Chapter Seven.An Odd Stranger.There was one bird used to run about Greenlawn on a fine morning, hunting for tiny spiders and flies; he was a little, slim, dapper fellow, with a long tail, and whenever he jumped about a little way, or settled upon the ground, he used to make his long tail go wipple-wapple, up and down, as if he had shaken it loose; but it was only a funny habit of his, like that of Mrs Hedgesparrow, who was always shaking and shuffling her wings about. A fast runner was Mr Wagtail, and fine fun it was to see him skimming along the top of the ground in chase of a fly to take home to his wife, who used to live in a nest in the bank close by the hole over the pond, where old Ogrebones—blue-backed Billy the kingfisher, had his house, and used to spread the bones of his fishy little victims about the grass.One day Walter Wagtail was running along the ground after a fly, and was going to snap him up, when—“bob”—he was gone in an instant; and Wagtail found himself standing before—oh! such an ugly thing, with two bright, staring eyes; a bloated, rough, dirty-looking body; four crooked legs, no neck, no wings, no tail, and such a heavy stomach, that he was obliged to crawl about with it resting upon the ground.“Heugh! you horrid, ugly-looking thing,” said Wagtail; “you swallowed my fly. Where do you come from? what’s your name? who’s your father and mother, and what made you so ugly?”“Ugly, indeed,” said the pudgy thing; “what do you mean by ugly? Just you go to the bottom of the pond and lie under the mud, old fluffy-jacket, and stop there for a week, and see how you would look with your fine gingerbread black and white feathers sticking to your sides all muddy and wet. Who would look ugly then? Not you! oh no.”“But I shouldn’t be such a round, rough, clay-tod as you are, old no-neck,” said the wagtail, ruffling his feathers up at the very idea of getting them damp.“No, you wouldn’t, you miserable whipper-snapper,” croaked the other, settling himself down on the flowerbed, so that he could hardly be told from the ground for colour. “No, you wouldn’t, but you would be—ho-ho-ho—you would be—ha-ha-ha—such a—he-he-he—such a—haw-haw-haw. There, I can’t help laughing,” said the round fellow, with his fat sides wagging about through his merriment. “You must excuse me, but I do think you would look so comical with all your feathers gummed down to your skinny sides, that wisp of a tail like a streak of horsehair, and those stilty legs sticking into your scraggy body—ho-ho-ho-ho—my fat sides! How I wish I had ribs, for then I could stop laughing easier; but you are such a droll little chap.”“Get out,” said the bird, wagging his tail with fury, for he was very proud of his genteel appearance; “get out, you old dusky dab, or I shall kick you. I feel quite disgusted with your appearance. What are you doing here?”“Doing?” said the other, rubbing the tears out of his eyes; “doing? why, getting my living the same way as you do—fly-catching.”“Fly-catching,” said the other with a sneer; “how can you catch flies? Why, you can’t run a bit. I suppose you wait till they tumble into your mouth, don’t you? Who are you? What’s your name?”“My name?” said the other; “well, you are not very civil, but I don’t mind telling you. My name’s Toad—Brown Toad—and I’d a great deal rather be such an ugly fellow, as you call me, than a weazen, skinny, windbeater like you. How do I catch flies? Why, so, my boy; that’s how I catch them,” and just then the toad crept to within two or three inches of a great fly that had settled upon a leaf, darted out his long tongue, which stuck to the fly, and it was drawn into the toad’s great mouth in an instant. “That’s the way I catch flies, my boy, and a capital way too, isn’t it?”“Hum,” said the wagtail, rather astonished at the ease with which the fly was caught; “it wasn’t so bad, certainly; but you know you are precious ugly. Why, you have no waist.”“Waste!” said the toad, “no, there’s no waste about me; it’s all useful what there is of me.”“Ugh! you stupid,” said the other; “I meanwaistover your hips, where you ought to wear your belt or sash.”“Oh! ah! I see,” said the toad. “No, I’ve no waist, and don’t want any, but I know a little chap that has; he’s a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he’d suit you, only he hassucha tickler in his tail. His name’s Wops, or Wasp, or something of that kind.”“Oh! I know the conceited little plum-stealer; he’s poisonous, like you are.”“Pooh!” said the toad, “poisonous! I’m not poisonous. I’m not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people’s minds, much more poison their bodies. That’s an old woman’s tale; they say I spit poison, because they’ve seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. I creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough.”“But you can’t fly,” said the wagtail vainly; “I can.”“Pooh! I know,” said the toad; “and you can’t swim. I can.”“But you can’t run and catch flies,” said the other, getting cross.“No, but I can sit down and catch them,” said the toad, “and that’s easier.”“Boo! old bark-back; where’s your tail?” said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered.“Tail,” said the other contemptuously; “what’s the use of a tail only to wag? Do you want me to pull it?” And then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail’s long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said.
There was one bird used to run about Greenlawn on a fine morning, hunting for tiny spiders and flies; he was a little, slim, dapper fellow, with a long tail, and whenever he jumped about a little way, or settled upon the ground, he used to make his long tail go wipple-wapple, up and down, as if he had shaken it loose; but it was only a funny habit of his, like that of Mrs Hedgesparrow, who was always shaking and shuffling her wings about. A fast runner was Mr Wagtail, and fine fun it was to see him skimming along the top of the ground in chase of a fly to take home to his wife, who used to live in a nest in the bank close by the hole over the pond, where old Ogrebones—blue-backed Billy the kingfisher, had his house, and used to spread the bones of his fishy little victims about the grass.
One day Walter Wagtail was running along the ground after a fly, and was going to snap him up, when—“bob”—he was gone in an instant; and Wagtail found himself standing before—oh! such an ugly thing, with two bright, staring eyes; a bloated, rough, dirty-looking body; four crooked legs, no neck, no wings, no tail, and such a heavy stomach, that he was obliged to crawl about with it resting upon the ground.
“Heugh! you horrid, ugly-looking thing,” said Wagtail; “you swallowed my fly. Where do you come from? what’s your name? who’s your father and mother, and what made you so ugly?”
“Ugly, indeed,” said the pudgy thing; “what do you mean by ugly? Just you go to the bottom of the pond and lie under the mud, old fluffy-jacket, and stop there for a week, and see how you would look with your fine gingerbread black and white feathers sticking to your sides all muddy and wet. Who would look ugly then? Not you! oh no.”
“But I shouldn’t be such a round, rough, clay-tod as you are, old no-neck,” said the wagtail, ruffling his feathers up at the very idea of getting them damp.
“No, you wouldn’t, you miserable whipper-snapper,” croaked the other, settling himself down on the flowerbed, so that he could hardly be told from the ground for colour. “No, you wouldn’t, but you would be—ho-ho-ho—you would be—ha-ha-ha—such a—he-he-he—such a—haw-haw-haw. There, I can’t help laughing,” said the round fellow, with his fat sides wagging about through his merriment. “You must excuse me, but I do think you would look so comical with all your feathers gummed down to your skinny sides, that wisp of a tail like a streak of horsehair, and those stilty legs sticking into your scraggy body—ho-ho-ho-ho—my fat sides! How I wish I had ribs, for then I could stop laughing easier; but you are such a droll little chap.”
