Volume 5 — Translated From the French. The Birds' Friend.

For some years past, in the garden of the Tuileries, is seen, daily, a man of middle height, with a respectable and roundness of figure, thick mustaches, and beard slightly gray and bushy, who, as soon as he appears in one of the walks bordering the terrace of the water, is surrounded by a numerous brood of pigeons. He throws them a morsel of bread or cake which he brings with him, and the birds are so familiar with him that, far from flying away, they surround him, and dispute for his favors and liberality. Some of them, even, his favorites, flying around his head, perch on his shoulders, his arm or hand, and dip their bills in his mouth for their accustomed nourishment. He is the subject of admiration for young mothers, babies great and small, truant apprentices, and child nurses, generally. As soon as the bird man arrives, they precipitate themselves in his train. He advances majestically, and with quite an imposing air, followed by his impromptu court, which holds back slightly, from respect, no doubt, and fear of frightening the birds. Idle people who come every day to lounge in the garden of the Tuileries take their daily walk or read the papers, join the crowd of courtiers, and even Guignol himself, in presence of this redoubtable concourse, sees his representations deserted, and the Petite Provençe forsaken by the rheumatisms who come to seek a ray of sun on his benches. The friend of the birds walks with a sense of his own importance, and enjoys greatly the astonishment and homage of the crowd. With his cane under his arm, his hat on his head, and as immovable as the dervish on his minaret, or the little joist of the fable, he gravely accomplishes his daily office. The young mothers are astonished, the children open their large eyes, and I saw one of the smallest ones, Master Guguste, so terribly frightened, because the birds were not afraid of him, that he hid himself behind his big brother Aymer, and took in the whole scene by stealth, in bo-peep style. Master Guguste will certainly ask his father, whom he has led by the hand toward the place where the friend of the birds dines his pets, how is it the pigeons fly around this man's head, and when he, Master Guguste, runs toward them, they always fly away? The good little fellow forgets to add that he throws stones at them—his age has no mercy—and that the pigeons have the bad taste to prefer cake.

The birds' friend has become one of the sights of the Tuileries, and one of the pleasures of the Parisians. They come from the marshes to see him; and the provincial who arranges his programme for his visit to Paris never forgets to write in his note-book: "To go and see the wild beasts breakfast in the Garden of Plants; to go and see the hippopotamus bathe; to go and see the pigeons eat in the garden of the Tuileries." Innocent people ask by what talisman this man of the Tuileries has succeeded in taming the pigeons.

I think his method is a simple one, and that he has nothing in common with the charmers of India, nor even with Madame Vandermersch, who has astonished the saloons of Paris by the singular empire she exercises over the feathered tribe.

Then, the pigeons of the Tuileries, like all animals not tormented and accustomed to a crowd, are not easily frightened. If you have ever been to Venice, you have certainly seen the pigeons of the square of St. Mark. These pigeons, whose history is very curious, date their origin from the ancient republic of Venice. At that time, it was the custom on Palm Sunday to let fly from the top of the principal door of the church of St. Mark a large number of birds, with little rolls of paper so attached to their claws as to force them to fall into the hands of the crowd who filled the court, and disputed among themselves for this living prey. Some of these birds, having succeeded in ridding themselves of their fetters, and training the thread like the pigeon of La Fontaine, sought an asylum on the roof of the church of St. Mark, and on that of the ducal palace, not far from the celebrated leads that Silvio Pellico has described in "My Prisons," and Lord Byron has cursed in his immortal verses. They multiplied rapidly, and became the favorites of the population to such a degree that, to respect popular opinion, the senate of Venice issued a decree, stating that the pigeons of the square of St. Mark had become the guests of the republic, and as such should be respected and nourished at the cost of the state. While the republic of Venice existed, a man employed by the corn administration of the city came every morning to distribute the rations of the pigeons on the place of St. Mark and the Piazza. Since the establishment of Austrian rule, the Venetians support their favorite birds by voluntary contributions. Accustomed to live in peace with man, the pigeons of the place of St. Mark have become exceedingly familiar. They never fly away at the approach of the promenaders, and I have seen them perched on the edge of the buckets of the water-carriers, to quench their thirst, and not even take flight when these women took their buckets by the handle. In truth, the whole secret of taming animals consists in not frightening them by movements too sudden or by noise, never injuring them, and always treating them well.

