Part 9

But the cobra is the snake to which all tradition points as most susceptible to musical sounds, and we prepared to watch its attitude towards the violin with no little excitement and curiosity. The accounts of Indian residents mainly agree in saying that the snake-charmer does influence these serpents by the monotonous notes of his little bagpipes; that as soon as the sound is heard, the snake rises, spreads its hood, and often waves its head from side to side in some sort of time to the music; and that, under these conditions, these venomous serpents may be handled with impunity. The last claim of the snake-charmer is perhaps over-bold. The snakes appear generally to have their fangs drawn. But in any case, opinion agrees that the sound of the pipes does attract and interest the cobra. Wild cobras are also induced by the pipe-player to come out from the holes in old wells or ruins in which they have taken up their residence, the snake being noosed when its body is sufficiently clear of the hole to enable it to be jerked away by the snake-charmer’s partner.

The behaviour of the cobras at the Zoo more than justified the Indian stories. We selected for our serenade a large yellow Indian cobra, which was lying coiled up asleep on the gravel at the bottom of its cage. At the first note of the violin, the snake instantly raised its head, and fixed its bright yellow eye with a set gaze on the little door at the back. The music then gradually became louder, and the snake raised itself in the traditional attitude on its tail, and spread its hood, slowly oscillating from one side to the other as the violin played waltz-time. There was a most strangely “interested” look in the cobra’s eye and attitude at this time, and the slightest change in the volume or character of the music was met by an instantaneous change in the movements or poise of the snake. At the tremolo, it puffed its body out. A rattlesnake in the next cage was also listening intently at the same time, with its head drawn back, and slowly rising and falling. But it was less apparently sensitive than the cobra. The violin suddenly reproduced the sound of the bagpipes, which greatly excited the snake; and as the “drone” was put on to the tune of “The Keel Row,” its hood expanded to its utmost dimensions. Soft minor chords were then played, and a sudden sharp discord struck without warning. The snake flinched whenever this was done, as if it had been struck, and this, it may be worth noting, was subsequently found to be a general effect of discords on most animals of a higher organization. The results of these further experiments were naturally more easy to detect and record than in the case of the snakes; but it may be taken as established, that at the Zoo there are serpents that are not yet deaf to the voice of the charmer, even if he lack the training of Eastern magicians.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.

THE SECOND VISIT.

