DR. JEKYLL 
them only after the nestlings had broken the 
shell. 
It is hard to write such things of a bird 
who was once a prime favorite of mine, 
but, if true, they must be told. With all 
his faults, I love him still. He is so dash- 
ing, so handsome, and so intelligent. When 
a family of jays was rendered homeless by a 
storm, I adopted one of the babies, and his 
funny tricks and manners were a source of 
unending amusement. He learned to mimic 
whistles, calls, water pouring from a carafe 
(his cage was in the dining-room), and 
essayed the song of a pet canary, greatly to 
the latter’s disgust. His favorite occupation 
was hiding everything small enough to be 
carried in his bill. If objects rolled too far 
out of reach, a torrent of blue-jay profanity 
rushed from his throat. The words might 
be unintelligible, but there was no mistaking 
the sentiment. In direct contrast to this he 
sometimes sat as close to me as he could get 
and whispered in a confidential undertone, 
musical as a silver bell. It was the same 
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