discipline. When they were both thoroughly wet and draggled, and everything within a radius of two yards was in the same condition, their next move was to hop on to the fender, and flatter and gaze pensively into the fire; and two more melancholy-looking, ragged wretches you never saw. When they began to dry, then they began to dress, and in a few minutes “Richard was himself again,” and so was his wife.

Starlings have their own natural song, and a strange noise they make too. Their great faculty, however, is the gift of imitation, which they have in a wonderful degree of perfection. The first thing that Dick learned to imitate was the rumbling of carts and carriages on the street, and very proud he was of the accomplishment. Then he learned to pronounce his own name, with the prefix “Pretty,” which he never omitted, and to which he was justly entitled. Except when sitting on their perch singing or piping, these two little pets were never tired engineering about their cage, and everything was minutely examined. They were perfect adepts at boring holes; by inserting the bill closed, and opening it like a pair of scissors, lo! the thing was done. Dick’s rule of conduct was that he himself should have the first of everything, and be allowed to examine first into everything, to have the highest perch and all the tit-bits; in a word, to rule, king and priest, in his own cage. I don’t suppose he hated his wife, but he kept her in a state of inglorious subjection to his royal will and pleasure. “Hezekiah” was the name he gave his wife. I don’t know why, but I am sure no one taught him this, for he first used the name himself, and then I merely corrected his pronunciation.

Sometimes Dick would sit himself down to sing a song; and presently his wife would join in with a few simple notes of melody; upon which Dick would stop singing instantly, and look round at her with indignation. “Hezekiah! Hezekiah!” he would say, which being interpreted, clearly meant: “Hezekiah, my dear, how can you so far forget yourself as to presume to interrupt your lord and master, with that cracked and quavering voice of yours?” Then he would commence anew; and Hezekiah being so good-natured, would soon forget her scolding and again join in. This was too much for Dick’s temper; and Hezekiah was accordingly chased round and round the cage and soundly thrashed. His conduct altogether as a husband, I am sorry to say, was very far from satisfactory. I have said he always retained the highest perch for himself; but sometimes he would turn one eye downwards, and seeing Hezekiah sitting so cosily and contentedly on her humble perch, would at once conclude that her seat was more comfortable than his; so down he would hop and send her off at once.

It was Dick’s orders that Hezekiah should only eat at meal-times; that meant at all times when he chose to feed, after he was done. But I suppose his poor wife was often a little hungry in the interim, for she would watch till she got Dick fairly into the middle of a song and quite oblivions of surrounding circumstances, then she would hop down and snatch a meal on the sly. But dire was the punishment far the deceit if Dick found her out. Sometimes I think she used to long for a little love and affection, and at such times she would jump up on the perch beside her husband, and with a fond cry sidle close to him.

“Hezekiah! Hezekiah!” he would exclaim; and if she didn’t take that hint, she was soon knocked to the bottom of the cage. In fact, Dick was a domestic tyrant, but in all other respects a dear affectionate little pet.

One morning Dick got out of his cage by undoing the fastening, and flew through the open window, determined to see what the world was like, leaving Hezekiah to mourn. It was before five on a summer’s morning that he escaped; and I saw no more of him until, coming out of church that day, the people were greatly astonished to see a bird fly down from the steeple and alight upon my shoulder. He retained his perch all the way home. He got so well up to opening the fastening of his cage-door that I had to get a small spring padlock, which defied him, although he studied it for months, and finally gave it up, as being one of those things which no fellow could understand.

Dick soon began to talk, and before long had quite a large vocabulary of words, which he was never tired using. As he grew very tame, he was allowed to live either out of his cage or in it all day long as he pleased. Often he would be out in the garden all alone for hours together, running about catching flies, or sitting up in a tree repeating his lessons to himself, both verbal and musical. The cat and her kittens were his especial favourites, although he used to play with the dogs as well, and often go to sleep on their backs. He took his lessons with great regularity, was an arduous student, and soon learned to pipe “Duncan Grey” and “The Sprig of Shillelah” without a single wrong note. I used to whistle these tunes over to him, and it was quite amusing to mark his air of rapt attention as he crouched down to listen. When I had finished, he did not at once begin to try the tune himself, but sat quiet and still for some time, evidently thinking it over in his own mind. In piping it, if he forgot a part of the air, he would cry: “Doctor, doctor!” and repeat the last note once or twice, as much as to say: “What comes after that?” and I would finish the tune for him.

