112 
ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY BULLETIN 
indifference, as much as to say, “Do as you 
please, but I’d like to see any one teach me to 
spell!” Poor Belle, I grew angry at her 
clumsiness, and pulled her toes so hard that at 
last she howled. But she bore me no malice, 
and was ready to play with me as soon as I 
had varied of the lesson. 
I was fortunate enough to be born on a south¬ 
ern farm, and I grew up among a multitude of 
domestic animals. It is no exaggeration to sa} 
that I spent the greater part of the years before 
my education began in the company of my 
barnyard contemporaries. My keen interest in 
everything that had life led my teacher to use 
the animals on the farm as object lessons. I 
absorbed language satisfying my curiosity about 
living creatures. Hunting for the guinea liens’ 
hidden nests, touching the cool, moist noses and 
threatening horns of the cows, holding the 
young pigs in my arms, feeding the great, strut¬ 
ting turkeys and feeling their feathers rise, like 
a flock of birds hovering close to the ground, 
being held on the back of a mule by one of the 
darky farmers when he ploughed the cornfield,— 
all these experiences imparted the liveliest real¬ 
ity to the words I learned. As I zigzagged my 
way from the kitchen door to the paddock at 
the end of the lane, I drank in knowledge with 
delight. I had a miscellany of small pets. One 
of them was a racoon, a plump little rascal. He 
was inquisitive and acquisitive. He had no 
principles to speak of. The family called him 
a thief and a nuisance, but to me he was a 
darling. 
I had no end of rabbits, but they did not 
interest me greatly. They never once had a 
thought in their wee heads; nothing but downy 
fur, long ears and wobbly noses. 
I recall with creeping thrills of agreeable 
horror an experience I once had with a magni¬ 
ficent Angora cat. He was sleeping quietly on 
my knee when something startled him. He stood 
up humping his back, angrily stretching his 
body, tensely alert, waiting to leap. His throat 
began to palpitate. Hungrily, stealthily he 
reached out one paw. An electric flame seemed 
to pass through his silken fur. I guessed he 
saw a bird through the open window. I tried to 
hold him back, but he darted out of the window 
like a thought charged with evil intent. I could 
not see what happened with my physical eyes, 
but the mental picture I had of the denoument 
still grieves my soul. In that moment a thing 
of joy and beauty was snatched from the earth, 
a lovely voice was stilled, and happy wings 
ceased to soar in the sunlight. The incident has 
always been to me a symbol of the ageless 
tragedy of life. 
I had many bird friends,—pretty elves that 
opened many of the unseen gates of Fairyland 
for me. A flock of pigeons came to the dining¬ 
room window every morning for crumbs. They 
nudged and elbowed each other for standing 
room on the sill, cooing softly. Three of them 
became so friendly, they would take bits of 
muffin from my lips and fight each other for a 
place on my shoulder or wrist. 
A pair of red bantams was the delight of my 
heart. They were so tame, they would stand 
on my knees billing and crowing, as much at 
home as if they were on the ground. One day 
the lady bantam most amazingly laid an egg 
in my lap. 
One of my feathered flock was a cockatoo 
which Dr. Alexander Graham Bell gave me for a 
birthday present. I called him Jonquil because 
lie had a glorious yellow crest which, unfurled, 
was a sign of wrath. Jonquil was a wicked elf, 
a menace masked in white and gold feathers. 
There was no limit or bound to his perversity. 
He would sit perched on my foot while I read, 
rocking back and forth as I turned the pages. 
Every few minutes he would hop up on my 
shoulder, kiss my ear and cheek, and put his 
long, sharp, hooked bill in my mouth, a token 
of his affection which sent tiny ripples of terror 
down my spine. Suddenly he would dart off 
screeching fiendishly, to alight on the back of a 
dog, or any human being who came near. So 
my happiness in his adoration was not unmixed 
with fear and dismay. Because of his countless 
misdemeanors, I had to let him go. My father 
tried to give him to various people, but Jonquil’s 
evil fame had spread far and wide, and every 
one declined the gift with thanks. Finally he 
was given shelter in a saloon, where he acted as 
a sort of special policeman. Whenever a person 
became intoxicated or otherwise objectionable, 
Jonquil drove him out into the street. I do not 
know what became of him after the passing of 
the Eighteenth Amendment. Possbily he became 
the mascot of the Anti-Saloon League. 
Then there was a canary which would sit on 
my finger and sing as if his little heart would 
burst in a flame of song. People often express 
surprise that I have such a tender feeling for 
birds. It is true, I cannot see them winging 
their way through the light, or hear their love 
calls in the spring-time. Nevertheless, to me 
they are part of life’s dear intimacies. Their 
delicate endearments, when one is fortunate 
enough to win their confidence, are like the 
fragrance of flowers received from a beloved 
