I had already been asked to write a few facts about her from which the program director was going to choose five, putting each one on a separate card for me to read aloud on the show but always leaving out the main word. It would be up to the panel to guess what that word was.
Then I carefully packed Robert’s one egg in its black-velvet-lined box and off I went to New York.
The whole procedure at the studio was intensely interesting. A dressing room was available for me; chromium carts were rolled around, serving coffee and cakes; all was hubbub and confusion and activity. We had a rehearsal, with a sit-in panel, not the real one, and it was well that we did. I kept forgetting to use the masculine pronoun, as Robert was to be “he” until the dénouement, when I produced the egg. After the rehearsal I had an hour and a half before we really went before the cameras and the audience. The master of ceremonies handed the box containing the egg to an official-looking man with NBC in silver on his shoulders, and told him to have it back on the podium at five minutes past twelve. We were to be on tape, which meant that I would be able to see the show in my own home when it was presented on the air. I was told when that would be, and spent the time between the rehearsal and the recording writing postcards to my friends telling them about it. At one point a member of the NBC staff who had overheard part of the rehearsal asked me if I really did have a quail’s egg there. I assured him that I did, and went to find the man in charge of it so that I could prove it. At least, that is what I thought I was going to do. But that was not the way it worked out. I found the man and made my wants known—and was told firmly:
“I’m sorry, madam, I am responsible for this egg, and I cannot let it out of my hands.” And he stuck to it.
Afterward, I wondered if his wife asked him, at the end of the day, how things had gone, and if he told her that he had worked very hard; he had held a quail’s egg for an hour and a half.
It all went off well: I remembered my pronouns, the egg was where it was supposed to be, the panel was delightful and guessed well enough so that I won three hundred dollars. So, considering that all expenses were paid by NBC, travel, hotel and all, it was a very pleasant and profitable experience.
Since Robert was well known in town, having once been referred to on a local radio program as “Orleans’ first citizen,” little groups gathered in many homes the morning we went on the air. It was also on a coast-to-coast hook-up, and soon the letters began to arrive. I had been introduced to the panel and I had mentioned the name Kienzle during the program, but neither name is easy to catch. I had of course mentioned Orleans on Cape Cod; in fact, the master of ceremonies had mentioned it too, and Robert is an easy name. So letters came to Robert the Quail, Orleans, Mass. She had appealed to many, many people, even through photographs reproduced on television. Several such letters enclosed dollar bills, asking for copies of the picture postcard of Robert, which had also been mentioned on one of the cards I had read to the panel. Requests for those postcards came from Texas, from Oregon, from Florida. I heard from people I had not heard from or seen for decades. Many of the letters asked for more information about her, and many asked specific questions. Some of the three hundred dollars went for postage, as I answered hundreds of letters from people in twenty-three different states.
We were very thankful that we had not taken Robert to New York to appear in person. While I was in the studio I was told of a very remarkable parrot which had been on the same program six weeks previously and was only then getting over the effects of severe dehydration. A parrot is a big bird compared to Robert, and I shudder to think what might have happened to her five ounces of body weight.
Out of all this correspondence came a revelation. We found that neither Robert nor we were unique in our relationships. Many other quail have been as fortunate as Robert in their adoption of human habitation and mode of life. Some must have private secretaries, since even I cannot believe that a quail can type. But many letters directed to Robert were signed by other quail, and practically constituted a pen-pal club. A correspondence developed between Robert and Dennis, a quail who lives in Bradenton, Florida. We heard from and about Tweety, in Elkton, Maryland; Miss B in Bruceton Mills, West Virginia; clippings were sent telling of a quail in Arizona, whose favorite haunt was a swimming pool, to the delight and astonishment of many visitors. Some letters seemed to have matrimony in mind. One woman thought there were enough of us to warrant the formation of a quail club. The appeal of the Colinus virginianus is indeed widespread. (Speaking of names, there is a town on Cape Cod called Waquoit, which, historians tell me, is the early Cape Indians’ interpretation of the bobwhite call.)
Several letters were most encouraging because they mentioned ages; one quail had had his seventh birthday. His family regularly employed a baby sitter, as I did while Robert was living with me.
Up to the time of the television publicity, we knew of only one other domesticated quail. This one was also on Cape Cod, and had been rescued from entanglement in a roll of chicken wire during what was probably her first venture into the world. She had been immediately freed and put down near the rest of the brood. However, this was of no help, because the mother would not accept the baby once she had been handled by human beings. This quail, named Bumble, was acquired during the same week that Robert came to us, and was taken care of in much the same way. The development of the two was very similar until they reached the age of a year and a half. Then Bumble developed a real dislike for blonds. Since her family were artists, with many people coming to the house, this posed a problem. They tried putting her in a closed room while strangers, especially blonds, were in the house, but this frustration did nothing to improve the situation. The day came when a decision had to be made. After investigating, they took her to the bird sanctuary and tearfully said good-by to her. They waited several days before calling to see how she was getting along. To their delight, they found that she had adjusted well to the new surroundings, often going to the house to be taken in at night. Visitors walking along the paths in the sanctuary are often astonished to find a little quail accompanying them, sometimes taking advantage of a friendly shoulder. She joined a group of quail, but was never completely accepted. When her adoptive parents went to see her several weeks after leaving her there, Mr. Bailey, the director of the sanctuary, knew where the covey usually fed, so they went there and called her. Bumble came running up to them, got on her foster father’s shoulder and talked to him. After a very few minutes she gave a loud chirp and flew off to join the others. Once she got in a car with some young people, but was rescued just before they drove away. The young people had known nothing about Bumble, and I am sure they had not intended to kidnap her.
