Sally Carrighar, in her delightful book Wild Heritage, attributes to certain animals and birds the ability to make decisions, to feel and show affection, to play and to plan. She even goes so far as to suggest that some of them recognize property rights, fair play and so on. I myself have watched a covey of fourteen quail who frequent a neighbor’s feeding grounds, and have seen them carry out a cooperative plan. One morning, after a very soft snowfall had deposited about four inches on the ground, one by one they came out of the woods, running very fast so as not to sink in the snow, to the place where they always found ground corn. Usually when they feed, as they always do in a close group, they head out from the circle so they can see danger should it approach from any direction. But not this time. They formed a very close little bunch, and then, all working together as in taking a dirt bath, threw the snow with wings, tails and heads, until it looked as though a small snow-blower were at work. In about three minutes they had dug a hole in the snow, with rather sheer sides, four or five inches deep. They had reached bare ground and were eating contentedly. After they had had their fill and departed, smaller birds came in to take advantage of the excavation.
Being convinced beyond doubt that Robert had a high Q.I.Q. (quail intelligence quotient), I asked myself sternly what good my years as a practicing child psychologist were if I couldn’t work out something in relation to this particular individual. Everything pointed to my being able to come up with some solution. In the first place, I was sure of complete and utter cooperation on the part of the Kienzles. In the second place, I was going to be working with an intelligent little creature. And in the third place, I loved her and had the strongest possible reasons for wanting to succeed.
As soon as I reached that point, I began to work on a definite plan. As always happens in sleepless nights, as soon as one stops worrying and stewing and begins to think constructively, the battle is won. The plan evolved so fast and so easily that I slept soundly through the 5:00 A.M. news broadcast.
7
FAIT ACCOMPLI
BY AUGUST 1, all was in readiness. The patio was built and equipped with delights for a quail. The soil in the geranium beds was loosened and softened, a large flat stump was installed, on which her V-8 juice could always be available, several clumps of sod were removed and replaced with clumps of chickweed, and lawn chairs were provided for my own convenience and that of any possible callers. How naïve I was in that respect! It was probably just as well that I did not know that in the three months Robert was to be with me, there were going to be about three hundred callers. Her guest book was brought over, of course, and by the time she left me there were names representing twenty-four states and two foreign countries. Writers, ornithologists, even a radio commentator from Boston, came to see and be conquered.
The date of departure of the Kienzles was set for Thursday, August 9. The time had come to put my plan into operation. Early Sunday afternoon Tommy and Mildred and Robert arrived, with Robert perched happily just back of the windshield on top of the instrument panel. Robert enjoyed riding in the car, whether it was the three-hour ride to Lexington or the shorter trips when she went on errands with Tommy and Mildred. Her favorite place was on the shelf in front of the rear window, where she would sit, looking at the scenery and often going from one side to the other as something caught her attention. This was all very well for her, but it proved to be so much of a traffic hazard that it had to be stopped. People in the car behind would see her in the window, and probably thought she was a toy. Then she would move and the rear car would come much too close for a better view. Many times a driver would come alongside the Kienzles’ car and on a main highway this constituted a real danger. So most of her riding was done sitting in Mildred’s hands, which she always liked, especially if Mildred would scratch her head.
They brought her in the house and we sat in the keeping room with the door from that to her patio open. At first she walked all around the room, neck outstretched, crest up, investigating everything. She examined the fireplace tools, looked the fire-screen over, hopped up on the drop-leaf table around which we were sitting and finally went to the door. She stood in the doorway, looking into her patio for about five minutes before venturing out. For all her curiosity, she is cautious. Finally she went out onto the brick step, pounced on an ant and then came back to fly up on the table again, as if to be reassured that her family were still there. After that she went into the patio for a good look around. She evidently found it to her liking, for she clucked excitedly when she discovered the chickweed and the geranium bed. We watched her as she stretched to her full height trying to see what was on top of the stump, which was about eight inches high and twelve inches in diameter; then she hopped up and took several sips of V-8. She was at my house three or four hours that time, busying herself while we three human beings talked about the coming trip and made a list of just what was to be brought with her in the way of equipment.
On Tuesday she was brought over again, and this time the Kienzles left immediately, as planned, to do some last-minute shopping; they were to return for her about five o’clock. This time the door to her patio happened to be closed. I, of course, watched closely to see what she would do. After a very cursory look around the room, she went to the door and stood there looking up at the doorknob, making little interrogatory chirps. I let her out, but within two or three minutes she was in the room again standing by me. She kept repeating this until I finally realized that she wanted company out there, so I took my book and joined her. She was as happy as a clam at high water. However, when I went into the house to answer the telephone or for any other reason, she was right at my heels. But she did eat and she did drink, and she even took a little nap on the back of the other lawn chair in the sun. I really relaxed then, and felt that all was going to work out well. She was quite excited when the Kienzles came to get her, and greeted them with the very distinctive and rather loud cries with which she greets almost everybody. My report of the afternoon delighted them and off they went, not to return again until Thursday morning on their way to the airport.
