Once Dick fell into a bucket of water, and called lustily for the “doctor;” and I was only just in time to save him from a watery grave. When I got him out, he did not speak a word until he had gone to the fire and opened his wings and feathers out to dry, then he said: “Bravo! B-r-ravo” several times, and went forthwith and attacked Hezekiah.

Dick had a little travelling cage, for he often had to go with me by train; and no sooner did the train start than Dick used to commence to talk and whistle, very much to the astonishment of the passengers, for the bird was up in the umbrella rack. Everybody was at once made aware of both my profession and character, for the jolting of the carriage not pleasing him, he used always to prelude his performance with, “Doctor, doctor, you r-r-rascal. What is it, eh?” As Dick got older, I am sorry, as his biographer, to be compelled to say he grew more and more unkind to his wife – attacked her regularly every morning and the last thing at night, and half-starred her besides. Poor Hezekiah! She could do nothing in the world to please him. Sometimes, now, she used to peck him back again; she was driven to it. I was sorry for Hezekiah, and determined to play pretty Dick a little trick. So one day, when he had been bullying her worse than ever, I took Hezekiah out of the cage, and fastened a small pin to her bill, so as to protrude just a very little way, and returned her. Dick walked up to her at once. “What,” he wanted to know, “did she mean by going on shore without leave?” Hezekiah didn’t answer, and accordingly received a dig in the back, then another, then a third; and then Hezekiah turned, and let him have one sharp attack. It was very amusing to see how Dick jumped, and his look of astonishment as he said: “Eh? What d’ye say? Hezekiah! Hezekiah!”

Hezekiah followed up her advantage. It was quite a new sensation for her to have the upper hand, and so she courageously chased him round and round the cage, until I opened the door and let Dick out.

But Hezekiah could not live always with a pin tied to her bill; so, for peace’ sake, I gave her away to a friend, and Dick was left alone in his glory.

Poor Dickie! One day he was shelling peas to himself in the garden, when some boys startled him, and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself, and couldn’t find his way back. At all events I only saw him once again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from the house, when a voice above in a tree hailed me: “Doctor! doctor! What is it?” That was Dick; but a rook flew past and scared him again, and away he flew – for ever.

That same evening, Ida, who had been absent for some little time, returned, and shyly handed me a letter.

“Whom is it from, I wonder, Ida,” I said; “so late in the evening, too?”

“Oh, it is from Maggie,” Ida replied.

“What!” I exclaimed; “from that impudent bird? Well, let us see what she has to say;” and opening the note, I read as follows: —

“Dear Master, – I fully endorse all you have written about the starling, especially as regards their treatment, and if you had added that they are pert, perky things, you wouldn’t have been far out. Well, we magpies build our nests of sticks on the tops of tall trees, lining it first with clay, then with grass; our eggs are five in number, and if they weren’t so like to a rook’s they might be mistaken for a blackbird’s. The nests are so big that before the little boys climb up the trees they think they have found a hawk’s. In some parts of the country we are looked upon with a kind of superstitious awe. This is nonsense; there is nothing wrong about us; we may bring joy to people, as I do to you, dear Doctor, by my gentle loving ways, but we never bring grief. We like solitude, and keep ourselves in the wild state to ourselves. Perhaps if we went in flocks, and had as much to say for ourselves as those noisy brutes of rooks, we would be more thought of. Even in the domestic state we like our liberty, and think it terribly cruel to be obliged to mope all day long in a wicker cage. It is crueller still to hang us in draughts, or in too strong a sun; while to keep our cage damp and dirty cramps our legs and gives us such twinges of rheumatism in our poor unused wings, that we often long to die and be at rest.

“The treatment, Doctor, you prescribe for starlings will do nicely for us, and you know how easily we are taught to talk; and I’m sure I do love you, Doctor, and haven’t I, all for your sake, made friends with your black Persian cat and your big Newfoundland dog?

“No, I’m not a thief; I deny the charge. Only if you do leave silver spoons about, and gold pens, and shillings and sixpenny-bits – why – I – I borrow them, that is all, and you can always find them in Maggie’s cage.

“We can eat all that starlings eat; yes, and a great many things they would turn up their supercilious bills at. But, remember, we do like a little larger allowance of animal food than starlings do.

“No more at present, dear Doctor, but remains your loving and affectionate Magpie, Maggie.”

N.b. – The grammatical error in the last sentence is Maggie’s, not mine.

Chapter Ten.
The Life and Death of Rook Toby

“A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.
    Beneath her steady ray
    The desert-circle spreads;
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
    How beautiful is night?”