“Get out,” said the bird, wagging his tail with fury, for he was very proud of his genteel appearance; “get out, you old dusky dab, or I shall kick you. I feel quite disgusted with your appearance. What are you doing here?”
“Doing?” said the other, rubbing the tears out of his eyes; “doing? why, getting my living the same way as you do—fly-catching.”
“Fly-catching,” said the other with a sneer; “how can you catch flies? Why, you can’t run a bit. I suppose you wait till they tumble into your mouth, don’t you? Who are you? What’s your name?”
“My name?” said the other; “well, you are not very civil, but I don’t mind telling you. My name’s Toad—Brown Toad—and I’d a great deal rather be such an ugly fellow, as you call me, than a weazen, skinny, windbeater like you. How do I catch flies? Why, so, my boy; that’s how I catch them,” and just then the toad crept to within two or three inches of a great fly that had settled upon a leaf, darted out his long tongue, which stuck to the fly, and it was drawn into the toad’s great mouth in an instant. “That’s the way I catch flies, my boy, and a capital way too, isn’t it?”
“Hum,” said the wagtail, rather astonished at the ease with which the fly was caught; “it wasn’t so bad, certainly; but you know you are precious ugly. Why, you have no waist.”
“Waste!” said the toad, “no, there’s no waste about me; it’s all useful what there is of me.”
“Ugh! you stupid,” said the other; “I meanwaistover your hips, where you ought to wear your belt or sash.”
“Oh! ah! I see,” said the toad. “No, I’ve no waist, and don’t want any, but I know a little chap that has; he’s a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he’d suit you, only he hassucha tickler in his tail. His name’s Wops, or Wasp, or something of that kind.”
“Oh! I know the conceited little plum-stealer; he’s poisonous, like you are.”
“Pooh!” said the toad, “poisonous! I’m not poisonous. I’m not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people’s minds, much more poison their bodies. That’s an old woman’s tale; they say I spit poison, because they’ve seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. I creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough.”
“But you can’t fly,” said the wagtail vainly; “I can.”
“Pooh! I know,” said the toad; “and you can’t swim. I can.”
“But you can’t run and catch flies,” said the other, getting cross.
“No, but I can sit down and catch them,” said the toad, “and that’s easier.”
“Boo! old bark-back; where’s your tail?” said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered.
“Tail,” said the other contemptuously; “what’s the use of a tail only to wag? Do you want me to pull it?” And then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail’s long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said.
Chapter Eight.Ogrebones.Away went the wagtail—flit-flit-flit—down to the pond where the water-lilies grew, and began running about over them to catch the gnats that were dancing over the glassy water; and there again he had a fright, for he saw close to his feet, by the edge of a large leaf, a green nose, just the shape of the toad’s. However, he had presence of mind to say, “Who are you?”“Croak,” said the green nose, and dived under the water; and then the wagtail saw that it was a light-green thing, with longer legs than the toad, and that it swam to the bottom and stopped.Just then old Ogrebones, the kingfisher, came skimming along like a blue flash over the pond, and he settled on a twig near his hole in the bank.“Morning, neighbour,” said he to the wagtail. “How are flies this morning?”“Scarce, very scarce,” said the wagtail. “There was a poacher out on my place catching the poor things with a machine, which he shot at them. One of the lowest-looking, rough customers you ever saw. He said his name was Brown Toad, and quite insulted me about my figure,—an ugly, pumpkin—shaped, pod-nosed thing.”“Oh! I know him,” said the kingfisher; “I often meet his first cousin down here in the pond when I’m diving. They’re a low lot; a cold-blooded set; but what can you expect from a thing whose eggs are soft, and left to hatch themselves? Why, they are only tadpoles at first.”“You don’t say so?” said the wagtail, who had not the least idea what a tadpole was, unless it was the pole the gardener used to pull the weeds out of the pond with. “You don’t say so?”“O yes!” said Ogrebones; “it’s a fact; I tried to eat one once, but couldn’t get on with it at all. You see, I’m an English bird, and not French, so that I cannot manage frog.”“Of course not; I see,” said the wagtail.But the kingfisher did not stop to hear him out, for all of a sudden he sprang up, poised himself a moment in the sunny air, and then darted into the water, from whence he presently emerged, bearing a little struggling fish in his great beak, and with the sparkling drops of water running off his back, and leaving his bright glossy blue feathers all dry, shining, and bright, as though he had only been for a flight through the air.“There,” said Ogrebones, “I’ve got him this time, and not without trying. I’ve missed this little chap twice over, but when once Mrs K inside there takes him in hand, he will have no chance; for it will be eggs and crumb, and frying-pan with him in no time.”So then old Ogrebones disappeared within his hole; Wagtail betook himself to his nest to relate his morning’s experiences to the patient Mrs Wagtail, who, like many other friends and relatives, was busy keeping her eggs warm; and so the pond was for the moment vacated by the birds; but it was not alone for all that, for a pretty place was that pond, just at the bottom of Greenlawn—a pond rich in life of all kinds; this was where the blue-eyed forget-me-not was always peeping up at the passers-by; there grew the yellow water-lily floating amongst its great dark green leaves, like a golden cup offered by the water fairies for drinking the clear crystal liquid. The white water-buttercups, too, glistened over the shallow parts, with such crisp brown water-cresses in between, as would have made a relish to the bread and butter of a princess. All round the edges was a waving green fringe of reeds and rushes—bulrushes with their brown pokery seed-vessels—plaiting rushes with their tasselled blossoms—and reeds with graceful drooping feathery plumes waving in the soft summer air. Down in the depths of the pond glided by the silvery little fish, glistening and bright; while on the surface skimmed no end of insects: shiny beetles forming patterns on the water as they dodged in and out, and round and round in their play; long-legged insects that ran over the water as though it were a hard road; while darting about in all their metallic brightness and on gauzy wings flitted the dragon-flies, blue, green, and blue and green—now settling upon the end of some reed, now careering in mid air, now poised motionless with wings invisible in their rapid beat, now disturbed by the buzz of some great humble-bee, and then round and round and up and down in pursuit of one of their own tribe, till the gauzy wings beat together and rustled as they came in contact. Butterflies, white, yellow, blue, orange-spotted, tortoise-shell, peacock-eyed, and laced, came there to flit over the glassy water, and look within it at their beauty; and here, too, came the mayflies to dance up and down all the day, and die when even came. There never was such a pond anywhere else; for here came the martins and swallows, with their glossy black backs, to skim and dip and drink the water in their rapid flight; here they feasted on flies and gnats; and now and then came the squealing, sooty swift, with his long knife-blade wings, and tiny hand-like feet, to whisk away some heedless fly. The swallows above all liked the pond, and used to sit upon the dead branch of the weeping-willow to twitter and sing after their fashion for half-an-hour together. Old Ogrebones was the great man of the place; but, in the cool of the evening, out would come sailing from the midst of the little reed island, and flicking their round stumpy tails, the moor hens swimming away, to the great disgust of the white ducks, who said they were only impostors, and had no business to swim, because they had no webs to their feet, but only long straggling toes. And what ducks those were! white as snow, with red legs; and often and often they would put their beaks in the soft warm white feathers on their backs and sit upon the water for hours together. All the birds loved the pond, and would fly down of a morning to have a regular splash and wash; flicking the water about with their wings, and sending it flashing and sparkling ever so high in the air, and making the little black tadpoles or pod-noddles go scuffling off into the deeper water. This was the place that old Boxer loved, and when he could get a chance he would go and wet his feet, and rustle about in amongst the reeds, and pretend to go in the water to swim after the ducks, but always turning back when he got in up to his body.
