Part 10

When I came back from church, Solomon’s crate was empty. We trod carefully over the room for fear of squashing him flat, like a botanical specimen; we looked under the sofa, under the chairs, and Solomon was not there. Then a little scuffling noise on the balcony attracted our attention, and there was Solomon with a guilty look in his face. We lined the inside of his crate with stiff newspaper.

But when I came back from lunch I saw a ridiculous silhouette far up the half-lighted passage. There again was Solomon! He had carried on mining operations on the paper during lunch, and had escaped again. Another crate with narrower bars had to be procured. Of course he instantly put his head through and got it fixed, and I had to seize him by the beak and push him back.

Now, by all the laws of animal literature, Solomon ought to have been devoted to me by this time. If he had studied the Whole Duty of Birds, he would have found out that he must wake me at dawn (I cannot feel sure that I should have appreciated that); that he must flutter his wings with joy and chirp when I came into the room, even if he did not feel equal to opening his little bill and pouring forth a grateful song (do hoopoes sing?); that he must follow me round the room; that he must eat out of my hand; that he must beat his breast against the bars of his cage when I went away.

Solomon did none of these things. He shut his beak tightly when I wished to feed him, he pecked at me when I tried to open it, he ran away when I attempted to catch him, he struggled when I had got him, he hurled himself from my hand into the crate as soon as possible, and he did not like me at all.

By the third day Solomon had immensely developed. People who had considerately told me that it was impossible to rear a hoopoe, now foretold that he would live. He extended his mining operations to the garden. I am not sure that he found any insects, but he did great execution on the loose earth at the foot of the palm-tree. He looked quite like a real grown-up hoopoe when he ran about the garden bed and dug his bill in up to its roots; and in the evening he flopped off the window-sill while I was feeding him, and had a grand race round the room.

That night I dismissed the fear of finding the little cold corpse in the morning.

But when I opened the shutters and looked at Solomon in the morning, he was not awake; his head was tucked behind his wing. I took him out, he looked round dreamily, and sank on to the ground. I got whisky and water again, and fed him with a feather; he pecked and struggled at first, but presently he allowed me to open his beak, and I saw that the little pink mouth was getting very white. Still I gave him more, hoping it would have the same reviving effect as at first. But presently Solomon dropped his beak on the window-sill, and the drop trickled down it again, for he had stopped swallowing. He laid his head down, and stretched out his little black claws; and heaved gently once or twice; and no more.

As the Arabs say, it was “Finished Solomon.”

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH

Transcriber’s Note:

Attempts have been made to produce this eBook as a faithful reproduction of the original publication, preserving spellings including “anyrate”, “developes” and “skwug”; and the alternative spelling of “laurustinus” and “laurestinus”.