“Till my twentieth year I continued to live with my parents, and during my many hours of leisure I was free to do or leave undone whatever I had a fancy for; and this was always something medical, if that is not too big a word.  I was but a lad of twelve when this fancy first took me, and that through pure accident.  Of course I was fond of wandering about the workshops, and there they kept a magpie, a quaint little bird, which my mother had fed out of compassion.  It could say ‘Blockhead,’ and call my name and a few other words, and it seemed to like the noise, for it always would fly off to where the smiths were hammering and filing their loudest, and whenever it perched close to one of the anvils there were sure to be mirthful faces over the shaping and scraping and polishing.  For many years its sociable ways made it a favorite; but one day it got caught in a vice and its left leg was broken.  Poor little creature!”

The old man stooped to wipe his eyes unseen, but he went on without pausing: 

“It fell on its back and looked at me so pathetically that I snatched the tongs out of the bellows-man’s hand—­for he was going to put an end to its sufferings in all kindness—­and, picking it up gently, I made up my mind I would cure it.  Then I carried the bird into my own room, and to keep it quiet that it might not hurt itself, I tied it down to a frame that I contrived, straightened its little leg, warmed the injured bone by sucking it, and strapped it to little wooden splints.  And behold it really set:  the bird got quite well and fluttered about the workshops again as sound as before, and whenever it saw me it would perch upon my shoulder and peck very gently at my hair with its sharp beak.

“From that moment I could have found it in me to break the legs of every hen in the yard, that I might set them again; but I thought of something better.  I went to the barbers and told them that if any one had a bird, a dog, or a cat, with a broken limb, he might bring it to me, and that I was prepared to cure all these injuries gratis; they might tell all their customers.  The very next day I had a patient brought me:  a black hound, with tan spots over his eyes, whose leg had been smashed by a badly-aimed spear:  I can see him now!  Others followed; feathered or four-footed sufferers; and this was the beginning of my surgical career.  The invalid birds on the trees I still owe to my old allies the barbers.  I only occasionally take beasts in hand.  The lame children, whom you saw in the garden, come to me from poor parents who cannot afford a surgeon’s aid.  The merry, curly-headed boy who brought you a rose just now is to go home again in a few days.—­But to return to the story of my youth.