The Zoologist— Mat, 1868. 1211 



Has not yet changed all its wing-feathers. Is pugnacious towards 

 some, snapping at their fingers, elevating its wings, and saying " cue, 

 cue;" manifests fear of others, and when it sees a cat on the garden- 

 wall, or any unusual object at a distance, depresses its feathers, and 

 with its bright eyes anxiously watches the thing that has engaged its 

 attention. I have never seen it cast up any of the more indigestible 

 portions of its food in the manner of predatory birds, although, before 

 it was accustomed to feed itself, it would sometimes eject from its 

 throat a pellet of food given it from the stick with considerable force, 

 by shaking its head and neck. It has never drank of its own accord, 

 but it sometimes has its food moistened with water, and when it was 

 fed by hand I occasionally gave it water from a finger, but certainly 

 with it water does not appear a necessary of life. 



May 15. Called "cuckoo" in the evening. 



July 15. Cuckoo called as it has done on a few previous occa- 

 sions. 



When not at large in a lumber-room this pet was kept in an osier- 

 cage, in a parlour, or some other warm room, and frequently on winter 

 nights a cloth was placed around its cage to keep off the cold, and as 

 a further precaution one of its perches was bound round with flannel. 

 It frequently plumed its feathers, and on being placed in the sun 

 would droop its wings, and appear to much enjoy the heat. It some- 

 times hopped from perch to perch, but frequently remained for a long 

 time on one at the top of the cage. Sometimes it would spring up 

 and cling on with its tenacious claws and feet to the higher parts of 

 the cage, and then fall quite to the bottom, often, whilst it was moulting, 

 in this way breaking its new quill-feathers, and making them bleed, if 

 not fully developed. This was a constant source of annoyance to us, 

 and doubtless of paiu to our restless, dissatisfied and impatient pet — 

 such, in truth it was. Its restlessness was probably indirectly the 

 cause of its death, for one day I found it in its cage, with the skin of 

 its head so fearfully torn that I thought it best to kill it by pulling off 

 its head — such was the ignominious end of my poor cuckoo. I cannot 

 say it was very much regretted, as, although it had never known 

 liberty, it always seemed to feel itself a captive, notwithstanding the 

 pains we took to make it comfortable, and the regard we showed 



for it. 



J. R. Archer Biuggs. 

 4, Portland Villas, Plymouth, 

 March 26, 1868. 



