476 THE BRITISH NATURE BOOK 



neighbourhood come hunting round my starlings' boxes regularly at night. What- 

 ever the cause, there was Joeee, a mass of quills and temper (not unmixed with 

 fear), on the ground before breakfast. And a broken leg; which was a sufficiently 

 good reason for some one to play the part of good Samaritan and take him in, though 

 he cost me a good deal more than twopence. After sulking for a day, he got accus- 

 tomed to being fed on fine chopped meat, powdered dog biscuit, egg, and bread 

 crumbs. His chief taste was for mealworms ; and the number he could eat at a 

 time was astonishing. At is. 6d. a thousand, they added to his bulk and his expense. 

 But there was no denying him ; the moment I entered the room he screamed for 

 mealworms, and when he grew well enough to fly he would make a dash for the 

 pickle bottle in which they were kept and dive in head foremost amongst them. 

 He had to be pulled out backwards, swearing and kicking, with his mouth full. 



He grew into a fine bird, in exquisite plumage, with a gorgeous metallic sheen. 

 He started practising his programme of imitations very early, and learnt to say 

 " Joeee " plainly enough, though I had no leisure to teach him any other words. 



He li ved in a large cage in my study ; and when I was at work at my typewriter 

 he would sing his loudest and imitate the clicking as best he could, with a curious 

 little chuckle for the bell at the end of each line. He was most exceeding alert, 

 noticing every strange sound ; the clock striking always set him off, and if a stranger 

 knocked at the hall door or spoke outside, he would give an alarm at once, exactly 

 like a watch dog, but without the bark. 



Every morning he came out of his cage, took a flight round the room, and settled 

 for a song on exactly the same book in the same corner of the bookshelf. Whether 

 the width of it fitted his feet I don't know, but he never used any other book as 

 his perch. 



He would, at his own convenience, jump down on to my desk, poke about my 

 papers, raising them by opening his beak ; occasionally he found a mealworm 

 amongst them. Then he would have a furious fight with my typewriter, pecking 

 at the carriage as it travelled its length, backing away from it as it advanced, and 

 then charging after it as I drew it back at the end of a line. 



Tired of that, he would jump on my head and part my hair with his beak, exactly 

 as you may see his relations doing to the grass. It was a most ticklish sensation, 

 but nothing to compare with his thrusting his bill into one's ear or down one's 

 collar. 



The only way to get him back to his cage was to put a mealworm there. He 

 would watch slyly and pretend he didn't care ; he would stick to his seat on the 

 bookshelf and sing lightheartedly to show his indifference, but all the same he 

 could not resist the bait for long. He had uneasy fears about that mealworm 

 getting into a crack or under the board in the cage. He would endure the torture 

 for a moment, and at last with a scream would bolt home, gobble the mealworm, 

 and try to get out again before he was shut in. 



He had a bath every morning in a developing dish in front of the window, when 

 he soaked himself to the skin, and became the most bedraggled rake of a bird you 

 ever saw. At first, too drenched to be able to fly, he would sit in helplessness on the 

 mat, then jump to my desk as a stepping-stone to his favourite book, leaving a 

 smear of wet over my papers, added to by a vigorous shake, and then he would 

 reach his perch and finish drying and preening himself there. 



He was a merry scoundrel, full of tricks, and he would answer back as long as 

 you cared to pretend to scold him. He thoroughly disliked any other persons in 