One summer day she disappeared. A few days later a lady about three miles from the sanctuary was sitting out in her garden and saw one lone quail come out of the shrubbery. She later reported that she believed she could have picked up the bird as it snuggled against her feet. It must have been Bumble.
We are all familiar with delightful stories of wild animals, who, for various reasons, are turned back to the wild after having lived with human beings in homes. We know that these animals, sometimes as long as a year or two after being given their freedom, show unmistakable evidence of recognizing their human friend, or something reminiscent of their previous home. Evidently this behavior is true of birds. As for Bumble, while at the sanctuary she often sought refuge in the Baileys’ house on a stormy night, she always asked to go out again in the morning. In contrast to the wild animals, I do not think she was ever completely able to care for herself in the great outdoors. She made an interesting transition. Perhaps she was able—just not willing. Who knows?
12
HE LOVES ME
ROBERT’S VOCALIZING, her many sounds which we could interpret, and the many we could not, were by now taken for granted. But in May, before her second birthday, Mildred and Tommy were conscious that something new had been added. Stated more precisely, it was in the process of being add
ed. Robert would spend several minutes at a time, seeming to practice. They watched her head bob back and forth, and her throat flutter and swell, as she stood motionless, trying to say something. Over and over, this happened, and before long they were sure the end result was going to be “Bob White.” Sure enough, it finally came out loud and clear. She appeared to be pleased with herself, and trotted off, repeating “Bob White” several times during that day and occasionally for about a week. Then she stopped and it was never heard again. I am sorry I didn’t hear it myself, but several others did, and all attest that it was a fíne “Bob White.” We heard it often from the outdoor quail, and Robert must have heard it too, but it never awakened any response from her. Only later did we learn that there is no reason to have expected it to stimulate her, as it is not the mating call of the quail.
The following week we had plenty of opportunity to hear the real mating call. A handsome male appeared, with the apparent object—matrimony. Through the window we watched. When Robert was out in the large screened section of the patio busily looking for little bugs, the male would pace up and down the length of the screened side, calling, bringing offerings, his chest expanded and his crest erect. Often only the thickness of the screen separated them. Robert just was not interested. The persistence and daring of that male were unbelievable. He knew what part of the house she was in when she was indoors, and there he would be too, outside the nearest window, singing, calling and showing off his charms. He even flew up to the branch of a tree and called. I am told that this is most unusual for a ground bird like the quail, but he was desperate. Even when Robert was out in the yard with some member of the family, the male kept up the courtship, sometimes coming to within six feet of Mildred or Tommy.
We had often discussed this possibility. In fact we were all agreed that if she did feel the stir of romance and decide to join forces with a mate, we would accept it as the best conclusion and just call it a happy ending. Again, we had figured without Robert. She simply gave her suitor no encouragement, and after two or three weeks of frustration he gave it up as a bad job.
Nature took its course, however, and the following week, on June 9—which happened to be the Kienzles’ wedding anniversary—she laid an egg at Mildred’s feet. By June 25, she had laid three, two of them being deposited in Tommy’s lap. I do not know whether or not this five- or six-day interval is common to wild birds. But that was the way Robert functioned. Someone suggested that a nest be made of soft bits of cloth and that the eggs be placed there to see if the nesting instinct would operate. It didn’t. No interest. In a day or two after the third egg, Robert was ill. She threw the family into a panic with her cries of pain. Contrary to habit, holding her did not soothe her. She would settle down for a moment, then, with the distressing cry of pain, fly off in a frenzy. In one of these wild flights she struck her head against a beam in the ceiling, which did not harm her but did not help matters any. She would not eat; she looked miserable and dejected. Nothing distracted her. The second day of this distress, Mildred saw an odd wet spot on the floor. On examination, it proved to be the white of an egg. For the time being, Robert was less uncomfortable, but the Kienzles were not, for they realized that an egg had broken inside her. The shell, before it hits the air, is softer than it is later; but even so, it was inside her. The next day, a normal egg pushed out the broken part and all was well. There was no more trouble after that, and by mid-July she had laid thirteen eggs—and that was the end. Tommy’s sister Charlotte was a guest during this egg-laying time, and loved the bird dearly. The last egg was laid at Charlotte’s feet as she was packing her suitcase in the bedroom. The first had been an anniversary gift, and the last a farewell gift to a departing guest. While I know that these things were not premeditated or planned, they were nonetheless endearing.