THE result of the first experiments made upon animals with musical sounds, was such as to invite a second visit by the violin-player to the inmates of the Zoo. The sun was shining brightly, and most of the animals were just awaking from their morning sleep. Some were not yet awake. The two Polar bears were lying fast asleep in an affectionate embrace, their noses touching, and each with one paw laid on its companion’s side, while the other grasped its friend’s. Both were dreaming, like dogs on a hearth-rug, and gave slight starts and sounds from time to time and movements of their feet and paws. We seated ourselves on the balustrade of the bridge above, and serenaded the bears. The young one awoke at once, and slowly rolled over, stretched itself, and as the music increased in volume, came out into the main cage to listen. The violin was some ten feet above the level on which the bear was standing. In order to get nearer the sound, it stood up on its hind-legs, and listened intently. It then retired, and began to walk backwards and forwards, uttering some half-formed sound. But a fresh burst of music from the violin once more brought it to the front, where it stood up, and, spreading its arms wide on either side, pushed its muzzle between the bars. When the musician descended from the balcony and went close to the cage, the bear at once crossed to the place, and sat down to listen, occasionally putting its paws through the bars to try and reach the instrument. It was not until we had ceased to play for some time that the bear left its place against the bars, and sought refreshment in a morning tub. The two grizzly bears, at the first chord struck, assumed at once an air of the most comic and critical attention, each with its head on one side, and its paws clasping the bars. A sudden discord made both bears start back, and the lively tone of “The Keel Row” set them walking up and down the cage. In the Lion House, every head turned to the first sound of the violin; as the strains continued, the largest lion, to whom the music was more particularly addressed, began to wave the black tuft on its tail from side to side; and a lioness, which had been asleep in the inner cage, walked straight out towards the violin, and tried to push the lion from its “front seat.” But by this time so much public interest was awakened in our experiment that we were obliged to forego our concert to the lions, and seek an audience less subject to interruption. There is a German tale of a fiddler pursued by wolves who was saved by the accidental breaking of a string of his fiddle. The sound of the breaking string frightened the wolves for the moment, and afterwards, the legend adds, he kept them from pulling him from the roof of the hut on which he had taken refuge by playing continuously. The story of the breaking string frightening the wolves, so far agreed with our experience of the effect of sudden and sharp discords on various animals, that it was decided to make the experiment upon the wolves. The result went far to show that the old legend of their fear of music is based on fact. The common European wolf set up its back, and drew back its lips into a fixed and hideous sneer, showing all its teeth to the gums, with its tail between its legs. The Indian wolf showed signs of extreme and abject fear. It trembled violently, its fur was erected, and cowering down till its body almost touched the ground, it retreated to the furthest corner of the cage. When the music was played at the back of the cage, where the musician was invisible, its alarm was in no degree abated. It crept to the door to listen, and then sprang back and cowered against the bars in front of the cage, and so continued in alternate spasms of curiosity and fear. The jackals and some of the wilder foxes were only less alarmed than the wolves. The female jackals ran back to their inner den and hid themselves. The male erected its fur until it appeared as rough as an Esquimaux dog, and crept backwards and forwards, with its lips curled back, opening and shutting its mouth, growling whenever a strong discordant note was struck. The scene at this time was extremely amusing. The prairie wolves next door sat down to listen, the African jackals sat on a shelf and watched, and the performance was overlooked from a distance by a nervous but highly interested row of foxes of various sizes and colours, all sitting on the party-walls which divide their cages from the wolves and dingoes. It was like a picture from an illustrated edition of Æsop’s Fables. The foxes in the large cages came forward readily to listen to the music, though the usual experiment of striking a discord startled them greatly. But the rough fox from Demerara, in a small cage behind the building, was so violently alarmed that the keeper requested that the music might cease, for fear the creature should “have a fit,” to which ailment it appears that foxes and wolves are very subject. As might be expected, the sheep found pleasure in sounds which terrified the wolves. The burrhel, or wild sheep of the Himalayas, all came forward to listen, their ears pointed forward to catch the sounds. Some even stood up, and placing their fore-feet against the palings, stretched their necks in the direction of the music. Our violinist appropriately chose “The Shepherd’s Call” in William Tell, and this served to engage their intention more than “The Keel Row” or any more violent airs. Like almost all other creatures, they were startled at a discord. In the row of sheep-sheds, the music drew out all the inmates, the Markhor and the Cretan ibex coming forward to listen, and walking back to their food when the music stopped. The old Indian wild boar was an unexpected and appreciative convert to the charms of music. It was lying fast asleep in the sun, with its back towards the musician; but at the first chords it rose and faced round towards the player. After listening attentively, with ears forward, the boar began a series of complacent grunts, and advanced to the front of the pen, until disconcerted by a sharp discordant note, which drove it back several feet. The wild swine from Spain and Africa were also much interested in the music. For some unknown reason, the sounds which pleased the boars offended the African elephant. Setting up its huge, flapping ears, it flung up its trunk, snorted and whistled like a steam-engine, driving its head against the rails, and exhibiting every mark of anger and dislike. The Indian bison and the gayal both brought forward their broad ears to listen, and, resting their muzzles against the railings, seemed to enjoy the sounds; a sharp discord caused them to start back, and produced the same effect on the zebras and African wild ass, both of which listened to the harmonious chords with pleasure, and followed the musician from one side of their stall to another. But it was in the Monkey House that the music caused the greatest wonder and excitement. The large apes—two of which will never hear the violin again, for “Sally” and the young ourang-outang have both died since our visit—were more frightened than pleased. “Tim,” the silver gibbon, was much agitated, opening and shutting his mouth, and waving his long arms about, until two loud discordant notes were played, when he came flying down from his tree, and flung himself against the bars. The young ourang-outang turned his back at once, and made off to the top of his cage, from which not even a banana would tempt him. “Sally” listened gravely, with her hands crossed and a far-off look in her eyes, until a strong crescendo was played, when she made an audible and perfectly articulate remark, though we were unable to record its meaning. Outside the large monkey house, a large Tcheli monkey was sitting in a cage apart, thoughtfully chewing a stick. At the sound of the violin, it gave a violent start and frowned, which, however, is not a necessary sign of displeasure in monkey physiognomy. When sudden discords were played, it sprang forward and rattled the bars. The Capuchin monkeys, the species selected by Dr. Garnier for his experiments in monkey language, showed the strangest and most amusing excitement. These pretty little creatures have wonderfully expressive and intelligent pink faces, with bright-brown eyes and pink lips, and the play and mobility of their faces and bodies while listening to the music was extraordinarily rapid. The three in the first cage at first rushed up into their box, and then all peeped out chattering and excited. One by one they came down and listened to the music with intense curiosity, shrieking and making faces at a crescendo, shaking the wires at a discord, and putting their heads upside-down in efforts of acute criticism at low and musical passages. Every change of note was marked by some alteration of expression in the faces of the excited little monkeys, and a series of discordant notes roused them to a passion of rage. Most of the other monkeys came up to listen; the Malbrook monkey dropped the clay pipe he was making-believe to smoke, and the white-nosed monkey stole a lady’s veil and picked it thoughtfully to pieces. But a big baboon recently brought to the Gardens assumed a most comic look of disgust and surprise, and walked off to the utmost limits of its chain.