Away went the wagtail—flit-flit-flit—down to the pond where the water-lilies grew, and began running about over them to catch the gnats that were dancing over the glassy water; and there again he had a fright, for he saw close to his feet, by the edge of a large leaf, a green nose, just the shape of the toad’s. However, he had presence of mind to say, “Who are you?”
“Croak,” said the green nose, and dived under the water; and then the wagtail saw that it was a light-green thing, with longer legs than the toad, and that it swam to the bottom and stopped.
Just then old Ogrebones, the kingfisher, came skimming along like a blue flash over the pond, and he settled on a twig near his hole in the bank.
“Morning, neighbour,” said he to the wagtail. “How are flies this morning?”
“Scarce, very scarce,” said the wagtail. “There was a poacher out on my place catching the poor things with a machine, which he shot at them. One of the lowest-looking, rough customers you ever saw. He said his name was Brown Toad, and quite insulted me about my figure,—an ugly, pumpkin—shaped, pod-nosed thing.”
“Oh! I know him,” said the kingfisher; “I often meet his first cousin down here in the pond when I’m diving. They’re a low lot; a cold-blooded set; but what can you expect from a thing whose eggs are soft, and left to hatch themselves? Why, they are only tadpoles at first.”
“You don’t say so?” said the wagtail, who had not the least idea what a tadpole was, unless it was the pole the gardener used to pull the weeds out of the pond with. “You don’t say so?”
“O yes!” said Ogrebones; “it’s a fact; I tried to eat one once, but couldn’t get on with it at all. You see, I’m an English bird, and not French, so that I cannot manage frog.”
“Of course not; I see,” said the wagtail.
But the kingfisher did not stop to hear him out, for all of a sudden he sprang up, poised himself a moment in the sunny air, and then darted into the water, from whence he presently emerged, bearing a little struggling fish in his great beak, and with the sparkling drops of water running off his back, and leaving his bright glossy blue feathers all dry, shining, and bright, as though he had only been for a flight through the air.
“There,” said Ogrebones, “I’ve got him this time, and not without trying. I’ve missed this little chap twice over, but when once Mrs K inside there takes him in hand, he will have no chance; for it will be eggs and crumb, and frying-pan with him in no time.”
So then old Ogrebones disappeared within his hole; Wagtail betook himself to his nest to relate his morning’s experiences to the patient Mrs Wagtail, who, like many other friends and relatives, was busy keeping her eggs warm; and so the pond was for the moment vacated by the birds; but it was not alone for all that, for a pretty place was that pond, just at the bottom of Greenlawn—a pond rich in life of all kinds; this was where the blue-eyed forget-me-not was always peeping up at the passers-by; there grew the yellow water-lily floating amongst its great dark green leaves, like a golden cup offered by the water fairies for drinking the clear crystal liquid. The white water-buttercups, too, glistened over the shallow parts, with such crisp brown water-cresses in between, as would have made a relish to the bread and butter of a princess. All round the edges was a waving green fringe of reeds and rushes—bulrushes with their brown pokery seed-vessels—plaiting rushes with their tasselled blossoms—and reeds with graceful drooping feathery plumes waving in the soft summer air. Down in the depths of the pond glided by the silvery little fish, glistening and bright; while on the surface skimmed no end of insects: shiny beetles forming patterns on the water as they dodged in and out, and round and round in their play; long-legged insects that ran over the water as though it were a hard road; while darting about in all their metallic brightness and on gauzy wings flitted the dragon-flies, blue, green, and blue and green—now settling upon the end of some reed, now careering in mid air, now poised motionless with wings invisible in their rapid beat, now disturbed by the buzz of some great humble-bee, and then round and round and up and down in pursuit of one of their own tribe, till the gauzy wings beat together and rustled as they came in contact. Butterflies, white, yellow, blue, orange-spotted, tortoise-shell, peacock-eyed, and laced, came there to flit over the glassy water, and look within it at their beauty; and here, too, came the mayflies to dance up and down all the day, and die when even came. There never was such a pond anywhere else; for here came the martins and swallows, with their glossy black backs, to skim and dip and drink the water in their rapid flight; here they feasted on flies and gnats; and now and then came the squealing, sooty swift, with his long knife-blade wings, and tiny hand-like feet, to whisk away some heedless fly. The swallows above all liked the pond, and used to sit upon the dead branch of the weeping-willow to twitter and sing after their fashion for half-an-hour together. Old Ogrebones was the great man of the place; but, in the cool of the evening, out would come sailing from the midst of the little reed island, and flicking their round stumpy tails, the moor hens swimming away, to the great disgust of the white ducks, who said they were only impostors, and had no business to swim, because they had no webs to their feet, but only long straggling toes. And what ducks those were! white as snow, with red legs; and often and often they would put their beaks in the soft warm white feathers on their backs and sit upon the water for hours together. All the birds loved the pond, and would fly down of a morning to have a regular splash and wash; flicking the water about with their wings, and sending it flashing and sparkling ever so high in the air, and making the little black tadpoles or pod-noddles go scuffling off into the deeper water. This was the place that old Boxer loved, and when he could get a chance he would go and wet his feet, and rustle about in amongst the reeds, and pretend to go in the water to swim after the ducks, but always turning back when he got in up to his body.