“It most have been on just such another night as this, Frank, that Southey penned these lines,” I began.

“How about the dewy freshness?” said my wife, who is usually more practical than poetic. “Don’t you think, dear, that Ida had better go in?”

“Oh! no, auntie,” cried Ida; “I must stay and hear the story. It isn’t nine o’clock.”

“No,” Frank remarked, “barely nine o’clock, and yet the stars are all out; why, up in the north of Scotland people at this season of the year can see to read all night.”

“How delightful!” cried Ida.

The nodding lilacs and starry syringas were mingling their perfume in the evening air.

“Listen,” said my wife; “yonder, close by us in the Portugal laurel, is the nightingale.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but to-morrow morning will find the bird just a trifle farther afield, for some instinct tells him that our dark-haired Persian pussy is an epicure in her way, and would prefer philomel to fish for her matutinal meal.”

I am more convinced than ever that for the first two or three nights after their arrival in this country the nightingales do not go to sleep at all, but sing on all day as well as all night, the marvel being that they do not get hoarse. But after a week the night-song is not nearly so brilliant nor so prolonged, nor does it attain its pristine wild joyfulness until spring once more gilds the fields with buttercups. By day the song is not so noticeable, though ever and anon it sounds high over the Babel of other birds’ voices. But, of course, the thrush must sing, the blackbird must pipe, and vulgar sparrows bicker and shriek, and talk Billingsgate to each other, for sparrows having but little music in their own nature, have just as little appreciation for the gift in others.

“Look!” cried Frank; “yonder goes a bat.”

“Yes,” I said, “the bats are abroad every night now in full force. What a wonderful power of flight is theirs; how quickly they can turn and wheel, and how nimbly gyrate!”

“I much prefer the martin-swallow,” said Ida.

“We have no more welcome summer, or rather spring visitor, Ida, than the martin.

“‘He twitters on the apple-trees,
    He hails me at the dawn of day,
Each morn the recollected proof
    Of time, that swiftly fleets away.
Fond of sunshine, fond of shade,
    Fond of skies serene and clear,
E’en transient storms his joys invade,
    In fairest seasons of the year.’”

“But I must be allowed to say that I object to the word ‘twitter,’ so usually applied to the song of the swallow. It is more than a meaningless twitter. Although neither loud nor clear, it is – when heard close at hand – inexpressibly sweet and soft and tender, more so than even that of the linnet, and there are many joyous and happy notes in it, which it is quite delightful to listen to. Indeed, hardly any one could attentively observe the song of our domestic martin for any length of time without feeling convinced that the dusky little minstrel was happy – inexpressibly happy. Few, perhaps, know that there is a striking similarity between the expressions by sound or, voice of the emotions of all animals in the world, whether birds or beasts, and whether those emotions be those of grief or pain, or joy itself. This is well worth observing, and if you live in the country you will have a thousand chances of doing so. Why does the swallow sing in so low a voice? At a little distance you can hardly hear it at all. I have travelled a good deal in forests and jungles and bush lands in Africa and the islands about it, and, of course, I always went alone, that is, I never had any visible companion – because only when alone can one enjoy Nature, and study the ways and manners of birds and beasts, and I have been struck by the silence of the birds, or, at all events, their absence of song in many of them.”

“Why should that be so, I wonder?” said Ida.

“Probably,” said Frank, “because the woods where the birds dwell are so full of danger that song would betray their presence, and the result be death. And the same reason may cause the house martins to lower their voices when they give vent to their little notes of tuneful joy.”

There was a moment’s pause: Aileen came and put her head in my lap.

“She is waiting for the story,” said Frank.

“Oh! yes,” my wife remarked; “both the dogs are sure to be interested in ‘Toby’s’ tale.”

“Why?” said Frank.

“Because,” my wife replied, “Toby was a sheep.”

Here Theodore Nero must join Aileen. The very name or mention of the word “sheep,” was sure to make that honest dog wag his tail.

“Two heads are better than one,” I once remarked in his presence.

“Especially sheep’s heads,” said the dog.

And now for the story.

Toby: The Story of a Sailor Sheep

Now Toby was a sheep, a sheep of middling size, lightly built, finely limbed, as agile as a deer, with dark intelligent gazelle-like eyes, and a small pair of neatly curled horns, with the points protruding about an inch from his forehead. And his colour was white except on the face, which was slightly darker.