It is easier to give a record of such experiments than to speak with confidence of the feelings excited in our various listeners. Darwin, while giving many instances of the expression of anger, pain, and fear, gives few of the expression of pleasure, or the milder emotions of curiosity and contentment. It will not, however, be difficult to show that in many cases the animals at the Zoo did exhibit pleasure and curiosity in a very marked degree; while strange to say, in the case of others, anger or fear was shown in all the modes which Darwin has described. With the behaviour of the wolves we may compare his description of the characteristic expression of fear in carnivorous animals, by erecting the hair and uncovering the teeth and trembling. “Cattle and sheep,” says the great naturalist, “are remarkable for displaying their emotions in a very slight degree, except that of extreme pain.” But in the case of the wild sheep, and even of the wild cattle, the pleasure and curiosity aroused by the music was plainly shown, as we have described above, by their instant attention and their approach towards the sounds. At the sudden discords they instantly showed displeasure by stamping the feet and retiring. The African elephant gave unmistakable signs of anger; the wild boar and pigs, of pleasure and curiosity; and among others which shared these amiable emotions, were beyond doubt the zebras, wild asses, Polar and grizzly bears, and the ant-eater. No creature seemed wholly indifferent except the seals, and the sudden start and displeasure at a discord was almost universal, from the snakes to the African elephant. There are many men, perhaps many races of men, who could not detect a discord, and would be indifferent alike to harmony and its opposite. Must we not, then, infer that, owing to some greater sensitiveness of the organ, most animals have a musical ear, and that the stories of Orpheus and his lute have, at any rate, a basis in the facts of animal æsthetics?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.

THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS.

“Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial; He with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.”