Robert had almost as much luggage as the travelers. Her equipment included such things as her philodendron plant in its familiar milk-glass bowl, her feeding tray, a large bag of wild-bird seed and another of sunflower seeds, her carton with the red velvet hat, one of two wiggly toys which she sometimes played with, the guest book of course, the boudoir lamp which was to spend the time on my kitchen counter to make the place seem as much like home as possible, and a pair of Tommy’s gardening shoes. These they brought because often when they returned from shopping, they would find Robert cuddled down between the toes of these same shoes. I must admit that they added little to the decor of my keeping room, but who cares for decor when a guest’s happiness is being considered!
As the time approached for them to leave, I witnessed one of the most poignantly touching scenes I have ever seen. To my mind, there is something especially appealing about a big, athletically built man who loves any tiny animal or a tiny baby. After Mildred had held her lovingly and kissed her good-by, Tommy picked her up and, holding her cradled in his hands up under his chin, walked away into the kitchen, where we could hear him assuring her that he would be back, that she was going to have a nice time and that he wasn’t abandoning his little girl. I did not know him when he was a practicing physician, but I couldn’t help thinking what a doctor he must have been. Finally he handed her to me and, after a sort of second-thought good-by to me, they left. I think many grandmothers who have taken on the care of an infant grandchild can realize my feelings as I watched them drive out of the yard. It was here. The responsibility was mine; I was in for it.
I busied myself getting Robert’s things settled while she, to my surprise, investigated the rest of the downstairs part of the house.
The red velvet hat was put in the carton up on a high shelf in the little bedroom off the kitchen which in these old New England homes is called the “borning room.” I had moved from a
n upstairs bedroom to the big downstairs bedroom in order to be nearer her. I put her feeding tray with its seeds and gravel near the fireplace, as it was at her own home, and put her water dish on a newspaper in the kitchen, for a calculated reason. I was consciously keeping myself busy.
She got on the table with me while I had my dinner, took bits of lettuce from my salad, took a few sips of coffee when it had cooled, called me in a loud, shrill voice whenever the telephone rang and seemed in every way at home in her new surroundings. Still I knew that I was going to feel a lot better once I had put her to bed successfully. Immediately after dinner she got on the edge of the sink while I washed the dishes, and then hopped up into the philodendron plant, stood on one leg and closed her eyes. I got her glass of orange juice ready which she always had at home after being put in the hat, and after pulling the shade down in her bedroom window I took her in, stood on a stool and gently put her to bed and gave her the juice. I rubbed her head a few minutes—something she loved—she made her little sleepy sounds and I softly left the room and closed the door. I was very quiet and even stifled a sneeze. All was still for about five minutes. Then I heard a thump. I rushed in, fearing she had fallen out of bed in the strangeness of her surroundings. Not at all. She had pushed the velvet hat out of the box onto the floor. The open end of the box faced the room, so this was easy for her to do. She was sitting on the windowsill and spoke to me the minute I opened the door. I picked the hat up, picked her up and established her once more for the night—I thought. Again I tiptoed out and closed the door. Again in about five minutes, the thump. Again the hat was on the floor, but this time she was on the bureau between two large soft balls of mohair yarn. After this had happened three times, and after I had again found her on the bureau, I let her have her way. I got a soft facecloth, put that on the bottom of the box, put the two balls of yarn in with Robert between them, talked to her softly for a minute or two, telling her to be a good girl and go to sleep, tiptoed out, closed the door and heard nothing more till about eight o’clock in the morning. From that time on, she would have nothing whatever to do with that hat. In fact, I put it on the bed in that room, where it stayed for a day or two until she got up on the bed herself, pushed it off onto the floor and then pushed it until it was almost under the bed. The hat was all right at home, but not here. I removed it entirely and there never was any more trouble.
There were to be other changes. In her own home she often slept until nine or ten o’clock, even though she usually went to bed about seven. Not here. She was up the minute she heard me stir. She always called to me and I went in and took her down, carrying her over to her water dish on the newspaper. She always drank the first thing in the morning, made the two deposits and then was ready for the day. It took four mornings for her to learn to go to the water and the newspaper, and to stay there till everything was accomplished. During that first day I remembered that I had not given her the half-teaspoonful of cooked rice which she always had after she was in bed. I had nothing in the house but some cherished—and very expensive—wild rice, but I cooked a little of that for her the second night, and she loved it. Indeed, she pecked at the spoon after she had finished it till I went back to the kitchen for a little more. From that time on, she never touched white rice. She was a very discriminating young lady.
I suppose it would be ridiculous to impute to Robert any real plan to discard reminders of home, so I shan’t do it. But the fact remains that, far from retreating to the garden shoes for comfort, she avoided them like the plague. Whenever she had to pass them she went the long way around with her neck stretched out to one side, eying them with suspicion. I was not sorry to realize finally that she was not going to associate with them at all and to put them away for the duration.
