Raising Pigeons For Profit

An Enlightening Inquiry into the Pitfalls and Adventures Awaiting the Amateur Fancier

COREY FORD

(Author of "Raising Checks for Profit", Etc.)

EDITOR'S NOTE:—With the descent of the summer season, many householders are casting frantically about for some way to meet their bills and still pay for that trip to Europe; and it is for these subscribers that Vanity Fair has engaged Mr. Corey Ford, the well-known writer and lecturer on barnyard love-life, to describe the novel hobby of pigeon-fancying in which they may all turn an honest penny

THE first requisite in starting a pigeon-farm is to move into a neighbourhood where there are a lot of pigeons.

Attach a thick iron hoop about eighteen inches in diameter to the end of a stout broom handle of ordinary size, and sew two or three flour sacks to this iron ring, gathering them together securely at the bottom. This forms an economical and practical Pigeon Net; and a little shifty work, some grey dawn, should insure the reader the nucleus of a prosperous nest.

We are now ready to talk Pigeons; and surely no member of our feathered cousins affords more fascinating study. Since the first dove returned to Noah on Mount Ararat with an olive branch, two American flags and a Hearst editorial in his bill, these gentle creatures have ever been man s loyal and eager friend thru thick and thin; and princes and courtesans, kings and chamber-maids, prelates and ladies of high degree in ages past, so history tells us, often "found keen pleasure . . . up in the pygeon-lofte." Mow often today, indeed, has a faltering fancier, swaying helplessly from a lamp-post in the early morning, been led back safely to his hearth-fire by his faithful homing-pigeon? The devotion and intelligence of these bright-eyed fellows, with their loves and their heart-aches, their jealousies and their vanities and other lovable human qualities, should endear them to every amateur fancier, particularly with squabs bringing anywhere from eight to ten dollars a dozen.

AS soon as a reasonable number of pigeons has been assembled, the amateur fancier must face the problem of housing his feathered pets until proper dormitory space has been provided. While work is progressing on a suitable shed in the hack yard, the pigeons may share their quarters temporarily with the family; and any room, preferably the bathroom, can he fitted into an economical and practical lodging-place. Little imagination is needed to see how readily the fixtures of this room adapt themselves to the needs of pigeons; it is advisable, however, to lower the mirror a trifle so the tiny guests will not have to crane their necks while preening. If the thoughtful fancier will remember to hang a clean towel behind the door, and leave fresh razor-blades and a tube of shaving-cream on the dresser, his little charges will soon make themselves thoroughly at home in their new quarters.

It is essential for pigeons to have plenty of room in which to fly about; and in this emergency the parlour, library and dining-room may be turned into an economical and practical Fly-Pen if the fancier will knock down a few walls and partitions and nail chicken-wire across the transom. The kitchen will prove convenient for storing grain, preparing the mash, and also mixing concrete for lining the floor of the Fly-Pen; and the bedroom may be used for breeding—and the family.

In the meantime work will be progressing as speedily as possible on the new addition next to the garage; for it is possible that the family may be finding conditions slightly cramped in the house by this time. And what a hammering and a banging there is now, to be sure! It is best to construct this shed of one-inch rough lumber, about sixteen feet wide, with four feet of this space used as a passageway in front; the interior may he divided into any desired number of rooms. The walls must be fashioned as weather-proof as possible; and the floors may be of dirt or hoards. I have found that dirt floors are thoroughly practical, in the long run.

At last the new house is finished, the last nail driven, and the paint allowed to dry! And now if the fancier will roll his pajamas and tooth-brush into a bundle, and carry out a couple of mattresses under his arm, he may move his family at once into these attractive quarters and leave full possession of his own house to the feathered guests. Provided proper care has been taken to make the roof watertight, I am sure the family will be perfectly comfortable there as long as the weather stays warm.

SO far nothing has been said of the breeds of pigeons; but their variety and culture form a fascinating chapter of Pigeon-Raising. Darwin divides the pigeon family into four distinct groups, but later fanciers have divided it more simply into three: the rock pigeon, or wild bird; the domesticated, common or duffer pigeon; and the artificial, or clay pigeon. This article will concern itself chiefly with the second division, since most of the pigeons which are raised by amateur fanciers are duffers. For that matter, this also goes for most of the amateur fanciers.

It is with some hesitation that we next approach the delicate question of distinguishing sex in pigeons; for although the problem of sexing his stock is an essential one to every moral-minded breeder, it is unfortunately not always an easy matter for him to decide whether his pet is a little girl pigeon, or a little boy pigeon, or what. With all this bobbed hair and cigarettes and boyish bathing-suits, it is almost impossible nowadays for any but an expert to tell the sexes apart; in fact, sometimes even the pigeons themselves will forget, and just drift for days and days until something reminds them. I once had a prize Pouter who laid eggs all one summer until he was told he was a father; and his subsequent mortification at this pardonable mistake was ludicrous in the extreme.

Unless the male pigeon can be detected by the breeder in some characteristic male act, such as striking a match on the seat of his trousers, or mislaying his hat-check, the amateur fancier will necessarily find this problem pretty much of a stumbling-block to his plans at breeding-time; and long and fruitless hours of spying and prying will be wasted before he can go ahead with his pigeon farm on an economical and practical basis again. Some experts hold that the only sure way to distinguish a male is to see whether the pigeon can drive a nail straight. For my own part, I always gather the entire flock together each spring (for there is always the chance of correcting some of last year's mistakes) and invite them all to sit in on a poker game; and by this cunning ruse I never fail to weed out every hen. I have never found a female yet who can play poker and keep her mouth shut.