Chapter Nine.A Tall Gentleman.“Hum!” said Mrs Spottleover one morning to Mrs Flutethroat, after they had been having a wash in the bright pure water. “Hum!” she said, looking at the duck’s brood of little downies swimming about after her, and one of them with a bit of shell sticking to its back. “Hum! yes, pretty well, but why yellow?”“Ah! my dear, they will come white; they’re not bleached yet. But they are strong, aren’t they? Look at the little ones, now, only four hours old, and feeding themselves! Don’t you wish yours would? Only think of the trouble they give before they can feed alone!”“Well!” said Mrs Spottleover, “that’s all very well, but, after all, those little downy balls take as much looking after as our little ones; and then only think of one’s child growing up to say nothing better than ‘Quack-quack,’ besides being flat-nosed and frog-footed. Depend upon it, my dear, things are best as they are!”“Well, I suppose you are right,” said Mrs Flutethroat; “but I must not stay here gossiping, for I have no end of work to do this morning.” Saying which the hen blackbird shook out her long dusky wings, cried “Pink-pink-pink,” and flew off to the laurel bush to attend to her little ones; while the thrush hopped up into a tree to see how the haws were getting on, and whether there would be a good crop for the winter.Just then there was a great shadow passed over the pond, and the ducklings splashed through the water, because they were so frightened, and then flop-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop, there came old Shadowbody, the heron, to the pond, and pitched down by the haunt of the kingfisher, where he stood with his long stilty legs half in the water, his great floppy wings doubled up close to his sides, and his long neck squeezed between his shoulders all of a bundle; and there he stood looking as though he were going to sleep; but not a bit of it, old Shadowbody, or Bluescrags, as some of the saucy young birds called him, did not stand by the side of a pond to go to sleep, but to look after his dinner.By-and-by the ducklings, seeing that the heron did not move, came nearer to him; and at last a little white fly went sailing along under his beak, and two ducklings set off on a race over the surface of the pond to see which would get the little white fly; and so busy were they that they forgot all about the great heron, and went up close to him, splashing him all over with the bright sparkling water.“Take that, you ugly little downy dab,” said the heron in a pet. “Do you think I came here to be made a water-mop of? Get out with you! see how you’ve wetted my waistcoat. Take that!”And the poor little duckling did takethat, and scampered off to its mother, crying out in such a pitiful voice, “Wheedle-wheedle-wheedle,” that the heron forgot his ill-humour and burst out laughing, and felt quite sorry that he had given poor little Yellow-down such a cruel poke in its back with his long sharp beak.“Serve it right, though,” said the heron; “coming splashing, and dashing, and sending the water all over a sedate, quiet gentleman, quietly fishing by the side of a pond! And a nice pond it seems too, with plenty of fish in it. It strikes me I shall often come here.”Just then Bluescrags made a poke at a fish, and caught it in his long bill, and gobbled it up in no time. But he was not to enjoy himself long, for the duck was telling all her neighbours about the ill-usage her little one had received; and the mischief-making little wagtail thought as he had seen the lanky bird eating what he called the kingfisher’s fishes, he would go and tell, and then sit on the bank and see the quarrel there would be; for he considered that the heron had no more business to take the fish out of the pond than the toad had to catch flies. So he ran to the blue bird’s hole, and sticking in his little thin body, he ran up it to the nest, shouting, “Neighbour, neighbour; thieves, thieves!”“Where, where?” said Ogrebones the kingfisher.“Here; running away with your fish by the dozen,” said the wagtail.“Well, get out of the way,” said the kingfisher, bustling out of the nest and going towards the mouth of the hole. “There, do make haste.”But the wagtail couldn’t make haste, for his tail was so long he could not turn round in the hole, and so had to walk backwards the best way he could, with the points of his tail-feathers catching against the wall and sending him forwards upon his beak, and making the old kingfisher so crabby, that at last he gave the poor wagtail a dig with his heavy beak that made him cry out, “Peek-peek-peek.”“Then why don’t you get out of the way, when all one’s fish are being taken and stolen?”Now the wagtail thought this very strange behaviour, when he had taken the trouble to let old Ogrebones know, and so he very wisely made up his mind never to interfere with other people’s business again; for, said he, as he got out of the hole at last, “I don’t know but what the heron has as good a right to the fish as old surly has; at all events, I’ll never fetch him out any more.”Out bounced the kingfisher—“Here! hi! I say! you, there! what are you after, impudence? Do you know that you are poaching?”“Eh?” said the heron, looking at the showy little bird that was flitting round him with his feathers sticking up, and looking as though he were in a terrible passion; “Eh?” said the heron, “what’s poaching?”“What’s poaching, ignoramus? why, taking other people’s fish. Don’t you know who I am?” said the kingfisher, sitting upon a spray and looking very self-satisfied and important.“No,” said the heron; “I don’t know you. But you are not a bad-looking little fellow; only you are small—very small. Why, where are your legs?”“Come, now,” said Ogrebones, “none of your impudence, old longshanks. I’m the king—the kingfisher; and I order you off; so go at once.”“Ho-ho-ho,” laughed the tall bird. “And pray who made you a king? I’m not going to be driven off by such a scrubby little thing as you, even if you have got such grand feathers on your back. Why, if I were to shut my bill upon your neck, that head of yours would drop off regularly scissored, and then you’d be just such a king as Charles the First.”“Oh, dear!” said the kingfisher, “only hark at him! I never heard such a character before in my life.”“He nearly killed one of my little ones,” quacked the duck, coming up.“Stuck his beak in my back,” said a frog, putting his nose out of the water; and then seeing that the heron was going to make a dart at him, “Ouf,” said he, popping down again in a hurry, and never stopping until had crept close down to the bottom of the pond where he crept under the weeds, and lay there all day, lost frightened to death.“Keep your little flat bills at home, ma’am,” said the heron. “But really,” he said politely, “I did not know they were yours, or I should not have done so; but who would have thought that those little yellow dabs were children of such a beautifully white and graceful creature as you are?”Whereupon the duck blushed, and spread one of her webbed feet before her face, and looked quite pleased at the compliment.“Don’t listen to him,” croaked the kingfisher, backing into his hole; “he’s a cheat, and a bad character, and thief, and a—”But the heron here made a poke at his royal highness with his great scissors bill, and the kingfisher scuffled out of sight in a fright, having learnt the lesson that a small tyrant, however grandly he may dress, is not always believed in; for with all his bright colours and gaudy plumes he was no match for the great sober-hued, flap-winged heron, who only laughed at him, and all his grand swaggering; and, as soon as he was gone, settled himself down to his work, and caught fish enough for a good meal, for he felt quite certain that he had as good a right to the fish as the little king, who had had it his own way so long that he thought everybody would give way to him.Poke went the heron’s bill, and out came a finny struggler; but it was no use to kick, for Bluescrags never left go when once he had hold of a fish, and he was just gobbling it down when—“Hillo-ho-ho-o-o,” cried a voice, and looking towards the place from whence the sound proceeded, the heron, as he rose from the ground, saw a man holding upon his hand a large sharp-winged bird, with a cruel-looking mouth, like that belonging to Hookbeak, the hawk, who sometimes passed over the garden, and such bright yellow and black piercing eyes, that as soon as Bluescrags felt their glance meet his, he turned all of a shiver, and his feathers began to ruffle up as though he were wet. But there was no time to shiver or shake, for the great bird was coming after him at a terrible rate, every beat of his pointed wings sending him dashing through the air, and in another moment the strange, fierce bird would have had the sharp claws he stretched out in the poor heron, but for the sudden and frantic effort he made to escape.All this while Mrs Flutethroat was crying, “Pink-pink-pink” in the shrubbery, in a state of the greatest alarm, for a man had passed by the place where she was teaching her young ones to fly, carrying a bird on his gloved hand; while the bird had a curious cap upon its head, so contrived that it could not see anything; but the blackbird could see its yellow legs and cruel hooked claws that were stuck tightly into the thick glove the man wore.“Well,” said Mrs Flutethroat, “I’m very glad he’s a prisoner, for the nasty, great, cruel-looking thing must be ten times worse than Hookbeak, the hawk, and if it were let loose here we should all be killed. Pink-tchink-chink,” she cried in alarm; for just then the man, who was a falconer, took his bird’s hood off, and shouted at the heron by the pond. The great flap-winged bird immediately took flight, and then, with a dash of its wings, away went the falcon, leaving Mrs Flutethroat shivering with fear.Flip-flap, flap-flip-flop went the heron’s wings over the water; flip and skim went the falcon’s, and then away and away over the woods and fields went the two birds, circling round and round, and higher and higher; the falcon trying to get above the heron, so as to dart down upon him and break his wings; and the heron, knowing that as long as he kept up the falcon could not touch him, trying his best to keep the higher. At last the swift-winged bird darted upwards, and hovering for a moment over the poor heron, who cried out with fear, darted down with a rush, and went so close that he rustled through the quill feathers of the heron; and so swift was the dart he made, that he went down—down far enough before he could stop himself, and then when he looked up again, he saw that the heron had risen so high that there was no chance of catching him again; so off he flew, and perched in the cedar-tree at Greenlawn, where he sat cleaning and pruning his feathers, and sharpening his ugly hooked beak till it had such a point that it would have been a sad day for the poor bird who came in his clutches; while his master, who had lost sight of him, was wandering away far enough off, whistling to him to come back to his perch.