IN a former trial of the effects of sweet sounds on animals’ ears at the Zoo, our Orpheus was so far in character that he played but one instrument; and though the violin did duty for the classic lute, the audience was in many cases as responsive as in the groves of Thessaly, when music still was young. Our object so attained, curiosity went no further, though if a matter-of-fact and scientific age demands “results” as a natural sequence to experiments, however playful, we would sum up the conclusions then reached as follows:—All animals, except the cobras and the wolves, showed pleasure and curiosity when listening to soft and melancholy music; and all exhibited extreme dislike of loud, harsh, discordant sounds. Minor keys in all cases seemed most appreciated, and in some animals, such as the mountain sheep, the bears, and the wolves, they produced the strangest results—in the first two of pleasure, in the last of fear. But though the violin-player is master of many sounds, and can even imitate the drone of the bagpipe, which the cobras so much enjoyed, it still remained to make trial of our hearers with other sounds than those of the tuneful strings. Animals, like the Passions, might have their favourite instrument, if only it could be found, and Orpheus, with his lute, could be matched against the shepherd’s pipe, or could watch the emotion of his animal admirers while melancholy “poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul.” Respect for the peaceful early hours at the Zoo induced us to forego, for the time, the trial of instruments of brass. But it was thought that the contrasts of the violin, the flute, and the shrill and piping piccolo, might afford some guide to animals’ taste in instrumental music, without injury either to their own nerves, or to the comfort of visitors to the Gardens. The hour chosen was the earliest which the rules for securing the animals’ comfort allowed; for the tests to be made were far more delicate than those by which we had proved the general susceptibility of animals to musical sound, and demanded the undivided attention of our captive hearers. The general order of our experiments, based upon the supposition that animal nerves are not unlike our own, was so arranged that their attention should be first arrested by a low and gradually-increasing volume of sound, in those melodious minor keys which experience showed them to prefer. The piccolo was then to follow, in shrill and high-pitched contrast. And, lastly, the mellow wood-notes of the flute were to soothe away whatever ruffled feelings the less tuneful piccolo had aroused. In case the creatures showed any marked preference for the flute over the violin, then the flute was to take precedence.

There is a curious attraction in watching these half-human appeals to animal emotion, and marking the quick look of interest and surprise visible in most of their faces, as the sweet sounds gradually steal on their senses, and the growth of pleasure—or fear—as the creature springs to its feet, and either advances eagerly to listen, or with bristling hair retreats to the farthest corner of the den, until perhaps pleasure or curiosity overcomes their terror at the unusual sounds. Pleasure or dislike are often most strongly shown where least expected, and the result of our last experiment goes to show that the tiger has stronger dislikes, if not stronger preferences, in the musical scale than the most intellectual anthropoid apes.

Our first visit was paid to “Jack,” the young red ourang-outang, which, since the death of “Sally,” the chimpanzee, claims the highest place in animal organization among the inmates of the Zoo. He is a six-months-old baby, of extremely grave and deliberate manners, and perhaps the most irresistibly comical creature which has ever been seen in London. He is extremely well-behaved, not in the least shy, and as friendly with strangers as with his keeper. His arms are as strong as those of a man, while his legs and feet seem to be used less for walking than as a subsidiary pair of arms and hands. He is thus able, when much interested, to hold his face between two hands, and to rest his chin on the third, which gives him an air of pondering reflection beyond any power of human imitation. “He knows there’s something up,” remarked his keeper, as we entered the house, and the ape came to the bars and sat down to inspect his visitors. As the sounds of the violin began, he suspended himself against the bars, and then, with one hand above his head, dropped the other to his side, and listened with grave attention. As the sound increased in volume, he dropped to the ground, and all the hair on his body stood up with fear. He then crept away on all fours, looking back over his shoulder like a frightened baby; and taking up his piece of carpet, which does duty for a shawl, shook it out, and threw it completely over his head and body, and drew it tight round him. After a short time, as the music continued, he gained courage and put out his head, and at last threw away the cloak and came forward again. By this time his hair was lying flat, and his fear had given place to pleasure. He sat down, and, chewing a straw, sat gravely listening to the music. “He looks just like our manager when a new piece is on,” remarked the violinist, as he concluded his share of the serenade. The piccolo at first frightened the monkey, but he soon held out his hand for the instrument, which he was allowed to examine. The flute did not interest him, but the bagpipes—reproduced on the violin—achieved a triumph. He first flattened his nose against the bars, and then, scrambling to the centre of the cage, turned head over heels, and lastly, sitting down, chucked handfuls of straw in the air and over his head, “smiling,” as the keeper said, with delight and approval.