“Tse! tse! tse!” was a favourite exclamation of his, indicative of surprise. When I played a tune on the fiddle to him, he would crouch down with breathless attention. Sometimes when he saw me take up the fiddle, he would go at once and peck at Hezekiah. I don’t know why he did so, unless to secure her keeping quiet. As soon as I had finished he would say “Bravo!” with three distinct intonations of the word, thus: “Bravo! doctor; br-r-ravo! bra-vo!”

Dick was extremely inquisitive and must see into everything. He used to annoy the cat very much by opening out her toes, or even her nostrils, to examine; and at times pussy used to lose patience, and pat him on the back.

“Eh?” he would say. “What is it? You rascal!” If two people were talking together underneath his cage, he would cock his head, lengthen his neck, and looking down quizzingly, say: “Eh? What is it? What do you say?”

He frequently began a sentence with the verb, “Is,” putting great emphasis on it. “Is?” he would say musingly.

“Is what, Dick?” I would ask.

“Is,” he would repeat – “Is the darling starling a pretty pet?”

“No question about it,” I would answer.

He certainly made the best of his vocabulary, for he trotted out all his nouns and all his adjectives time about in pairs, and formed a hundred curious combinations.

“Is,” he asked one day, “the darling doctor a rascal?”

“Just as you think,” I replied.

“Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!” said Dick; and finished off with “Duncan Grey” and the first half of “The Sprig of Shillelah.”

“Love is the soul of a nate Irishman,” he had been taught to say; but it was as frequently, “Love is the soul of a nate Irish starling;” or, “Is love the soul of a darling pretty Dick?” and so on.

One curious thing is worth noting: he never pronounced my dog’s name – Theodore Nero – once while awake; but he often startled us at night by calling the dog in clear ringing tones – talking in his sleep. He used to be chattering and singing without intermission all day long; and if ever he was silent then I knew he was doing mischief; and if I went quietly into the kitchen, I was sure to find him either tracing patterns on a bar of soap, or examining and tearing to pieces a parcel of newly-arrived groceries. He was very fond of wines and spirits, but knew when he had enough. He was not permitted to come into the parlour without his cage; but sometimes at dinner, if the door were left ajar, he would silently enter like a little thief; when once fairly in, he would fly on to the table, scream, and defy me. He was very fond of a pretty child that used to come to see me. If Matty was lying on the sofa reading, Dick would come and sing on her head; then he would go through all the motions of washing and bathing on Matty’s bonnie hair; which was, I thought, paying her a very pretty compliment.

When the sun shone in at my study window, I used to hang Dick’s cage there, as a treat to him. Dick would remain quiet for perhaps twenty minutes, then the stillness would feel irksome to him, and presently he would stretch his head down towards me in a confidential sort of way, and begin to pester me with his silly questions.

“Doctor,” he would commence, “is it, is it a nate Irish pet?”

“Silence, and go asleep,” I would make answer. “I want to write.”

“Eh?” he would say. “What is it? What d’ye say?”

Then, if I didn’t answer —

“Is it sugar – snails – sugar, snails, and brandy?” Then, “Doctor, doctor!”

“Well, Dickie, what is it now?” I would answer.

“Doctor – whew.” That meant I was to whistle to him.

“Shan’t,” I would say sulkily.

“Tse! tse! tse!” Dickie would say, and continue, “Doctor, will you go a-clinking?” I never could resist that. Going a-clinking meant going fly-hawking. Dick always called a fly a clink; and this invitation I would receive a dozen times a day, and seldom refused. I would open the cage-door, and Dick would perch himself on my finger, and I would carry him round the room, holding him up to the flies on the picture-frames. And he never missed one.