It was the good brig Reliance of Arbroath, and she was bound from Cork to Galatz, on the banks of the blue Danube. All went well with the little ship until she reached the Grecian Archipelago, and here she was detained by adverse winds and contrary currents, making the passage through among the islands both a dangerous and a difficult one. When the mariners at length reached Tenedos, it was found that the current from the Dardanelles was running out like a mill-stream, which made it impossible to proceed; and accordingly the anchor was cast, the jolly-boat was lowered, and the captain took the opportunity of going on shore for fresh water, of which they were scarce. Having filled his casks, it was only natural for a sailor to long to treat himself to a mess of fresh meat as well as water. He accordingly strolled away through the little town; but soon found that butchers were unknown animals in Tenedos. Presently, however, a man came up with a sheep, which the captain at once purchased for five shillings. This was Toby, with whom, his casks of water, and a large basket of ripe fruit, the skipper returned to his vessel. There happened to be on board this ship a large and rather useless half-bred Newfoundland. This dog was the very first to receive the attentions of Master Toby, for no sooner had he placed foot on deck than he ran full tilt at the poor Newfoundland, hitting him square on the ribs and banishing almost every bit of breath from his body. “Only a sheep,” thought the dog, and flew at Toby at once. But Toby was too nimble to be caught, and he planted his blows with such force and precision, that at last the poor dog was fain to take to his heels, howling with pain, and closely pursued by Toby. The dog only escaped by getting out on to the bowsprit, where of course Toby could not follow, but quietly lay down between the knight-heads to wait and watch for him.

That same evening the captain was strolling on the quarter-deck eating some grapes, when Toby came up to him, and standing on one end, planted his feet on his shoulders, and looked into his face, as much as to say: “I’ll have some of those, please.”

And he was not disappointed, for the captain amicably went shares with Toby. Toby appeared so grateful for even little favours, and so attached to his new master, that Captain Brown had not the heart to kill him. He would rather, he thought, go without fresh meat all his life. So Toby was installed as ship’s pet. Ill-fared it then with the poor Newfoundland; he was so battered and so cowed, that for dear life’s sake he dared not leave his kennel even to take his food. It was determined, therefore, to put an end to the poor fellow’s misery, and he was accordingly shot. This may seem cruel, but it was the kindest in the main.

Now, there was on board the Reliance an old Irish cook. One morning soon after the arrival of Toby, Paddy (who had a round bald pate, be it remembered) was bending down over a wooden platter cleaning the vegetables for dinner, when Toby took the liberty of insinuating his woolly nose to help himself. The cook naturally enough struck Toby on the snout with the flat of the knife and went on with his work. Toby backed astern at once; a blow he never could and never did receive without taking vengeance. Besides, he imagined, no doubt, that holding down his bald head as he did, the cook was desirous of trying the strength of their respective skulls. When he had backed astern sufficiently for his purpose, Toby gave a spring; the two heads came into violent collision, and down rolled poor Paddy on the deck. Then Toby coolly finished all the vegetables, and walked off as if nothing had happened out of the usual.

Toby’s hatred of the whole canine race was invincible. While the vessel lay at Galatz she was kept in quarantine, and there was only one small platform, about four hundred yards long by fifty wide, on which the captain or crew of the Reliance could land. This was surrounded by high walls on three sides, one side being the Pe’latoria, at which all business with the outside world was transacted through gratings. Inside, however, there were a few fruit-stalls. Crowds used to congregate here every morning to watch Toby’s capers, and admire the nimbleness with which he used to rob the fruit-stalls and levy blackmail from the vegetable vendors.

One day when the captain and his pet were taking their usual walk on this promenade, there came on shore the skipper of a Falmouth ship, accompanied by a large formidable-looking dog. And the dog only resembled his master, as you observe dogs usually do. As soon as he saw Toby he commenced to hunt his dog upon him; but Toby had seen him coming and was quite en garde; so a long and fierce battle ensued, in which Toby was slightly wounded and the dog’s head was severely cut. Quite a multitude had assembled to witness the fight, and the ships’ riggings were alive with sailors. At one time the brutal owner of the dog, seeing his pet getting worsted, attempted to assist him; but the crowd would have pitched him neck and crop into the river, had he not desisted. At last both dog and sheep were exhausted and drew off, as if by mutual consent. The dog seated himself close to the outer edge of the platform, which was about three feet higher than the river’s bank, and Toby went, as he was wont to do, and stood between his master’s legs, resting his head fondly on the captain’s clasped hands, but never took his eyes off the foe. Just then a dog on board one of the ships happened to bark, and the Falmouth dog looked round. This was Toby’s chance, and he did not miss it nor his enemy either. He was upon him like a bolt from a catapult. One furious blow knocked the dog off the platform, next moment Toby had leaped on top of him, and was chasing the yelling animal towards his own ship. There is no doubt Toby would have crossed the plank and followed him on board, had not his feet slipped and precipitated him into the river. A few minutes afterwards, when Toby, dripping with wet, returned to the platform to look for his master, he was greeted with ringing cheers; and many was the plaster spent in treating Toby to fruit. Toby was the hero of Galatz from that hour; but the Falmouth dog never ventured on shore again, and his master as seldom as possible.