Sometimes she laid an egg on the floor which was not picked up immediately. These she pushed under a bed or davenport to be found later. I often thought of the ornithologist who had told me, when she was only a few months old, that she might leave us during the second mating season of her life. That time had now come and gone and Robert had repudiated her own kind in favor of her human environment.
Any family, be it composed of people only, or of people and pets, must expect minor crises from time to time. Without them, life would be exceedingly dull, since the word “crisis” implies the unexpected. Robert’s next minor crisis was certainly most unexpected. Her curiosity and interest in any grocery bag or other package remained insatiable. On this particular afternoon, Mildred came in with an unusual number of packages. None of them contained groceries, and she went immediately to the guest room to put them on the bed. In her haste to get there before the bundles spilled out of her arms, she pushed rather hard against a sliding door, which stuck and then, in response to a very violent shove, gave way suddenly, precipitating her through the doorway. She was conscious of hitting her left hand and, almost in her subconscious, knew that something had dropped. Robert was at her heels, having greeted her as she came in the house, and Mildred saw her swoop down on something with her cry of delight. Mildred managed to get the bundles on the bed, and as she slid her hand out from beneath them, something caught on the coverlet. You have probably guessed what it was; there was an empty setting where a diamond had been. In her engagement ring there was a good-sized stone in the center, with a smaller one on each side. One of the smaller ones was gone. She was sure that the ring had been intact when she picked up the bundles. She called Tommy, asking him to bring a flashlight. As she told him what had occurred, she suddenly knew the answer. Robert! Since the floors were cork, it was easy to look the area over carefully, but they both knew the search was futile. The diamond was in Robert.
Toothpicks were brought into play again, and her droppings were examined minutely. The diamond was never recovered. We know that birds eat gravel to aid in digestion in the crop, and it was nice to think that Robert had the best grinding material in her digestive system that a bird could have. I recently read an article which stated that the sea gull has the most wonderful powers of digestion of any creature. I find this easy to believe, for I have so often watched them on our shores. The best place to observe sea gulls and their eating habits is at our town dump. I enjoy taking a turkey carcass to our dump early in the morning. The dump, by the way, is very well maintained and there is nothing unpleasant about a trip to it. The technique with a turkey carcass is to leave the car door open, take the carcass a few yards away, throw it and run. The gulls come in clouds, and almost before I can get back into the car there is nothing left but bare bones which look as though they had lain in the desert sun for months. I have seen gulls swallow most of a waxed-paper bread wrapper, and they have also been known to swallow fish to which a hook is still attached.
Every spring I spend hours watching the herring crowding up the Brewster herring run to spawn in the fresh-water pond beyond. The gulls have an orgy with the thousands and thousands of herring available. There is always an especially greedy one who makes an entertaining spectacle of himself. The herring is a trout-sized fish and a gull can easily swallow one whole. And there is always one gull who, after swallowing one herring, immediately swallows another. This is quite a load, but time and time again I have watched a gull swallow a third one. By then the gull cannot become airborne, and staggers under the extra weight. When I have gone toward him as though I were going to touch him, he has always managed to regurgitate the third herring and, with some effort, fly away.
But Robert was not a three- or four-pound gull, and while I knew from experience that she could handle two inches of bias binding in her insides, I felt equally sure that she could not digest a diamond. I also had enough faith in her innate ability to take care of herself to be confident that she would manage this time. One or two people made horrible suggestions—suggestions best left to the imagination—as to the procedure to use to retrieve the stone. I reported these to Mildred and Tommy, who reacted violently to them. Meanwhile, the diamond was
replaced in the ring with a new stone, and Robert kept hers.
13
ROBERT ASSERTS HERSELF
AS A PSYCHOLOGIST I have always been interested in the ways different individuals react to similar stimuli; for example, hurt feelings. Some sulk; some are angry and dream up imaginary retaliation; some hold the grudge for a long time, while others throw it off immediately; and some are just deeply hurt without showing it.
This is true not only of people but of animals. Poodles, by and large, seem to be delighted when someone comes to call, and always expect recognition. Johnnie Beals, a poodle friend of mine, does not give up easily when ignored. He will get a toy, bring it to the feet of the caller, push it a few times, finally resorting to short barks. He is not so much hurt as mystified by not being noticed. His father, Jackie, the poodle who became so friendly with Robert, reacts very differently. He greets the caller, tail up and wagging, may give a gentle nudge with his nose, and then if there is no response, walks away, tail down, and curls up resignedly on his chair. There he will stay very quietly until the door has closed behind the caller, when once again, he becomes his bouncy self. These friendly dogs justifiably expect friendship in return.
It is not illogical to suppose that similar behavior might be expected from a bird, especially from such an extrovert as Robert. With the one exception of the time when Robert deliberately upset the V-8 juice on the report cards, she had not come up against the problem of being snubbed. To be sure, she reacted somewhat differently to different personalities, and she had definite preferences. If Gladys Taber was present in a group, for example, Robert always singled her out, climbed up on her shoulder and snuggled happily close to her sunshine-colored hair. Robert was a living exponent of the theory that behavior reflects behavior, or that the example set by parents is far more effective than thousands of words of admonition.
That Quail, Robert Page 8