TIGER LISTENING TO SOFT MUSIC. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton. ]

The Capuchin monkeys are kept in a large cage next to one containing a number of grey macaques. The little Capuchins were busy eating their breakfast; but the violin soon attracted an audience. The Capuchins dropped their food and clung to the bars, listening, with their heads on one side, with great attention. The keeper drew our notice to the next cage. There, clinging in rows to the front wires, was a silent assembly of a dozen macaques, all listening intently to the concert which their neighbours were enjoying. At the first sounds of the flute most of these ran away; and the piccolo excited loud and angry screams from all sides. Clearly in this case the violin was the favourite. We then decided to take the opinion of some of the largest and least vivacious animals, and selected the young African elephant for our next auditor. As this animal had shown the utmost dislike to the violin on a previous occasion, the flute was employed to open the concert, and with complete success. The elephant stood listening with deep attention, one foot raised from the ground, and its whole body still—a rare concession to the influence of music from one of the most restless of all animals. So long as the flute continued, it remained motionless and listening. But the change to the piccolo was resented. After the first bar, the elephant twisted round, and stood with its back to the performer, whistling and snorting and stamping its feet. The violin was less disliked, but the signs of disapproval were unmistakable. The deer, as before, were strangely attracted by the violin, and showed equal pleasure in the tones of the flute; the gemul deer, for instance, ran up at once to listen to the latter, their ears and tails being in constant movement at every change of tone or tune. Even the ostrich seemed to enjoy the violin and flute, though it showed marked signs of dislike at the piccolo, writhing its neck and walking uneasily up and down its enclosure. The ibexes were startled at the piccolo, first rushing forward to listen, and then taking refuge on a pile of rocks, from which, however, the softer music of the flute brought them down to listen at the railing. The wild asses and zebras left the hay with which their racks had just been filled; and even the tapir, which lives next door, got up to listen to the violin; while the flute set the Indian wild asses kicking with excitement. But the piccolo had no charms for any of them, and they all returned to their interrupted breakfasts. So far, the piccolo had shown its inability to please in most cases. Of its power to annoy we soon had an amusing proof. The Lion House was almost deserted by the few visitors who were in the Gardens, and the opportunity of making trial of the musical preferences of its inmates was too good to be lost. The violin-player approached a sleeping tiger, which was lying on its side with its feet stretched and touching the bars, and played so softly that the opening notes were scarcely audible. As the sound rose, the tiger awoke, and, raising its head without moving its body, looked for some time with fixed attention at the player. It remained for some time in a very fine attitude listening to the music, and then making the curious sound which, in tiger language, does duty for “purring,” it lay down again and dozed. The soft music still continued, as we were engaged in watching a cheetah, which showed great uneasiness and fear at the sounds, making sudden starts and bounds, raising the fur on its neck, and waving its tail from side to side like an angry cat. But whatever the cheetah’s emotions of dislike, the tiger did not share them, but lay half or wholly asleep, as if the chords which were being played made an agreeable lullaby. Judge, then, of our surprise, when, at the first notes of the piccolo, which succeeded the violin, the tiger sprang to its feet and rushed up and down the cage, shaking its head and ears, and lashing its tail from side to side. As the notes became still louder and more piercing, the tiger bounded across the den, reared on its hind feet, and exhibited the most ludicrous contrast to the calm dignity and repose with which it had listened to the violin. Then came the final and most successful experiment. The piccolo was stopped, and a very soft air played upon the flute. The difference in effect was seen at once. The tiger ceased to “rampage,” and the leaps subsided to a gentle walk, until the animal came to the bars, and, standing still and quiet once more, listened with pleasure to the music.