I had one worry, which, like so many worries we have, proved groundless. One half of my large kitchen range consists of four burners which are fed from an outside oil tank. That part is always hot, except in the summer when I turn them off and use the gas-burner half. The oil burners ensure a warm kitchen and a steady, low oven heat, enabling me to have such long-baking delicacies as Indian pudding, baked beans, and so forth. But the hot surface did cause me some concern. I had a cover made of mesh chicken wire; it stood about an inch above the stove surface. While the wire was quite warm, it could not have burned Robert. She frequented all the other work surfaces in the kitchen—the sink and counter and cabinets—but not once did she go near the stove. If I left the oven door open for any length of time, she would scurry over to the mat in front of the stove and squat down to enjoy the extra warmth. In her own very modern home the electric burners in the kitchen are flush with the long counter on which she originally was hatched. She was free to go wherever she chose there, but when she passed the burner part she always scooted along the cool outer rim of the counter. This was true whether or not the burners were hot. Can there be any question as to her intelligence? Over a year later, when she spent Christmas with me, at which time the furnace was on, I covered the hot floor register with wire. I need not have. She always went carefully around it even when running from room to room.
While most if not all my worries proved to have been needless, by the same token one thing on which I had relied did not work out exactly as I had planned: her patio. She always loved it and would beg to go out there when the door was shut, but she would not stay out there alone. Whether this went back to the fact that when she was outdoors at home at least one person always accompanied her, I do not know. Because of gnats and other little flying things, it was necessary to keep the aluminum screen door closed. Friends—no, not friends: acquaintances—dismissed this difficulty with the remark, “Just put her out there and leave her there.”
I tried it. I tried it several times. When out there by herself, she paid no attention to a choice ant, she did not go into the geranium bed—she just stood on the brick step and cried. I tried shutting the inside door so that I could not hear her. But at those times I stood by the kitchen sink looking out the window where I could watch her. There she stood, looking up at the door, and I could tell that she was crying by the regular motion of her throat. I timed my last such attempt, and after twenty minutes she was still standing there on the step looking so pitiful that I went out to her, picked her up and cuddled her, to her intense relief, saying, “I give up. You win.” After all, what is a mere three months?
I had made arrangements with a bird-loving neighbor Helen Lindorff to baby-sit when I had to be away longer than it takes just to do some marketing. This worked out beautifully, to the complete satisfaction of all three of us. On the occasions when Robert was alone for perhaps half or three-quarters of an hour, I wondered where she would choose to wait, since she had rejected the shoes. She solved this the third day. From that day on, she was always to be found on top of an old Bible on the blanket chest in the front bedroom. It had two advantages: she could look out the window and it was near a large table lamp, which I often turned on for her if it was cool in the bedroom. She even went so far as to get up there before I left, when she saw me put a coat on and take my car keys. The only other place I ever found her, which was always when I had to leave her for a few minutes in the evening before she went to bed, was in the living room on a New Testament which was on a little table by a big chair. I know as well as the next person that this was sheer coincidence, but it was an odd coincidence. The odd part of it was that the two volumes were not alike at all as to binding. The Bible was a soft leather; the other book had a carved olive-wood cover. But the indisputable fact remains that the Bible and the Testament were her refuge in times of lonesomeness.
All this did not constitute the inconvenience it might seem to, because I had all my evenings free. She always went to bed between six-thirty and seven; and after her wild rice and V-8 and a few minutes of a sleepy little song, she never stirred until I got up in the morning. My friends were most cooperative. Any invitation to a tea or a party was tendered with the opening question, “Can you get your ba
by sitter for Thursday afternoon?”
Thus began one of the happiest, and certainly the most instructive ninety-six days of my life. What a lot I was to learn.
8
I LEARN
DO YOU KNOW how a quail drinks dew? I do.
Do you know the unvarying technique of a dirt bath? I do.
Do you know what sort of insect a quail rejects and what kind of seed a quail cannot manage? I do.
Robert’s refusal to stay out in the patio without me proved a great boon. Not only did I get a great deal of reading and hand-sewing done, but my eyes were continually being opened to facts I did not know and to which I had never given a thought.
On several mornings she and I were ensconced while the grass was still wet with heavy dew. Since it was impossible to have the grass mowed inside the enclosure, it had grown to a length of five or six inches within a very few weeks. All of us have seen grass sparkling with dew. The poets have written about it and singers have sung about it. But I wonder how many have really looked at those sparkles? I found that the drops usually form on the blade of grass where it has started to bend over. Because of gravity, I suppose, there is almost always a drop or two further along toward the tip of the blade. I had never known or noticed that a blade of grass is grooved, amounting almost to a lengthwise center fold. Robert always walked around seeking out the most productive blades; then, starting at the lower, pointed end of the blade, she opened her bill and ran the lower mandible up its entire length, scooping up the drops as she went. Then she would stand back and swallow. If she had enough water to make an especially big swallow, a tiny droplet was often left on the tip of her bill. This was always shaken off and I have seen those droplets fly through the air a distance of three or four feet. She drank much more water that way than she did from her own dish, and I wish I knew whether it tasted better than tap water or whether she had inside knowledge that she had better make time while it was available, since we were always out there on sunny mornings and the dew was gone very quickly. Morning after morning, I watched, often down on my knees with my head a matter of inches from hers so that I could observe the process. I suppose all birds do this, but I had not known it.
That Quail, Robert Page 5
