“ Willie Winkie.”



337



was late in arriving at Genoa, and it was already dusk. The

interest lay in the Sunbirds, and the rare Woodpeckers and Fly¬

catchers. Time was short, for the ship was to sail again at nine

o’clock that night. “ Why in the world did you bring this rubbish

home?” asked my husband, standing beside the cage where “ Winkie”

hopped and chippered on his perch, the walls of his prison close on

every side, the roof above him close down to the little black head.

The struck match had wakened him from a forlorn sleep, and he

jumped up and down, up and down, in his narrow cell, for pure good

fellowship. His story, such as it is, was told, passed over, and

forgotten in the greater interest of rare and precious birds that were

examined and appraised in the dim light.


Ten days later, my husband met the ship at Southampton.

There was a good deal to see to. The few deaths to record and

regret, the Customs House officials to placate, the specially engaged

guard’s van to load up, and all the way to town the birds to feed and

water, and experiences to relate and to hear.


Small wonder that a worthless little Java Sparrow, who fed

on seed, and needed no patent foods, and no milk and honey to

revive him, was as one who had never existed.


Two or three days later, I came into the sitting room in our

hotel in London, just at the psychological moment when my husband

stood over the small wooden cage and lifted the sliding door that let

the grey man free.


I have no expert knowledge of birds whatsoever, but I have

a certain working knowledge, gained in the dark depths of ignorance,

including the intimate acquaintance of many birds whose Latin

names are unknown to me, but whose personal characteristics are

known and understood as those of friends. “ Mary ” and “ John,”

our tame Blue Knorhaan of Bloemfontein days, taught me much,

and the rearing of young and ever hungry South African Mountain

Chats—and our friend the ‘ Dravelkie ” (I believe he is called a

“ Double-banded Courser)—all these, and many, many others helped

to educate me ever so slightly in the care and handling of birds.


As I write, I seem to be again in Bloemfontein, high up on

Naval Hill—and playing bridge at night in the hot weather. All

the doors and windows of the big living room thrown open to the



