Robert stayed with Tommy until the dishes were done, then went to Mildred, who devoted herself to trying to comfort the poor little creature. When Tommy came into the house after working an hour or two in the rose garden (alone, as Robert did not want to go with him) Mildred said:
“I must get the roast ready for dinner. You take him for a while.”
Remembering that a letter had to be written and ready for the evening mail, Tommy went to his desk, still holding Robert. He carefully put Robert down between his feet, forming an angle with heels together, which usually pleased Robert. He settled down, halfway resting on his side, and Tommy went on with the letter.
All of a sudden there was a scream. It can’t be described any other way—it was a scream. Mildred came running in from the kitchen, and Tommy looked down in consternation, fearing that he had inadvertently moved his feet and hurt the tiny thing. Robert stood up, shook himself, gave a contented little chirp and walked off . . . leaving an egg!
Such excitement! I was telephoned to immediately, as were several other devoted friends. (To our surprise, the next issue of the local paper contained an article with a large headline: ROBERT SHRIEKS, LAYS FIRST EGG. There was by this time considerable local and even state-wide interest in Robert, so this was quite an event.)
Immediately after accomplishing this feat, Robert rushed to his (excuse me, I mean HER) tray and began eating as though she had never seen food before. And how she drank! As for the egg, she could not have cared less. She completely ignored it and seemed glad that the whole business was over. It was a full-sized egg, not a smaller, pullet-sized variety such as newly laying hens produce. It was the real thing. When we knew that Robert did not want to have anything to do with it, it was carefully placed in a little velvet-lined box to be admired by many callers.
After the first astonishment at seeing the egg on the floor at his feet, Tommy had worn a queer half-smile on his face. Now, as he stood looking down at the box on the coffee table, he said, “I’m not saying I told you so,’ but I felt all along that only a female could have survived the vicissitudes that have befallen Robert. I guess we have the little girl we always wanted. I suspected this, and now the evidence is beautifully conclusive. Well done, Robert, well done.”
Mildred had picked Robert up and stood murmuring comforting, congratulatory and female communications to her, adding, “Well, once again you have taught us something. It may take a while for us to learn to call you ‘she’ instead of ‘he,’ but we will, we will.”
Then—the discussion as to her name. Must it now be Roberta? The question resolved itself. After a few halfhearted attempts to use the feminine equivalent, they gave up. Robert she had always been, Robert she was to her public, and Robert she would continue to be.
The ignorance of the general public on the processes of nature is appalling. So many people, on first seeing the egg, asked, “Will it hatch?” At first we took the question at its face value, explaining that it would not hatch because it was not a fertilized egg. Some covered their confusion, saying, “Oh, of course,” but many others had to have the facts of life spelled out.
As would be expected, that question was always asked by children who saw it. The answer was very simple and always accepted. We merely said, “No, this one won’t hatch. You see, there would be no father for the baby bird, and everything has to have a father.”
Then came the next question: “What do we expect now?” We knew that there had been at least thirteen eggs in the nest where Robert was found, and checking in the encyclopedia and with ornithologists we learned that a quail’s clutch was usually from twelve to fifteen eggs in number. We convinced ourselves that subsequent eggs would certainly come more easily, that Robert now knew what to expect and that we would have no more days of anguish such as that one had been. Should we fix a nest for her? After all, she had enjoyed the gilded nest on the Christmas tree. But she certainly had not hunted for any nest on this production day; she had wanted hands, human hands.
I recalled vividly having watched my mother when I was a little girl as she cleaned and prepared a chicken for roasting. I remembered that often there would be an egg just ready to be laid, with many smaller ones behind it in various stages of development. I tried to imagine Robert’s small body cavity, filled with tiny embryonic eggs. An ornithologist who came to see her the following day suggested that we put the first egg in a nest-shaped place as a sort of decoy. He explained that often in the wild, when a marauding rat or snake destroyed some of her eggs, a quail hen would keep right on laying more until she had a full clutch.
