298



The Marquis of Tavistock,



expanding with excitement, and the plumage is drawn close to the

body and never puffed out as in the case of a courting Broadtail.


After the King had been paying his addresses for several days

and the lady had begun to show evident signs of appreciation, I

thought that the time had come to release her, which I accordingly

did, but not without considerable anxiety, for I feared she would

repeat the wandering tactics of her predecessor. For two days,

however, all went welt. The pair were as happy as possible and

the Queen showed no inclination to go off on her own account, but

was content to follow her mate and let him show her the way about.

But my ill-luck was not yet ended, and just when I was beginning

to conjure up roseate visions of a nest of young Kings, the third day

dawned—and no Queen ! Her mate returned to the empty cage

she had once occupied and called long and disconsolately, and I

came to the conclusion that she must have wandered away and got

lost or had met with some accident. A few hours later, however, I

saw her on one of the feeding trays, but not, alas! the strong,

healthy bird of the day before, but a sickly, miserable object. I

caught her at once and put her in a warm room, imagining that she

had caught a chill. In two days she was dead, and the post mortem

revealed to my astonishment and disgust, not enteritis as I expected,

but my old enemy septic fever ! Apparently the wretched disease

was still lurking in the garden, though for six months there had

been no fresh case, and no new birds had been turned out to re¬

introduce the infection. The widowed King, after much fruitless

calling, resigned himself once more to the unsatisfactory company of

Platycercines, and some weeks after the death of his mate, astonished

me by a most unexpected and talented display of mimicry. I

happened to have bought a new hen Pennant, whose appearance

made a favourable impression on the King, for I found him one day

sitting on the top of the aviary indulging in his courting antics and

calls. The Pennant, however, unused to such peculiar methods of

wooing, remained unresponsive, and her suitor, apparently thinking

that something more was required of him, suddenly began, to my

great astonishment, to imitate with extraordinary accuracy the

crooning and cackling of a flock of domestic poultry. How he had

managed to acquire this accomplishment—for it certainly is acquired