“Hum!” said Mrs Spottleover one morning to Mrs Flutethroat, after they had been having a wash in the bright pure water. “Hum!” she said, looking at the duck’s brood of little downies swimming about after her, and one of them with a bit of shell sticking to its back. “Hum! yes, pretty well, but why yellow?”
“Ah! my dear, they will come white; they’re not bleached yet. But they are strong, aren’t they? Look at the little ones, now, only four hours old, and feeding themselves! Don’t you wish yours would? Only think of the trouble they give before they can feed alone!”
“Well!” said Mrs Spottleover, “that’s all very well, but, after all, those little downy balls take as much looking after as our little ones; and then only think of one’s child growing up to say nothing better than ‘Quack-quack,’ besides being flat-nosed and frog-footed. Depend upon it, my dear, things are best as they are!”
“Well, I suppose you are right,” said Mrs Flutethroat; “but I must not stay here gossiping, for I have no end of work to do this morning.” Saying which the hen blackbird shook out her long dusky wings, cried “Pink-pink-pink,” and flew off to the laurel bush to attend to her little ones; while the thrush hopped up into a tree to see how the haws were getting on, and whether there would be a good crop for the winter.
Just then there was a great shadow passed over the pond, and the ducklings splashed through the water, because they were so frightened, and then flop-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop, there came old Shadowbody, the heron, to the pond, and pitched down by the haunt of the kingfisher, where he stood with his long stilty legs half in the water, his great floppy wings doubled up close to his sides, and his long neck squeezed between his shoulders all of a bundle; and there he stood looking as though he were going to sleep; but not a bit of it, old Shadowbody, or Bluescrags, as some of the saucy young birds called him, did not stand by the side of a pond to go to sleep, but to look after his dinner.
By-and-by the ducklings, seeing that the heron did not move, came nearer to him; and at last a little white fly went sailing along under his beak, and two ducklings set off on a race over the surface of the pond to see which would get the little white fly; and so busy were they that they forgot all about the great heron, and went up close to him, splashing him all over with the bright sparkling water.
“Take that, you ugly little downy dab,” said the heron in a pet. “Do you think I came here to be made a water-mop of? Get out with you! see how you’ve wetted my waistcoat. Take that!”
And the poor little duckling did takethat, and scampered off to its mother, crying out in such a pitiful voice, “Wheedle-wheedle-wheedle,” that the heron forgot his ill-humour and burst out laughing, and felt quite sorry that he had given poor little Yellow-down such a cruel poke in its back with his long sharp beak.
“Serve it right, though,” said the heron; “coming splashing, and dashing, and sending the water all over a sedate, quiet gentleman, quietly fishing by the side of a pond! And a nice pond it seems too, with plenty of fish in it. It strikes me I shall often come here.”
Just then Bluescrags made a poke at a fish, and caught it in his long bill, and gobbled it up in no time. But he was not to enjoy himself long, for the duck was telling all her neighbours about the ill-usage her little one had received; and the mischief-making little wagtail thought as he had seen the lanky bird eating what he called the kingfisher’s fishes, he would go and tell, and then sit on the bank and see the quarrel there would be; for he considered that the heron had no more business to take the fish out of the pond than the toad had to catch flies. So he ran to the blue bird’s hole, and sticking in his little thin body, he ran up it to the nest, shouting, “Neighbour, neighbour; thieves, thieves!”
“Where, where?” said Ogrebones the kingfisher.
“Here; running away with your fish by the dozen,” said the wagtail.
“Well, get out of the way,” said the kingfisher, bustling out of the nest and going towards the mouth of the hole. “There, do make haste.”
But the wagtail couldn’t make haste, for his tail was so long he could not turn round in the hole, and so had to walk backwards the best way he could, with the points of his tail-feathers catching against the wall and sending him forwards upon his beak, and making the old kingfisher so crabby, that at last he gave the poor wagtail a dig with his heavy beak that made him cry out, “Peek-peek-peek.”
“Then why don’t you get out of the way, when all one’s fish are being taken and stolen?”
Now the wagtail thought this very strange behaviour, when he had taken the trouble to let old Ogrebones know, and so he very wisely made up his mind never to interfere with other people’s business again; for, said he, as he got out of the hole at last, “I don’t know but what the heron has as good a right to the fish as old surly has; at all events, I’ll never fetch him out any more.”
Out bounced the kingfisher—“Here! hi! I say! you, there! what are you after, impudence? Do you know that you are poaching?”
“Eh?” said the heron, looking at the showy little bird that was flitting round him with his feathers sticking up, and looking as though he were in a terrible passion; “Eh?” said the heron, “what’s poaching?”
“What’s poaching, ignoramus? why, taking other people’s fish. Don’t you know who I am?” said the kingfisher, sitting upon a spray and looking very self-satisfied and important.
“No,” said the heron; “I don’t know you. But you are not a bad-looking little fellow; only you are small—very small. Why, where are your legs?”
“Come, now,” said Ogrebones, “none of your impudence, old longshanks. I’m the king—the kingfisher; and I order you off; so go at once.”
“Ho-ho-ho,” laughed the tall bird. “And pray who made you a king? I’m not going to be driven off by such a scrubby little thing as you, even if you have got such grand feathers on your back. Why, if I were to shut my bill upon your neck, that head of yours would drop off regularly scissored, and then you’d be just such a king as Charles the First.”