After having lived with Robert for ten months, we should have realized that she would solve this in her own way, as she had solved the question of our giving her her freedom. She solved it: she just didn’t present us with any more. That was it. Later on, the local paper announced, under the headline ROBERT’S A FAILURE. LAYS ONLY ONE EGG, that probably she had laid the one just to keep the franchise. Whatever her reason, she was through with all that foolishness. When people dropped in for tea during the days following the egg, the conversation almost always included speculation as to the why and wherefore of this unusual episode; On one occasion, as Robert was going from one person to another on the coffee table, hoping for bits of cake, she suddenly went to the center of the table, cocked her head on one side and stood motionless, surveying us. After what must have been a minute or two of this statue-like pose, one guest said, “If I ever saw ‘no comment,’ that is it.”
Robert always had been, and continued to be, unpredictable. All the dire prophecies made about her had proved to be groundless. We recalled many of them with amusement: “That little bird won’t live two days.” “Wait till the first time she gets a chance to get out of the door.” “The mating season will be the end of Robert’s relationship with you.” We should have learned to disregard such statements by this time, but another one could always make us wonder. The next worrisome prophecy we encountered came from a man who was an acknowledged authority on birdlife who had made quail his specialty. He had heard the whole story of Robert, and of course came to see for himself. He had to admit astonishment at some of the details, but maintained an air of wisdom on the whole subject. He finally made his pronouncement:
“Well, this can happen with birds in captivity. [But Robert was NOT in captivity.] They often survive the first mating period, or even the first migration period, in the case of migrating birds, which may be due to the fact that instincts have been sublimated. But this does not maintain through the second mating season. My advice would be to enjoy her while you have her but not to be surprised or disappointed next spring—if she stays that long.”
In spite of his authoritative way of speaking, in spite of his reputation as a scientist and in spite of our customary desire to be courteous, we should have responded, “Oh, pooh!”
Since we now knew that she had reached full maturity, one frequent question bothered us, because we did not know the answer. The question was, “How much do you suppose she weighs?” But how were we to weigh her? We even considered taking her down to the post office and asking to have her weighed there. One day, an acquaintance of ours, Mrs. Nellie Barrington presented herself at the door and asked if she might see the quail. Mrs. Barrington was a very sweet and gentle person, who, in spite of her rather advanced age, was director of a very fine nursing home for elderly people. She had come quite a distance to see Robert, and was completely overwhelmed by her. She could not believe that she had an affectionate little quail in her hands or on her shoulder. While Robert was on her shoulder she asked if we knew how much she weighed. We had to admit that we did not, and explained our problem as to how to find out.
“Why, that’s easy,” said Mrs. Barrington. “I’ll bring down the scales on which I weigh food for my diabetic patients. I’ll bring it next week, on my day off.”
She was as good as her word and appeared with a small platform type of scale. We put Robert on it and, obliging as usual, she stood perfectly sti
ll as the indicator moved up to . . . five ounces. We checked and rechecked. It was right; Robert weighed five ounces.
Mrs. Barrington telephoned me a few days later to say that she was having her seventy-ninth birthday soon, and to ask if I thought it possible for her to have her one wish granted on that day. She explained that the only thing in the world that she wanted was to have her picture taken with Robert on her shoulder. How nice it would be if all requests could be so easily granted, especially to the Mrs. Barringtons of the world. It was done and Mrs. Barrington was happy. How she loved the little creature, all five ounces of her.
6
A BIG PROBLEM
FOR ALMOST A YEAR I had lived in that idyllic condition of life that is generally conceded to belong to grandmothers. I had enjoyed Robert to my own satisfaction, I had played with her and escorted her on outdoor excursions, and I had glowed warmly at her evidence of affection for me. And I had had no responsibility for her health and general welfare. Now a problem appeared.