No doubt it is possible to draw very different conclusions from experiments of so imperfect a character as those which we have described. But it would probably be fair to infer that, for some cause, the violin and flute, which human taste has marked as among the most pleasing of musical instruments, are those most acceptable to animals under that unknown law which determines this branch of animal æsthetics.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TALKING BIRDS.

THE parrots and macaws which live in the Parrot House at the Zoo are so numerous and noisy that the keeper has no leisure to teach them to talk. But a parrot which can say a very few words is very quickly imitated by its neighbours, and a new phrase or word travels from cage to cage, should the birds in the immediate neighbourhood of the accomplished talker be of one of the imitative species. Among birds there are progressive and non-progressive races, which are indifferent to “self-improvement,” and never try to learn a song of their own, much less to imitate the voices of other birds or of men. But the desire to gain new notes is very much more common than is generally believed, and there are at least twenty kinds of birds which are able to reproduce even the complex forms of articulate human speech. Aristotle mentions an Indian parrot which could talk, and “when it drank wine was somewhat improper,” habits and language which it had picked up, no doubt, from Phœnician sailors. But the most accomplished talker of Indian birds is the mynah, a handsome purple-black bird, with a short tail, orange legs and beak, and bright yellow ear-flaps, which run round to the back of its head like a collar. It is a bold, lively bird, with a mellow song and whistle of its own. Its power of reproducing human speech is wonderful, and it exhibits the greatest anxiety that the tones should be correct, first repeating them softly to itself, with its head on one side, and then shouting out the words.

In the Insect House at the Zoo there lives a fine old mynah, who was “deposited” in 1883. While a visitor is examining the Indian moths coming out of their cocoons, he may hear behind him a thoughtful cough, and the “Hulloa!” shouted with startling suddenness. It is the mynah, anxious to be friendly, and to begin a conversation. The Hindoo traders in the bazaars avail themselves of the mynah’s services in a curious way. They teach it to pronounce the holy name of Rama; and while the master’s thoughts are on earthly gains intent, the bird compounds for the neglect by shouting incessantly the name of the god, and texts in honour of his power. If the poet Ovid’s Indian parrot finds its way, as he hoped, to the paradise of birds, and there

“Convertit volucres in sua verba pias,”

it must surely meet the mynahs also.

Another bird which talks better than most, and whistles better than any, is the piping crow. It is a lively black-and-white bird, as large as a rook, but far more elegant in form. Several specimens inhabit the Gardens, but the best is in the western Aviary, where it whistles “Merrily danced the Quaker,” in tones like a flute.

The American blue jay, a most brilliant creature, with lines of emerald and turquoise, is an admirable mimic of many sounds, even of the human voice. Wilson writes of one “which had all the tricks and loquacity of a parrot; pilfered all it could conveniently carry off, answered to its name with great sociability when called upon, and could articulate a number of words pretty distinctly.” Our English jays can also talk, and magpies, especially if kept in good health and spirits by being allowed partial freedom, soon pick up words. Jackdaws and the American crow can also be made to talk. But in all the crow tribe, except the piping crow, the reproduction of human speech seems to be more a trick of mimicry than an effort to acquire a substitute for song. Parrots, mynahs, and some cockatoos take infinite pains to learn correctly and increase their stock of phrases. But the magpie or jay learns what is easy, and takes no further trouble. Even the raven seldom has many words at command, though, owing to its deep, resonant voice and imposing size, it attracts more attention than a chattering jay.