On her downward voyage, when the vessel reached Selina, at the mouth of the river, it became necessary to lighten her in order to get her over the bar. This took some time, and Toby’s master frequently had to go on shore; but Toby himself was not permitted to accompany him, on account of the filth and muddiness of the place. When the captain wished to return he came down to the river-side and hailed the ship to send a boat. And poor Toby was always on the watch for his master if no one else was. He used to place his fore-feet on the bulwarks and bleat loudly towards the shore, as much as to say: “I see you, master, and you’ll have a boat in a brace of shakes.” Then if no one was on deck, Toby would at once proceed to rouse all hands fore and aft. If the mate, Mr Gilbert, pretended to be asleep on a locker, he would fairly roll him off on to the deck.

Toby was revengeful to a degree, and if any one struck him, he would wait his chance, even if for days, to pay him out with interest in his own coin. He was at first very jealous of two little pigs which were bought as companions to him; but latterly he grew very fond of them, and as they soon got very fat, Toby used to roll them along the deck like a couple of footballs. There were two parties on board that Toby did not like, or rather that he liked to annoy whenever he got the chance, namely, the cook and the cat. He used to cheat the former and chase the latter on every possible occasion. If his master took pussy and sat down with her on his knee, Toby would at once commence to strike her off with his head. Finding that she was so soft and yielding that this did not hurt her, he would then lift his fore-foot and attempt to strike her down with that; failing in that, he would bite viciously at her; and if the captain laughed at him, then all Toby’s vengeance would be wreaked on his master. But after a little scene like this, Toby would always come and coax for forgiveness. Toby was taught a great many tricks, among others to leap backward and forward through a life-buoy. When his hay and fresh provisions went down, Toby would eat pea-soup, invariably slobbering all his face in so doing, and even pick a bone like a dog. He was likewise very fond of boiled rice, and his drink was water, although he preferred porter and ale; but while allowing him a reasonable quantity of beer, the captain never encouraged him in the nasty habit the sailors had taught him of chewing tobacco.

It is supposed that some animals have a prescience of coming storms. Toby used to go regularly to the bulwarks every night, and placing his feet against them sniff all around him. If content, he would go and lie down and fall fast asleep; but it was a sure sign of bad weather coming before morning, when Toby kept wandering among his master’s feet and would not go to rest.

Pea-soup and pork-bones are scarcely to be considered the correct food for a sheep, and so it is hardly to be wondered at that Toby got very thin before the vessel reached Falmouth.

Once Toby was in a hotel coffee-room with his master and a friend of the latter’s, when instead of calling for two glasses of beer, the captain called for three.

“Is the extra glass for yourself or for me?” asked his friend.

The extra glass was for Toby, who soon became the subject of general conversation.

“I warrant noo,” said a north-country skipper, “that thing would kick up a bonnie shine if you were to gang oot and leave him.”

“Would you like to try him?” replied Captain Brown.

“I would,” said the Scot, “vera muckle.”

Accordingly Toby was imprisoned in one corner of the room, where he was firmly held by the Scotch skipper; and Captain Brown, after giving Toby a glance which meant a great deal, left the room. No sooner had he gone than Toby struggled clear of the Scotchman, and took the nearest route for the door. This necessitated his jumping on to the middle of the table, and here Toby missed his footing and fell, kicking over glasses, decanters, and pewter pots by the half-dozen. He next floored a half-drunken fellow, over whose head he tried to spring, and so secured his escape, and left the Scotch skipper to pay the bill.

One day Captain Brown was going up the steps of the Custom-house, when he found that not only Toby but Toby’s two pigs were following close at his heels. He turned round to drive them all back; but Toby never thought for a moment that his master meant that he should return.

“It is these two awkward creatures of pigs,” thought Toby, “that master can’t bear the sight of.”