For years the Kienzles had dreamed and planned and saved travel folders for a European trip. It had been hovering in the background in the “someday” category. But all at once it crystallized. Their younger son, Don, was in Berlin, at the outset of his career in the State Department, and had fallen in love. His happiness could be made more complete only by having his parents there to meet his beautiful and wonderful Monika, to become acquainted with her family and to share in the engagement festivities. Don’s eagerness to have them with him was matched by their own. The long-projected trip now had a real impetus. Their reaction vacillated between “Of course we will go” and “How can we; what about Robert?” To strangers this may sound a bit extreme, but Robert had become such an integral part of the family that consideration of her was of prime importance.
Several solutions were suggested. Put her in an aviary on a boarding basis? That was impossible at first glance. She had never been caged, and she had not only never been with other birds but she feared them; Take her to Europe with them? This was looked into but discarded as too hard on her, even apart from the quarantine laws in various countries. Friends and relatives were anxious about the outcome, as of course I was. I wanted their happiness and I wanted Robert’s safety. Perhaps those two facts do not sound proportionate, but they were. I had a sneaking suspicion all along as to what the ultimate solution would be: I would take Robert for the three months of the trip. However, I said nothing, hoping against hope that something would “turn up.” The Quakers have a delightful saying in times of indecision and stress: “Proceed as way opens.”
At a tea one afternoon some people who knew the situation asked a neighbor what the Kienzles had decided about the quail. The answer opened the way. The neighbor said, “Well, I just don’t know. They said the other day that it might be best just to give up the trip.”
That did it. I knew I would have a guest. I spent a busy evening—busy though I did not leave my comfortable chair in the keeping room by the fire. I was making plans vigorously. Robert would have to be able to have her outdoor hunts and dirt baths. Robert simply could not go outside my house, even if I were with her, as I am surrounded by voraciously predatory cats, most of which were welcomed at my house at any time, and often fed. That would have to end. I went to the telephone and called Walter Peers, a very dear friend who was a builder.
“Walter,” I told him, “I have a problem and I want an estimate on an enclosed patio in the angle of my keeping room and the main part of the house. Could you come up and see me about it?”
“You don’t mean now, do you?”
“Yes, I mean now. I have made a decision, and if this is not settled now I may be tempted to change my mind, and I just can’t change my mind.”
“It is kind of late, but I’ll come.”
Together—Walter with his measuring tape and I with my plans—we measured, discussed one-inch or two-inch mesh chicken wire, dimensions, and so on, detail after detail. We came up with a decision on a ten-by-fifteen-foot “room” which had to be high enough to include the outside door of the keeping room. Walter figured, I waited, he gave me the estimate, and I telephoned the Kienzles.
“Would you trust Robert with me when you go away?”
“Would we! But do you mean it?”
“I do mean it, and all the details are settled here. Now you go to bed and dream of ocean liners and new daughters-in-law, and relax.”
Their gratitude and relief were worth any amount of time, effort and expense. I went to bed rather smugly pleased with myself. Then the immensity of the responsibility I was assuming swept over me. What if the little bird were not contented here? What if . . . what if . . . what if? It must have been long after midnight when I suddenly recalled the one occasion when Robert had spent a night away from home.
On that occasion, the Kienzles had made plans to attend a church conference, which was to be held not far from their older son’s home in Lexington. Robert was then still sleeping inher carton, had ridden in the car several times and seemingly enjoyed it, and posed no problem for the visit. The plan was to be with the children in the afternoon, then leave for the night meeting, stay overnight at a motel, and attend the conference the following morning. That would give them plenty of time in the afternoon to see Robert ensconced in the son’s home and all would be well. And all was well when they left her. They had taken her own food pan and water dish and she seemed content. What they did not realize was that her contentment was due to the fact that her family was with her and she felt secure.