“Oh, dear!” said the kingfisher, “only hark at him! I never heard such a character before in my life.”
“He nearly killed one of my little ones,” quacked the duck, coming up.
“Stuck his beak in my back,” said a frog, putting his nose out of the water; and then seeing that the heron was going to make a dart at him, “Ouf,” said he, popping down again in a hurry, and never stopping until had crept close down to the bottom of the pond where he crept under the weeds, and lay there all day, lost frightened to death.
“Keep your little flat bills at home, ma’am,” said the heron. “But really,” he said politely, “I did not know they were yours, or I should not have done so; but who would have thought that those little yellow dabs were children of such a beautifully white and graceful creature as you are?”
Whereupon the duck blushed, and spread one of her webbed feet before her face, and looked quite pleased at the compliment.
“Don’t listen to him,” croaked the kingfisher, backing into his hole; “he’s a cheat, and a bad character, and thief, and a—”
But the heron here made a poke at his royal highness with his great scissors bill, and the kingfisher scuffled out of sight in a fright, having learnt the lesson that a small tyrant, however grandly he may dress, is not always believed in; for with all his bright colours and gaudy plumes he was no match for the great sober-hued, flap-winged heron, who only laughed at him, and all his grand swaggering; and, as soon as he was gone, settled himself down to his work, and caught fish enough for a good meal, for he felt quite certain that he had as good a right to the fish as the little king, who had had it his own way so long that he thought everybody would give way to him.
Poke went the heron’s bill, and out came a finny struggler; but it was no use to kick, for Bluescrags never left go when once he had hold of a fish, and he was just gobbling it down when—
“Hillo-ho-ho-o-o,” cried a voice, and looking towards the place from whence the sound proceeded, the heron, as he rose from the ground, saw a man holding upon his hand a large sharp-winged bird, with a cruel-looking mouth, like that belonging to Hookbeak, the hawk, who sometimes passed over the garden, and such bright yellow and black piercing eyes, that as soon as Bluescrags felt their glance meet his, he turned all of a shiver, and his feathers began to ruffle up as though he were wet. But there was no time to shiver or shake, for the great bird was coming after him at a terrible rate, every beat of his pointed wings sending him dashing through the air, and in another moment the strange, fierce bird would have had the sharp claws he stretched out in the poor heron, but for the sudden and frantic effort he made to escape.
All this while Mrs Flutethroat was crying, “Pink-pink-pink” in the shrubbery, in a state of the greatest alarm, for a man had passed by the place where she was teaching her young ones to fly, carrying a bird on his gloved hand; while the bird had a curious cap upon its head, so contrived that it could not see anything; but the blackbird could see its yellow legs and cruel hooked claws that were stuck tightly into the thick glove the man wore.
“Well,” said Mrs Flutethroat, “I’m very glad he’s a prisoner, for the nasty, great, cruel-looking thing must be ten times worse than Hookbeak, the hawk, and if it were let loose here we should all be killed. Pink-tchink-chink,” she cried in alarm; for just then the man, who was a falconer, took his bird’s hood off, and shouted at the heron by the pond. The great flap-winged bird immediately took flight, and then, with a dash of its wings, away went the falcon, leaving Mrs Flutethroat shivering with fear.
Flip-flap, flap-flip-flop went the heron’s wings over the water; flip and skim went the falcon’s, and then away and away over the woods and fields went the two birds, circling round and round, and higher and higher; the falcon trying to get above the heron, so as to dart down upon him and break his wings; and the heron, knowing that as long as he kept up the falcon could not touch him, trying his best to keep the higher. At last the swift-winged bird darted upwards, and hovering for a moment over the poor heron, who cried out with fear, darted down with a rush, and went so close that he rustled through the quill feathers of the heron; and so swift was the dart he made, that he went down—down far enough before he could stop himself, and then when he looked up again, he saw that the heron had risen so high that there was no chance of catching him again; so off he flew, and perched in the cedar-tree at Greenlawn, where he sat cleaning and pruning his feathers, and sharpening his ugly hooked beak till it had such a point that it would have been a sad day for the poor bird who came in his clutches; while his master, who had lost sight of him, was wandering away far enough off, whistling to him to come back to his perch.
Chapter Ten.Flayem, the Falcon.However, he was not left there long in peace, for the birds of Greenlawn did not like such visitors; and the first notice they had of the stranger was from Specklems, the starling, who flew up into the tree, and then out again as though a wasp had stuck in his ear.“Chur-chair-chark,” he shouted, flying round and round, spitting and sputtering, and making his head look like a hedgehog. “Chur–chair–r–r–r,” he cried, and very soon the whole of the birds in the neighbourhood were out to see what it all meant.“Now then, what’s the matter?” said the magpie, coming up all in a hurry. “Whose eggs are broken now? Anybody’s little one tumbled out of the nest into Mrs Puss’s mouth, for me to get the blame?”“Look—look in the cedar,” shouted the birds; and up in the cedar went the magpie with his long tail quivering with excitement, and down he came again with his tail trembling with fright.“Why didn’t you say who it was in the tree?” said the magpie. “Oh! my stars and garters, how out of breath I am. Going about in such a hurry always puts me in a tremble. Oh no! I’m not afraid, not the least bit in the world, it’s being out of breath.”“Well, go up and drive the old hook-nosed thing away,” said the blackbird; “he’s no business here, and weareall afraid; ain’t we birds?”“Yes! yes! scared to death,” chorused all the birds.“Come, up you go,” said the blackbird; “there’s a good fellow.”But the magpie stood on one leg and put a long black claw by the side of his beak in a very knowing manner, and then he said, with his head all on one side, “How do I know that he won’t bite?”“Why, we thought you said that you were not afraid,” said the birds.“Not the least in the world, gentlemen,” said Mag; “but my wife’s calling me, and I must go, or really I should only be too happy to oblige you. Another time you may depend upon me. Good-bye, gentlemen,good-bye.”And before the birds had time to speak again, the cowardly magpie gave three or four hops across the lawn, and then spread out his wings, and went off in a hurry—telling a story into the bargain, for his wife might have called for a week, and he could not have heard so far-off. But Maggy was dreadfully afraid, and, like many people in the world, he was ashamed to show it, and so made a very lame-legged excuse, and ran away.“Ha-ha-ha,” said the birds, “why, that’s worse than being afraid and showing it. Why, he’s ever so much bigger than we are, and has claws sharp enough for anything. Why, he pinched one of old mother Muddle-dab’s ducklings to death with his great black nails.”