BIRDS
   by Ernie Walsh

Most every family in Merasheen kept eight or ten hens. They supplied plenty of eggs in the summer and some once in a while in winter. They were kept in hen houses and were only allowed out into a penned-up area enclosed usually with old trap twine when the vegetable seeds were planted. Later on in the summer, they were let out but you had to keep an eye on them.

Of course, some hens became broody and you had to decide if you would set them or not. Depending on the kind of day, and place, about a dozen eggs were put under the hen and she was placed under the house or some other place to herself and protected. After 21 days or so, the young chicks would hatch. The chicks grew into young pullets or young roosters. The hens were kept and probably only one of the roosters was kept through the winter. The young roosters, when big enough, were killed whenever a meal was desired or necessary.

It seems to be just another stage of our growing up to watch our fathers kill a rooster or older hen and later we would be allowed to butcher a young rooster ourselves.

Without fail, when we caught a young rooster to kill, he would go wild cock-a-doodle-do'ing and every other young rooster in hearing distance would answer back, seeming to say brazenly and laughingly, "Rather you than me!" You would hold the rooster's two wings and two legs together with one hand and place his neck onto the chopping block. He would quieten down and stretch his neck out full length and, with hopefully one chop of the axe, his head would be lying on the ground. This was cruel, but it had to be done. The next part would now be considered inhumane. We could not resist, especially if we had an audience, letting the rooster run around with his head chopped off as his neighbour and brother roosters cock-a-doodle-doo'd longer and louder. The rooster was later hung up to drain the blood out and brought to your mother who would pick off the feathers and prepare it for the next day's dinner (Finger licking good!)

Some people reared ducks. When I was five years old, Aunt Theresa Hann gave me a young duck. Sunday at Church, mom was speaking to her good friend, Mrs. Cis Wilson, who always kept ducks, and mom must have mentioned my new duck. That afternoon, Mrs. Cis came up and gave me another little duck saying, "They need a friend or buddy."

I kept the two ducks in a herring barrel on its side with a door in the end for about ten years. I would let them out in the morning, I and faithfully collected two eggs, and they would beat up over the hill and down to the marsh between Mr. Mickey Cochrane's and Mr. Martin Connors’ and stay there until dark. The only problems they had were, on two separate occasions, both of them had their backs broken by some lucky shots from a rock thrown from the road. I say lucky shots because from the amount of stones thrown, it wasn't the skill of the thrower that did the damage.

In the years before the airplane, everyone hunting wild ducks, according to stories, seemed to have good luck. Gus Hepditch supposedly killed 27 ducks with one blast. My father hunted a lot on the Westard Head with Clev Best, and he told me the best he ever did with one shot was 12 ducks twice. Mr. Clev was always the first to get the turrs in the fall, down around our section of the harbour. My cousin, Joe Hann, loved to go turr hunting Sunday afternoon with his buddies out of Little Merasheen, when Sunday hunting was at times questioned and certainly talked about, but the turrs were always
enjoyed.

When I was about four years old, the word got around that there was a dead greep, or North American Bald Eagle, on Little Merasheen beach by Mr. Paul Wilson's house. When I went to see him, he was so huge, I couldn't go within 10 feet of him. I managed, however, to look at his large yellow beak and sharp talons because he was dead.

At the first of snow, we would always try to catch birds in our ‘cribs’ which were usually iron barrel hoops covered in mesh or brin bags, kept up on one side by a stick about six inches long. A long string would be hitched on the bottom of the stick and run along the ground to a hiding place behind a rock or a fence. Bread crumbs or seeds would be sprinkled under the center area of the hoop. If the birds went in under, the hoop fell and the birds usually got away. Peter Hennessey used to catch enough for a boiler of soup.

Around the harbour waters, we would always be on the lookout for bull birds to throw rocks at. They were very keen and alert and would dive quickly. Sometimes, we would go out in the dory with a load of throwing-size rocks. The only one I ever killed was while Freddy was rowing. I was in the head of the dory and, as we rowed up on one, before he dove, I skimmed the oar along the top of the water and killed him. It was Saturday and raining all day, and we spent the next four hours on the water and never got close to another one then or ever.

Fishing schooners returning from Golden Bay and Cape St. Mary's in August usually stopped by the Bird Rock and sent a dory and two or three crewmen ashore to get young gulls, terns/ticklaces and turrs before they learned to fly. The birds were put in open puncheon tubs on the decks of the schooners along with rocks to perch on and fish for food - then the tub was covered with trap twine. When the schooners came to Merasheen, most everyone who could have one got one for a pet. It was a traumatic change for these young birds, and they usually perished after a week or so. My brothers, Ron, John, and
Denis did rear two gulls to adulthood. They would fly off in the morning and return to their perch on the rocks by the style. They went away in the fall and actually came back for visits the next summer.

Neish Cochrane got a live gannet on the fishing grounds the summer he fished with Mr. Mick Casey. The gannet had a broken wing, and Neish had him tied loosely around the neck to the back of the dory. He threw the gannet pieces of fish and connors, but he wasn't interested in eating, it seemed. After the third day, when they had finished splitting and salting their codfish, a few of us went with Neish in the dory, towing the gannet behind around the harbour. We stopped as Neish handed a connor to the gannet, hoping he would bite and eat it. The gannet bit alright and, with his big long beak and sharp, razor-like teeth, with which it dives and catches live fish, he sliced a piece of flesh off Neish's thumb and finger. His blood flew freely. (Close your eyes for the next part). Neish took an oar out of my hand and struck the gannet across the neck and killed him like you'd kill a bull bird. (Without prejudice).

Another cruel sport we practiced, but fortunately, in most cases, our efforts were unsuccessful, was setting "glies" in the salt water to lure and hook gulls.