My new pet was still very young, with his feathers pushing through the wrinkled skin, mixed with the horrible yellow down (绒羽) that covers the baby pigeon. Owing to his appearance Laxly suggested we call him Quasimodo, and liking the name without realizing the implications, I agreed.

　　Owing to the fact that he had no parents to teach him the facts of life, Quasimodo became convinced that he was not a bird at all and refused to fly. If he wanted to get on a table or a chair, he stood below it, cooing until someone lifted him up. He was always eager to join us in anything we did, and would even try to come for walks with us. This, however, we had to stop, for either you carried him on your shoulder, which was risking an accident to your clothes, or you let him walk behind. Then you had to slow down your pace to suit his, for should you get too far ahead you would hear the wildly excited coos and turn round to find Quasimodo running desperately after you, angry at your cruelty.

　　Quasimodo insisted on sleeping in the house: nothing could get him to sleep in the place I had made for him. He preferred to sleep on the end of Margo’s bed. Eventually, however, he was sent away to the drawing-room, for if Margo turned over in the night Quasimodo would wake, jump up the bed and sit on her face, cooing loudly and lovingly.

　　It was Larry who discovered that Quasimodo was a musical pigeon. Not only did he like music, but he actually seemed to recognize two different varieties, the waltz and the march.

　　Help: Quasimodo [kwa:zi:′mEUdEU] n. 复活节后的第一个星期天

　　coo [kU:] v. （鸽子等）咕咕叫