Having gotten over these difficulties and secured the requisite mixture for a pair (i. e., a male and a female) the amateur will naturally be anxious to see them set up housekeeping as soon as possible. Here, however, one cannot too thoroughly digest the old motto: "More haste, less speed." Pigeons are reticent and even shy; and breeders of the hail-fellow-well-met sort may feel that there is an unnecessary formality in the stiff, old-world politeness with which the male pecks at the female, kicks dust in her face, knocks over the mash-box on top of her, and chases her about the house, pulling out her tail-feathers with a studied and unfailing courtesy. A little patience and sympathy, however, will teach the owner that his feathered pets are only striving to get acquainted and prepare for married life.

I cannot speak too strongly, at this point, of the need for sympathy and kindness on the part of the breeder toward his flock, lie must make the pigeons feel as soon as possible that he is one of them. For my own part, I have an old pigeon-suit which was made both economically and practically out of a feather-mattress and my little boy's Indian war-bonnet; and in this disguise I often perch for hours on a shelf among my beauties, slowly winning their esteem and confidence, giving helpful advice to the lovelorn pigeons, and even relieving a tired female now and then on the nest.

LET us say that kindness and patience have had their way. The romance of our little pair has culminated in courtship and marriage. Time has passed; and at last, one fine morning, the hen awakes cross and broody. She pays no attention to the dandy love-nest which her mate is busy plastering with stucco; and she only smiles wanly when the anxious male offers her a tidbit of broken oyster-shell. By late afternoon she is cranky as a witch, and orders her husband from the house. All night long, with wings clasped behind him and little brow puckered in thought, the forlorn male paces up and down, up and down the balcony, torn with anxiety. Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it take after its mother's side, who were all Maltese hens; or will it be a crested red runt like its father—a regular pal? Plans, idle speculations; dreams, mayhap; and then, as he paces up and down, up and down into the slow grey dawn, there is a faint stir overhead. With the untold question burning in his eyes, he looks up into his wife's drawn face.

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"It's an egg," she whispers softly.

And the exhausted husband collapses and staggers to the fountain for a drink.

The first flight of the young birds is an event for which the pigeon-fancier has no doubt waited with the keenest anticipation. Perhaps he has consulted the weather-reports, anxiously tested the wings of his young charge, weighed it carefully. By dawn of the morning when the squab will make the great attempt, news leaks out and the flying-pen is crowded with eager spectators, vying with one another to press near the hero of the hour. Wagers are laid on the success of the proposed flight, cameramen train their machines in readiness, and several veteran pigeons take off in their excitement and circle slowly in the air.

The moment approaches.

There is a slight cheer as the brave little flyer assumes his place alone, nods briskly to the crowd, and spreads his wings. With a gasp the spectators watch him run forward, falter, rise and bump again, sinking into the soft dirt at the bottom of the flying-pen. W ill he make it? Will he clear the nearest perches? Hearts cease to beat as the trim grey squab coasts forward again faster and yet faster, spreads his wings, and then rises slowly and magnificently into the air, as gracefully as a bird, and disappears, a slim grey speck far down the vast cage.

Onward he pushes, ever onward, while the old pigeons shake their heads dolefully. It is too much! lie will surely fall! Rumor races after rumor, as familiar objects slip beneath him. He has crossed the last perch; now he is heading out straight over the glistening bath-pan; now the limitless cement floor stretches sullenly beneath him, cruel, menacing. But hark! a murmur, and then a shout! The eager spectators take up the cry! He has made it! He has done it! Our lone fledgling has landed safely at last on the opposite side of the cage!

Amid scenes of unprecedented enthusiasm a million hysterical watchers break down the reserve bars at the flying-pen and hoist him onto their shoulders, as the populace breaks into a mighty cheer and Adolph Zukor rushes forward with a three-million-dollar motion picture contract, and the world newspapers devote the first twenty-two pages to his great exploit, and Gertrude Ederle cables him that youth will be served, and huge plate-glass windows are crashed in by the swelling mob as he waves a flag from the balcony, and all the veteran pigeons kiss him enthusiastically and give him a medal, and Ambassador Herrick refers to him 486 times as a young Lochinvar out of the West, and lie dictates an exclusive story to the Times; and in the midst of it all his excited breeder rushes down to the other end of the cage, seizes him and warmly wrings his neck, and that night he is sold with eleven other squabs for $6.98.

Such is public fame.

And now the long, idle summer days are on the wane, and the first nip of fall is in the air. All has gone well with your pigeon farm. The time and money and labor which you have expended are in a fair way to be rewarded at last. Your happy brood of pigeons inside the house has prospered. mated, and reared its offspring successfully and with credit to their breeder. Out in the plain little shed beside the garage, now bright with climbing nasturtiums and four-o'clocks, the eager family is busy weaving economical and practical baskets of raffia in which to ship your prizes to market. Rich buyers from the West are bidding against each other to purchase your stock. You already have more orders than you can fill.

The rest is very simple. When everything is in readiness, hurry out of the house that night to tell the family about your exciting prospects, and leave the door a little open behind win. (Just a little crack is enough.)

And the next day you can sweep out the empty house, and move your family back in again.