52 Canaries and Cage-Birds. 



the wires, so long will she continue to pull at it, carry it to her nest, throw it out again, and scatter 

 it about in the cage-bottom; and it is astonishing to see how evenly the stuff will be distributed, so 

 much so, that it can all be taken up in the hand in one piece. To allow this is to countenance sheer 

 waste, for this stuff, when once soiled, will never be used for its intended purpose. It seems as 

 though, for a time, her object were nothing but amusement, and a small piece will answer the 

 purpose as well as a bunch ; indeed, a single feather will occupy her constant attention, and this 

 she will carry backwards and forwards to her nest all day long. Something of the kind she must 

 have, or she will purloin a feather from the cock's tail or disfigure him by plucking him whenever 

 she can get a sly pull. Some hens are very ill-mannered in this respect, and every breeder can tell 

 an amusing story of ill-usage of this description. When it is seen, however, that she is really 

 beginning to construct her nest, remove all soiled stuff and give a fresh supply, and the fancier will 

 be rewarded in the course of a few hours by a wonderful display of skill. She takes a mouthful 

 of moss, pulling it from the bunch a sprig at a time, hops away to her nest, pops it in, and then 

 pops herself in on it, with a quiet pantomimic expression that seems to say, "There is no deception, 

 I assure you. I take this small piece of moss and drop it into my nest, so ; then in I drop, so; 

 three turns and a scuffle, and where is it now .' — the quickness of the foot deceives the eye. Now 

 I take a small piece of hair, so, and I drop it in — there's no deception ; three more turns and 

 another scuffle. Now take a peep ; you see I have woven a piece of tapestry. Richard ! a 

 mouthful of tg^, if you please, and don't forget a bit of hemp-seed this time." And so the work 

 goes on, the cock occasionally popping up to see how it is progressing and looking very wise 

 over it, till at length the little nest — we cannot use a prettier word — is completed and lined 

 out daintily with the snowy-white hair, encircled by a fringe of curly moss, behind which the little 

 hen settles herself down full of happy pride, her shining black eyes glistening with love, while her 

 mate bursts into song, answered in a chorus which makes the room echo, by half-a-dozen friends, 

 who also are having a house-warming. 



There will not be much alteration in the position of affairs for a day or two, but by that time 

 the hen will have become more sedate and matronly, and indications of the little event which is 

 shortly to come off will be manifest ; indeed, what may be expected in the morning can generally 

 be foretold with tolerable certainty the night before. The situation is not now entirely free from 

 danger, and the first duty of a breeder on visiting his room in the morning is to notice whether all 

 his hens which ought to have laid have done so, or if any are making heavy weather of it. Some 

 phenomena, however, occasionally present themselves, startling in appearance, but which need not 

 cause serious apprehension. It will sometimes happen that the day before a hen lays she will be 

 seen in the morning in the most complete health, going about just as usual, her feathers close and 

 compact, wings tucked up, and showing nothing to indicate the presence of any disarrangement 

 whatever; but in the afternoon she will be found apparently about to go home. She seeks a corner 

 of the cage, panting violently, and squats on the ground with wings outstretched, feathers all ruffled, 

 head thrown back, eyes closed, in a state of the most entire prostration, the picture of complete 

 misery. A more pitiable object cannot well be conceived. She seems to have lost the use of all 

 her bodily powers, and if taken in the hand, offers no resistance ; indeed, she is too ill to think of 

 it. When replaced in the cage, she scuffles away to her corner, and appears to wish for nothing 

 but to be left alone in quietness to die. You think she might be warmer in her nest, and 

 gently place her there ; but it is no use ; she tumbles out, or, rather, hops out, falling heavily, 

 and shuffles away to her comfortless corner again. There you leave her and begin to mourn 

 over hopes apparently nipped in the bud. You cannot rest at night for thinking about her, 

 and go up-stairs to see if she is dead or alive. Somehow she has managed to scramble into her 