So Toby went to work at once, and first rolled one piggie downstairs, then went up and rolled the other piggie downstairs; but the one piggie always got to the top of the stairs again by the time his brother piggie was rolled down to the bottom. Thinking that as far as appearances went, Toby had his work cut out for the next half-hour, his master entered the Custom-house. But Toby and his friends soon found some more congenial employment; and when Captain Brown returned, he found them all together in an outer room, dancing about with the remains of a new mat about their necks, which they had just succeeded in tearing to pieces.

Their practical jokes cost the captain some money one way or another.

One day the three friends made a combined attack on a woman who was carrying a young pig in a sack; this little pig happened to squeak, when Toby and his pigs went to the rescue. They tore the woman’s dress to atoms and delivered the little pig. Toby was very much addicted to describing the arc of a circle; that was all very good when it was merely a fence he was flying over, but when it happened that a window was in the centre of the arc, then it came rather hard on the captain’s pocket.

In order to enable him to pick up a little after his long voyage, Toby was sent to country lodgings at a farmer’s. But barely a week had elapsed when the farmer sent him back again with his compliments, saying that he would not keep him for his weight in gold. He led his, the farmer’s, sheep into all sorts of mischief that they had never dreamed of before, and he defied the dogs, and half-killed one or two of them.

Toby returned like himself, for when he saw his master in the distance he baa-ed aloud for joy, and flew towards him like a wild thing, dragging the poor boy in the mud behind him.

Toby next took out emigrants to New York, and was constantly employed all day in sending the steerage passengers off the quarter-deck. He never hurt the children, however, but contented himself by tumbling them along the deck and stealing their bread-and-butter.

From New York Toby went to Saint Stephens. There a dog flew out and bit Captain Brown in the leg. It was a dear bite, however, for the dog, for Toby caught him in the act, and hardly left life enough in him to crawl away. At Saint Stephens Toby was shorn, the weather being oppressively hot. No greater insult could have been offered him. His anger and chagrin were quite ludicrous to witness. He examined himself a dozen times, and every time he looked round and saw his naked back he tried to run away from himself. He must have thought with the wee “wifiekie comin’ frae the fair – This is no me surely, this is no me.” But when his master, highly amused at his antics, attempted to add insult to injury by pointing his finger at him and laughing him to scorn, Toby’s wrath knew no bounds, and he attacked the captain on the spot. He managed, however, to elude the blow, and Toby walked on shore in a pet. Whether it was that he was ashamed of his ridiculous appearance, or of attempting to strike his kind master in anger, cannot be known, but for three days and nights Toby never appeared, and the captain was very wretched indeed. But when he did return, he was so exceedingly penitent and so loving and coaxing that he was forgiven on the spot.

When Toby arrived with his vessel in Queen’s Dock, Liverpool, on a rainy morning, some nice fresh hay was brought on board. This was a great treat for Toby, and after he had eaten his fill, he thought he could not do better than sleep among it, which thought he immediately transmuted to action, covering himself all up except the head. By-and-by the owner of the ship came on board, and taking a survey of things in general, he spied Toby’s head.

“Hollo!” he said, “what’s that?” striking Toby’s nose with his umbrella. “Stuffed, isn’t it?”

Stuffed or not stuffed, there was a stuffed body behind it, as the owner soon knew to his cost, and a spirit that never brooked a blow, for next moment he found himself lying on his back with his legs waggling in the air in the most expressive manner, while Toby stood triumphantly over him waiting to repeat the dose if required.

The following anecdote shows Toby’s reasoning powers. He was standing one day near the dockyard foreman’s house, when the dinner bell rang, and just at the same time a servant came out with a piece of bread for Toby. Every day after this, as soon as the same bell rang – “That calls me,” said Toby to himself, and off he would trot to the foreman’s door. If the door was not at once opened he used to knock with his head; and he would knock and knock again until the servant, for peace’ sake, presented him with a slice of bread.

And now Toby’s tale draws near its close. The owner never forgave that blow, and one day coming by chance across the following entry in the ship’s books, “Tenedos – to one sheep, five shillings,” he immediately claimed Toby as his rightful property. It was all in vain that the captain begged hard for his poor pet, and even offered ten times his nominal value for him. The owner was deaf to all entreaties and obdurate. So the two friends were parted. Toby was sent a long way into the country to Carnoustie, to amuse some of the owner’s children, who were at school there. But the sequel shows how very deeply and dearly even a sheep can love a kind-hearted master. After the captain left him, poor Toby refused all food and died of grief in one week’s time.