The raven is the largest creature, except man, that can “talk,” and fancy and superstition have naturally exaggerated its powers. Still the speech of the raven has a depth and solemnity which that of no other bird possesses, and whether in boding utterances, like those attributed to the raven in Barnaby Rudge, or by Edgar Allen Poe, or in plain business, like the raven in Guildford Street, which used to say “Ostler, here’s a gentleman,” when a customer arrived, its powers are generally marked and recorded. A fine bird, belonging to a “statesman” in Northumberland, used to say “Poor old Ralph,” or call the collie dog in the exact tones used by its master. “It’s my very own voice,” its owner used to say, laughing, as the dog came running in from the garden. But the crow tribe, though as clever as some parrots, are not so easily domesticated, and their beaks and tongues are less well suited for the musical sounds of human speech. Most of the parrots, and some cockatoos and macaws, have both the mental and physical gifts necessary to make them excel in talking. Parrots of all classes have fleshy tongues, moistened with saliva, and the arched beak provides a substitute for our palate and teeth. They have also wide nostrils, and their natural voices are loud enough and strong enough to equal the volume of human speech. In disposition they are highly imitative. Cockatoos are almost like monkeys in mimicking men. For instance, if you bow to them, they will make elaborate bows. If you put your head on one side, they will often do so too. But with many parrots the desire to learn new sounds is not, we think, a mere trick of mimicry, but the desire to possess a song—an accomplishment with which to please, identical in kind with the motive which prompts the young of singing-birds to learn their parents’ notes, or, in the case of the canary, to learn and improve upon a song, not their own, which they have transmitted to their posterity.

The following account of the development of the talking power in a young parrot of which we have seen much lately, is, we submit, a strong confirmation of this view. Our informant is a lady whose sympathies are by no means limited to parrots, as the context will show, and her observations are wholly reliable. “We bought ‘Barry,’” she writes, “when he was quite young before his feathers were fully grown; and we had him about a year before he began to talk. Then he began to make very odd noises, as if he were trying to say words, but could not quite do it. Now he constantly learns new words and sentences, and early in the morning I hear him practising them over to himself, exactly as our babies used to do in the early morning hours in bed. If he improves as much in the next ten years as he has in the last, he should be able to recite a poem if we teach him.” There is no reason why a parrot should not continue to increase his stock of phrases as he grows older, if the supposition that he looks upon it as an accomplishment for which he is in some way the better is correct. The butcher-bird, for instance, and the sedge-warbler do not rest satisfied with learning their own notes, but often learn and reproduce the notes of other birds in great perfection. The mockingbird, which, like the sedge-warbler, has a fine song of its own, does the same. But the parrot has an advantage in being very long-lived and constantly in human company. The young parrot mentioned before gave an excellent instance of the association in its mind of words with things. Before it could talk, it was friendly with a kitten which used to enter its cage. This kitten was sent away, and for a year there was not another in the house. Then a grey Persian kitten was bought, and when introduced to the parrot was at once addressed as “Kitty,” a word he had hardly heard since the departure of the other. The correctness of parrots’ imitation, the result, no doubt, of their careful practice, is remarkable. A lady of the Dutch Court, visiting the palace in the wood at the Hague soon after the death of the late Queen of Holland, was startled by hearing the Queen’s voice exactly reproduced. It was a white cockatoo that had been a great pet of hers, which was in a corner of the room.

Parrots have no exclusive liking for the English language. They learn German, French, and Dutch quite easily. Another parrot at the Hague went through part of the Lord’s Prayer in Dutch at an afternoon party, with other fragments of its mistress’s devotions, which it had heard when in her room. All small white and sulphur cockatoos seem to say, “Küpper crou” when they want their heads scratched. We have translated it, “Scratch a poll;” but it is probably pure parrot language. Go up to any cockatoo and say this to him, at the same time holding the hand well above his head, and he will probably answer, and gradually lower his head and crest to allow you to gently ruffle the feathers the wrong way. Macaws do not seem to understand cockatoo language; but the grey parrots often use much the same sound. It seems to be a call-note expressing their willingness to make friends and be petted.