If you have never seen the pigeons of the place of St. Mark at Venice, you have certainly seen the fishes of the large pond at Fontainebleau come in bands to dispute the bread thrown to them; the swans of the basins of the Tuileries swim toward the children who throw them crumbs of their cakes; the small elephants of the Garden of Plants put forth their trunks gently to seize a piece of rye bread; and more than one young girl has amused herself during the winter in spreading the crumbs from her table on her balcony, to see flocks of sparrows tumble down and help themselves at the well-set table, doing honor to the banquet, without considering in the least the pretty blonde head and the laughing mouth assisting their repast.

You see, it is always the same process. What frightens animals is noise, sudden movements, and especially bad treatment.

When man makes friends of them, it is rarely they do not respond to his advances. You know the history of Androcles and his lion, of Pellisson and his spider, and a hundred others of the same kind. I do not speak of domestic animals, the dog especially, our faithful companion. The Bible itself, the book of books, in relating the return of the young Tobias conducted by the angel to his father, has in honor of this faithful animal these charming lines: "Then the dog, who had followed them all the way, ran before them, and, like a courier who might have preceded them, he testified his joy by the wagging of his tail." The grand poet of paganism, Homer, in his turn, has described in the most touching and heartfelt verses, Ulysses, on his return to Ithaca, unknown to Penelope, Telemachus, and his retainers, but recognized by the dog, who died of joy at his feet. But passing by the dog who is our friend, savage animals show themselves no less sensible to man's goodness, and as we read the legends of monks of the Merovingian time, who lived hid in the depths of forests, it seems that virtue can give man the same empire over animals which he had in his first days of innocence. M. de Montalembert, in his Moines d'Occident, has recounted many legends of this nature. A huge boar, pursued by hunters, fled for asylum to the cell of St. Basil, which he had constructed in the thickest part of the mountain forest of Rheims. Again, St. Laumer, wandering in the forest of Perche, and chanting psalms, met a hind flying before several wolves. To him, she was the symbol and image of the Christian soul pursued by demons; he wept for pity, and cried to the wolves: "Enraged executioners, return to your dens, and leave this poor little beast; the Lord arrest this prey from your bloodthirsty mouths." The wolves stopped at his voice, and retraced their steps. "Behold," said the saint to his companion, "how the devil, of all wolves the most ferocious, seeks ever some one to strangle and devour in the church of Christ." Meanwhile the hind followed him, and he passed nearly two hours in caressing her before returning to his home.

Recitals of this nature are numerous. It was the lion of the Abbé Gérasime, whose monastery was on the borders of the Jordan, who, having loved the monk during his life, came to die on his tomb. The wolf of another solitary waited at his door for the remains of his humble repast, and never retired without licking his hand. Irish legends tell us of stags of the forests coming to present their heads to the yoke to draw the plough. Everywhere we find man's power over animals established by sanctity. "Can we be astonished," said Bède on this subject, "if he who faithfully and loyally obeys his Creator sees in his turn inferior creatures subject to his command?"

Among the legendary recitals we find none more touching than those written of St. François d'Assise, whose heart overflowed with tenderness to animals. We read in a legend that this great saint, who had a beautiful and harmonious voice, hearing one evening the song of a nightingale, was tempted to respond, so that he passed the night in chanting, alternately with the bird, the praises of God. The legend adds that François was exhausted the first, and praised the bird that had so completely vanquished him.

Who has not read in the Franciscan Poets the miracle of the saint who converted the ferocious wolf of Gubbio, and how he tamed the wild turtle-doves, a present from a pious young man, while saying to them: "O my simple and innocent doves! how will you ever be tamed? But I must save you from death, and make you nests, that you may obey the command of our Creator." And the turtle-doves, by degrees less wild, commenced to deposit their eggs, like hens, covering them before the brothers, and nourished by their hands. In conclusion, let us recall the exordium of a delightful sermon related in the Franciscan Poets, and addressed by the saint to a multitude of birds, attentive to his voice, a sermon related to Brother Jacques de Massa by Brother Massio, one of St. Francis's favorite disciples: "My birds, you are extremely obliged to God, our Creator, and always and in every place you ought to praise him, because he has given you liberty to fly everywhere, has clothed you with double and triple vestments, and has preserved your species in the ark of Noah. Besides, you neither sow nor reap, and God cares for you; gives you streams and fountains to quench your thirst, mountains and valleys for your refuge, and large trees in which to make your nests." But we have rambled from the commencement of our story. We began in the garden of the Tuileries, and end in another garden, a mystical one, where we gather flowers from St. Francis.