Page 19 - A Little Bush Maid

After his recovery, which was a long and tedious process, Caesar showed
no inclination to leave the homestead. He used to strut about the back yard,

and frequent the kitchen door, very much after the fashion of a house-dog.
He was, indeed, as valuable as a watch-dog, for the appearance of any

stranger was the signal for a volley of shrieks and chatter, sufficient to
alarm any household. However, Caesar’s liberty had to be restricted, for he
became somewhat of a menace to all he did not choose to care for, and his

attacks on the ankles were no joking matter.

To the dogs he was a constant terror. He hated all alike, and would "go for"
big Tait as readily as for cheerful little Puck, and not a dog on the place
would face him. So at last a stand and a chain were bought for Caesar, and

on his perch he lived in solitary splendour, while his enemies took good
care to keep beyond his reach. Norah he always loved, and those whom he

had managed to bite--their number was large--used to experience thrills on
seeing the little girl hold him close to her face while he rubbed his beak up
and down her cheek. He tolerated black Billy, who fed him, and was

respectful to Mr. Linton; but he worshipped Mrs. Brown, the cook, and her
appearance at the kitchen door, which he could see from his stand, caused

an instant outbreak of cheers and chatter, varied by touching appeals to
"scratch Cocky." His chief foe was Mrs. Brown’s big yellow cat, who not
only dared to share the adored one’s affections, but was openly aggressive

at times, and loved to steal the cockatoo’s food.

Caesar, on his perch, apparently wrapped in dreamless slumber, would in
reality be watching the stealthy movements of Tim, the cat, who would
come scouting through the grass towards the tin of food. Just out of reach,

Tim would lie down and feign sleep as deep as Caesar’s, though every
muscle in his body was tense with readiness for the sudden spring. So they

would remain, perhaps many minutes. Tim’s patience never gave out.
Sometimes Caesar’s would, and he would open his eyes and flap round on
his perch, shouting much bad bird language at the retreating Tim. But more

often both remained motionless until the cat sprang suddenly at the food
tin. More often than not he was too quick for Caesar, and would drag the tin

beyond reach of the chain before the bird could defend it, in which case the
wrath of the defeated was awful to behold. But sometimes Caesar managed