“Well, what’s to be done now?” said Specklems, “I’m not going to have him in my tree, and I won’t either. I’ve a good mind to run at him with my sharp bill and stick it into him; and I would, too, if I was sure he wouldn’t hurt me. Wouf!” said the starling, fiercely, and making a poke at nothing; “wouf! couldn’t I give it him!” And then he stuck his little pointed feathers up again, and stood on the tips of his toes with a look as fierce as a half-picked chicken.“Of course, gentlemen, it isn’t for such a quiet mournful body as me to say anything,” said the dove, “but I can’t help thinking that the tree is as much mine as Mr Specklems’; but we won’t quarrel about that, for just now it belongs to somebody else, and I feel very uncomfortable about my young ones. Suppose Mr Specklems goes and gives the great staring, goggle-eyed thing a poke; I’m sure I wish he would.”“I should just like to pickaxe him with my mortar-chipper,” said an old cock-sparrow. “I’d teach him to come into other people’s trees without being asked.”“Let’s ask him civilly to go,” said the wren.“Let’s shout at him, and frighten him,” said the owl.“Say ‘Ta-ta’ to him, and then he’ll go,” said the jackdaw.“Why, we’re not afraid, after all,” said all the birds together; “let’s all have a fly at him at once and beat him off.”“Who’ll go first?” said the jackdaw.“Why, I will,” said the tomtit.And then all the birds burst out laughing so heartily at the tiny little fellow’s offer, that he grew quite cross, and told the birds to come on; and then he flew into the cedar, and before the great falcon knew what he was going to do, Tom-tit dashed at him, and gave him such a peck with his little sharp beak, that the falcon jumped off his perch and stared about him; and then, before he could find out what was the matter, the jackdaw flew up above him, and came down head over heels on his back; the owl shouted “Who-o-who-o” in his ear; the blackbird and thrush stuck their beaks in his stomach; the sparrows poked him in the back; and the martins and swallows darted round and round him, and under and over, and all the other birds whistled and chattered and fluttered about him at such a rate, that at last the falcon didn’t know whom to attack, and was regularly mobbed out of the garden, and flew off with a whole stream of birds after him, and he, in spite of his sharp claws and beak, glad to get out of the way as fast as he could.At last the birds all flew back again, and settled down amongst the bushes on Greenlawn, and chirruped and laughed to think how they had driven away the great hook-beaked enemy, when who should come down into their midst but the magpie, all in a hurry and bustle, and looking as important as if all the place belonged to him.“Now, then, here I am again,” said he. “She only wanted my opinion about our last eggs, and I’ve hurried back as fast as I could to drive away this great hook-beaked bird that frightened you all so. I suppose I had better go up at once, hadn’t I? But where shall I send him to?”And there the great artful bird stood pretending that he had not seen the falcon driven off, and that he had come back on purpose to scare it away. But it would not do this time, for although there were some of the little birds who believed in the magpie, and thought him a very fine fellow, yet the greater part of those present burst out laughing at him, and at last made him so cross that he called them a pack of idiots, and flew off in a pet, feeling very uncomfortable and transparent, and cross with himself as well, for having been such a stupid, deceitful thing. While the wiser birds made up their minds never to be deceived by the sly bird again; for before this he had had it all his own way, because he was so big, and everybody thought that he was brave as well; but now that he had been put to the test, he had proved himself to be an arrant coward, and only brave enough to fight against things smaller than himself.
However, he was not left there long in peace, for the birds of Greenlawn did not like such visitors; and the first notice they had of the stranger was from Specklems, the starling, who flew up into the tree, and then out again as though a wasp had stuck in his ear.
“Chur-chair-chark,” he shouted, flying round and round, spitting and sputtering, and making his head look like a hedgehog. “Chur–chair–r–r–r,” he cried, and very soon the whole of the birds in the neighbourhood were out to see what it all meant.
“Now then, what’s the matter?” said the magpie, coming up all in a hurry. “Whose eggs are broken now? Anybody’s little one tumbled out of the nest into Mrs Puss’s mouth, for me to get the blame?”
“Look—look in the cedar,” shouted the birds; and up in the cedar went the magpie with his long tail quivering with excitement, and down he came again with his tail trembling with fright.
“Why didn’t you say who it was in the tree?” said the magpie. “Oh! my stars and garters, how out of breath I am. Going about in such a hurry always puts me in a tremble. Oh no! I’m not afraid, not the least bit in the world, it’s being out of breath.”
“Well, go up and drive the old hook-nosed thing away,” said the blackbird; “he’s no business here, and weareall afraid; ain’t we birds?”
“Yes! yes! scared to death,” chorused all the birds.
“Come, up you go,” said the blackbird; “there’s a good fellow.”
But the magpie stood on one leg and put a long black claw by the side of his beak in a very knowing manner, and then he said, with his head all on one side, “How do I know that he won’t bite?”
“Why, we thought you said that you were not afraid,” said the birds.
“Not the least in the world, gentlemen,” said Mag; “but my wife’s calling me, and I must go, or really I should only be too happy to oblige you. Another time you may depend upon me. Good-bye, gentlemen,good-bye.”
And before the birds had time to speak again, the cowardly magpie gave three or four hops across the lawn, and then spread out his wings, and went off in a hurry—telling a story into the bargain, for his wife might have called for a week, and he could not have heard so far-off. But Maggy was dreadfully afraid, and, like many people in the world, he was ashamed to show it, and so made a very lame-legged excuse, and ran away.
“Ha-ha-ha,” said the birds, “why, that’s worse than being afraid and showing it. Why, he’s ever so much bigger than we are, and has claws sharp enough for anything. Why, he pinched one of old mother Muddle-dab’s ducklings to death with his great black nails.”
“Well, what’s to be done now?” said Specklems, “I’m not going to have him in my tree, and I won’t either. I’ve a good mind to run at him with my sharp bill and stick it into him; and I would, too, if I was sure he wouldn’t hurt me. Wouf!” said the starling, fiercely, and making a poke at nothing; “wouf! couldn’t I give it him!” And then he stuck his little pointed feathers up again, and stood on the tips of his toes with a look as fierce as a half-picked chicken.
“Of course, gentlemen, it isn’t for such a quiet mournful body as me to say anything,” said the dove, “but I can’t help thinking that the tree is as much mine as Mr Specklems’; but we won’t quarrel about that, for just now it belongs to somebody else, and I feel very uncomfortable about my young ones. Suppose Mr Specklems goes and gives the great staring, goggle-eyed thing a poke; I’m sure I wish he would.”
“I should just like to pickaxe him with my mortar-chipper,” said an old cock-sparrow. “I’d teach him to come into other people’s trees without being asked.”
“Let’s ask him civilly to go,” said the wren.
“Let’s shout at him, and frighten him,” said the owl.
“Say ‘Ta-ta’ to him, and then he’ll go,” said the jackdaw.
“Why, we’re not afraid, after all,” said all the birds together; “let’s all have a fly at him at once and beat him off.”
“Who’ll go first?” said the jackdaw.
“Why, I will,” said the tomtit.
