WOOD PIGEON. L5% 
similar instance of extraordinary confidence was exhibited, and 
probably by the same birds, in the following spring. 
Some people, we all know, adopt very singular theories on 
certain subjects; and so long as they are theories merely, or 
quite innocent, or their upholders do not seek to enforce 
their adoption upon other people, I do not see why the 
theorists should be disturbed in their belief, and on this 
ground I claim indulgence when I assert my belief that 
these very familiar and fearless Ring Doves were either the 
direct descendants of my old pet, or that one of them was 
the identical pet in question. I make a point of believing 
this, for it is to me a satisfactory belief, and it is not after 
all a very singular theory, although it must be confessed 
that a period of five or six years intervened between the 
departure of my bird and the occurrence of this instance of 
fearless tameness.’ 
The following, too, occurs in ‘Jesse’s Scenes and Tales of 
Country Life:—‘Every sportsman knows that the Common 
Wood Pigeon (the Ring Dove) is one of the shyest birds we 
have, and so wild that it is very difficult indeed to get 
within shot of one. This wild bird has however been known 
to lay aside its usual habits. In the spring of 1839, some 
village boys brought two young Wood Pigeons, taken from 
the nest, to the parsonage house of a clergyman, in Glouces- 
tershire, from whom I received the following anecdote:—“They 
were bought from the boys merely to save their lives, and 
sent to an old woman near the parsonage to be bred up. 
She took great care of them, feeding them with peas, of 
which they are very fond. One of them died, but the other 
erew up and was a fine bird. Its wings had not been cut, 
and as soon as it could fly it was set at liberty. Such, 
however, was the effect of the kindness it had received, that 
it would never quite leave the place. It would fly to great 
distances, and even associate with others of its own kind; 
but it never failed to come to the house twice a day to be 
fed. The peas were placed for it in the kitchen window. 
If the window was shut, it would tap with its beak till it 
was opened, then come in, eat its meal, and then fly off 
again. If by any accident it could not then gain admittance, 
it would wait somewhere till the cook came out, when it 
would pitch on her shoulder, and go with her into the 
kitchen. What made this more extraordinary was, that the 
cook had not bred the bird up, and the old woman’s cottage 
