The Policeman, the Whiskey, and the Sober Pigeons
A Seattle officer's attempt to trap church-dwelling pigeons using liquor-soaked corn ended in a hilariously humiliating failure when the birds refused to lose their composure.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Officer Spangle had a unique grievance with the pigeons which roost in the belfry of the First Methodist Church at the corner of Third Avenue and Marion Street. The birds, in Spangle's opinion, have deliberately refused to fall from their high state of incorruptibility to the level of police court drunks, and completely worsted him in the attempt. Spangle wanted pigeons for supper, and, according to the old-time method advised by the giant killer of cutting mills on their tails, he proceeded to try a scheme of his own in which cheap ten-cent whiskey plays a prominent part. Purchasing twenty-one cents worth of rye and ten cents worth of corn, he started for the church to work his designs. The corn was in a small basket, floating around in the whiskey and red ink. By the time the belfry was reached, the whiskey had all dissolved, and naught remained in the basket except a thousand grains of bloated corn. Spangle scattered the kernels over the belfry, and steered off a short distance to await developments. He believed that the pigeons would eat of the corn and, becoming beastly drunk, would fall on the ground. Within a few moments, the birds caught on the tempting feed spread out before them on the ground, and, descending with careful moves as they swooped down from the belfry, went to the job of picking the corn. The officer watched with an approving smile. Every moment he expected to see the birds begin to reel and stagger and then topple over with their feet stuck up into the atmosphere. But that was not to be. The pigeons ate every bit of the corn, but without any boisterous manifestation of hilarity such as usually accompanies a first-class drunk, and when the last kernel was consumed, they looked helplessly at each other, and then at Spangle, and, unfolding their pinions, swarmed away for the belfry in a perfectly straight line, omitting the curves and flourishes which had marked their flight for Officer Spangle. He stood rooted to the spot for several minutes, looking in wonder. Finally, he roused himself and, muttering a few feeble curses, moved off down the street, but not unobserved as he thought. The story was told about police headquarters today, and Spangle will probably have earned many more stutters before he can finally drown the tale of his adventures.
“Every moment he expected to see the birds begin to reel and stagger and then topple over with their feet stuck up into the atmosphere.”
Long before the modern urban debate over Seattle's 'pigeon problem' or the gentrification of the downtown core, local authorities were already finding that nature in the city rarely bows to human policing. Spangle's futile, intoxicated attempt to 'clean up' the birds mirrors the ongoing, often absurd, civic struggles to manage wildlife and public order in the heart of downtown Seattle.
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