Nothing untoward happened until it was time to put her to bed. The son put her in her carton, which was on a shelf not unlike its place at home. But to her it was not home. She kept getting out of bed, as she almost never did at home. Finally she was so exhausted that she stayed in, exhausted because she had gone all over the house, time after time, looking for Mildred and Tommy. Now, although she stayed in the carton, she cried constantly. Her cry at such a time would wring the hardest heart. It is a sad, pitiful and mournful sound, rather low and quite drawn out. Tom and Nancy reasoned that she would quiet down when they had gone to bed and the house was dark. Not so. She cried and she cried. Finally they took the carton into their room by their bed where she could know they were near and that she was not alone. It was a good idea, but it didn’t work. The crying persisted. At last, in desperation so that they, at least, could get some sleep, they put carton and all into the guest room and closed the door. Nancy tiptoed to the door before morning and the poor little thing was still crying. Whether she had done so all night or resumed when she heard Nancy—in spite of Nancy’s trying to be so quiet—they will never know. But she was a very unhappy little quail.
Morning came at last and Robert was brought out to the dining room and offered a piece of lettuce, which she likes the first thing in the morning. She refused it. The children were got off to school, and even while they were having breakfast Robert was not interested. In fact, she didn’t eat or drink all day. The crying stopped, but she just stood around dejectedly. It was a hard day for Nancy, who was alone with her. She put soft music on the record player, but it did not divert the lonesome little creature. Robert just stood on the arm of the davenport, waiting.
At about half-past two in the afternoon she suddenly gave a little cry, stretched her neck out, and Nancy saw the car turning in the driveway. (Robert always recognized their car, and later learned to recognize mine.) She chirped excitedly. The minute Tommy and Mildred came in the door, she flew to Mildred, cuddled down in the crook of her arm and almost immediately fell fast asleep. The departure for home was delayed to let the poor exhausted little bird make up her sleep. Finally, when Mildred’s arm was almost paralyzed from having been held in one position so long, they woke her up. Tommy took her over where her food was, and she ate and drank greedily. She cuddled in Mildred’s arms during the entire drive home, sleeping part of the time, but waking occasionally to emit a few little contented chirps. Once safely inside the house, like a child who
has returned to familiar surroundings after an absence, Robert made the rounds of all her favorite haunts, and then, having satisfied herself that all was well again, hopped up onto her philodendron plant, closed her eyes, sang her sleepy song and indicated unmistakably that she was ready for bed. To bed she went, and there she slept soundly until after nine-thirty the next morning. All through that day she followed either Mildred or Tommy like a little shadow, showing them most convincingly that she did not like the idea of being separated from them. After that day all was back to normal.
The thought of this episode was not comforting me one bit, and it certainly was not soporific. I reasoned with myself that Robert was an intelligent little creature and that things would work out. However, I must admit that the “proceed as way opens” idea was not very convincing at that point. The situation brought to mind several things I had read. I recalled in particular a study by Dr. Konrad Lorenz, an eminent Austrian scientist, who reported a study of a male jackdaw. As I understand it, his theory involved a belief that a young bird taken into a human environment might adapt to such environment. The jackdaw of this case history attached itself to Dr. Lorenz from the very earliest stages of the experiment. This was carried to such an extent that when the mating season approached, the object of his courtship was none other than the doctor himself. The bird brought him choice delicacies, such as fat angleworms, as he would to a female of his choice. Finding the human being unreceptive to having the worms put into his mouth, he compromised by trying to insert them in his ear.
If we had ever doubted this scientific report, which we did not, the truth of it was forcefully brought to our attention. At the time of the first mating season, when we were wondering if she would leave us, the grandchildren were visiting. There were quail in the patio, and they knew full well that Robert was there. She gave no evidence at all of being interested in them, but for several days attached herself to five-year-old Thomas. Where he went, she went. If he sat on the floor playing with a toy, she was right beside him. They ate on the picnic table in the patio one day; during that time Robert was right beside Thomas. He could wrap her in a blanket and she would stay with him quietly, though her tailfeathers did suffer a bit from being wrapped up. She wore herself out following him. It was a definite transfer of her feelings toward the little boy, and somewhat of a puzzle to him. One night as she followed him to his bedroom, he said, “Well, I guess there aren’t many little boys followed everywhere by a quail.” It was all over in a few days, but was a remarkable thing to witness.
That Quail, Robert Page 4