And then all the birds burst out laughing so heartily at the tiny little fellow’s offer, that he grew quite cross, and told the birds to come on; and then he flew into the cedar, and before the great falcon knew what he was going to do, Tom-tit dashed at him, and gave him such a peck with his little sharp beak, that the falcon jumped off his perch and stared about him; and then, before he could find out what was the matter, the jackdaw flew up above him, and came down head over heels on his back; the owl shouted “Who-o-who-o” in his ear; the blackbird and thrush stuck their beaks in his stomach; the sparrows poked him in the back; and the martins and swallows darted round and round him, and under and over, and all the other birds whistled and chattered and fluttered about him at such a rate, that at last the falcon didn’t know whom to attack, and was regularly mobbed out of the garden, and flew off with a whole stream of birds after him, and he, in spite of his sharp claws and beak, glad to get out of the way as fast as he could.
At last the birds all flew back again, and settled down amongst the bushes on Greenlawn, and chirruped and laughed to think how they had driven away the great hook-beaked enemy, when who should come down into their midst but the magpie, all in a hurry and bustle, and looking as important as if all the place belonged to him.
“Now, then, here I am again,” said he. “She only wanted my opinion about our last eggs, and I’ve hurried back as fast as I could to drive away this great hook-beaked bird that frightened you all so. I suppose I had better go up at once, hadn’t I? But where shall I send him to?”
And there the great artful bird stood pretending that he had not seen the falcon driven off, and that he had come back on purpose to scare it away. But it would not do this time, for although there were some of the little birds who believed in the magpie, and thought him a very fine fellow, yet the greater part of those present burst out laughing at him, and at last made him so cross that he called them a pack of idiots, and flew off in a pet, feeling very uncomfortable and transparent, and cross with himself as well, for having been such a stupid, deceitful thing. While the wiser birds made up their minds never to be deceived by the sly bird again; for before this he had had it all his own way, because he was so big, and everybody thought that he was brave as well; but now that he had been put to the test, he had proved himself to be an arrant coward, and only brave enough to fight against things smaller than himself.
Chapter Eleven.The Little Warbler.“Sky-high, sky-high, twitter-twitter, sky-high-higher-higher,” sang the lark, and he fluttered and circled round and round, making the air about him echo again and again with the merry song he was singing—a song so sweet, so bright and sparkling, that the birds of Greenlawn stopped to listen to the little brown fellow with the long spurs and top-knot, whistling away “sweet and clear, sweet and clear,” till he rose so high that the sounds came faintly, and nothing could be seen of him but a little black speck high up against the edge of the white flecky cloud; and still the sweet song came trilling down so soft and clear, that the birds clapped their wings and cried “Bravo!” while the jackdaw said he would take lessons from the lark in that style of singing, for he thought it would suit his voice, and then he was quite offended when the thrush laughed, but begged pardon for being so rude. And then, while the birds were watching the lark, he began to descend; slowly, and by jerks, every time sending forth spurts from the fountain of song that gushed from his little warbling throat; and then down, lower and lower still, singing till he was near the ground, when, with one long, clear, prolonged note, he darted down, falling like a stone till close to the grass, when he skimmed along for some distance, and then alighted in a little tussock of grass that stood by itself in the field, which came close up to Greenlawn, and ran right down to the farther edge of the pond. And what was there in the tussock of grass but a tiny cup-like nest in the ground, lined with dry grass, and covered snugly over by the lark’s little brown wife, who was keeping the little ones warm, while her husband had been up almost out of sight in the bright sunny air singing her one of his sweetest songs,—a song so sweet that the birds had all stayed from their work to listen.And this is what he sang—the song that made his little mate’s black beady eyes twinkle and shine as she sat in the tussock; for she felt so proud to think how her mate could warble:—“Low down, low down, sitting in the tussock brown,Little mate, the sky is beaming; little mate, earth wears no frown.Higher, higher; higher, higher; toward the cloudflecks nigher, nigher,Round and round I circle, singing; higher, higher ever winging;Over meadow, over streamlet,Over glistening dew, and beamletFlashing from the pearl-hung grasses,Where the sun in flashes passes;Over where sweet matey’s sitting;Ever warbling, fluttering, flitting;Praising, singing—singing, praising;Higher still my song I’m raising.Sky-high, sky-high; higher—higher—higher—higher,Little matey, watch your flier;Sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet;Here the merry breezes meet,Where I twitter, circling higher,Watch me flying higher, higher.Low down, low down, nestling in the tussock brown,Little mate, I’m coming down.”“Well, that beats the owl hollow,” said Mr Specklems to his wife. “I think I could sing as well myself though, if it was not for this constant feeling of having a cold. There must have been a draught where I was hatched, and I’ve never recovered it. I can’t think how he manages to sing and fly too at the same time: I can’t. Why, I should be out of breath in no time.”“There, don’t be a booby,” said his wife; “you are not a song-bird at all. I heard the crow say we were distant relations of his, and no one would for a moment think that he was a singer.”“Hark at her now!” said Specklems, “not a singer; why, what does she call that?” And then the vain little bird whistled and sputtered and cizzled away till he was quite out of breath, when his wife laughed at him so merrily, but told him that she liked his whistle better than the finest trill the skylark ever made; and so then Specklems said that after all he thought the crow might be right, but, at all events, the Specklems could do something better than cry “Caw-waw” when they opened their beaks.Just then who should come buzzing along but a wasp, a regular gorgeous fellow, all black and gold, and with such a thin waist that he looked almost cut in two.“Now then, old spiketail,” said the starling, “keep your distance; none of your stinging tricks here, or I’ll cut that waist of yours in two with one snip.”“Who wants to sting, old peck-path?” said the wasp. “It’s very hard one can’t go about one’s work without being always sneered and jeered and fleered at by every body.”“Work,” said the starling, “ho-ho-ho, work; why, you don’t work; you’re always buzzing about, and idling; it’s only bees that work and make honey.”“There now,” said the wasp, “that’s the way you people go on: you hear somebody say that the bees are industrious and we are idle, and then you believe it, and tell everybody else so, but you never take the trouble to see if it’s true; and so we poor wasps have to go through the world with a bad name, and people say we sting. Well, so we do if we are touched; and so do bees too, just as bad as we do, only the little gluttons make a lot of sweet honey and wax, and so they get all the praise.”And then away went the little black-and-yellow fellow with his beautiful gauzy wings shining in the sun, and he flew over the garden wall, and was soon scooping away at a ripe golden-yellow plum that was hanging from the wall just ready to pick; and then off he flew again to his nest, where dozens more wasps were going in and out of the hole in a fallen willow-tree, all soft like touchwood, and in it the wasps had scooped out such a hole, where they had been working away quite as hard and industriously as the bees their cousins; and here they had made comb, and cells, and stored up food, and instead of their cells being made of wax, they were composed of beautiful paper that these busy little insects had made. There were grubs, too, and eggs that would turn to grubs, and afterwards to wasps; and here the wasps worked away, in and out all day, as busy as could be. But they had a very hard life of it, for everyone was trying to kill the poor things, and set traps for them to tumble into and be smothered in sweet stuff. But though people did not think so, the wasps did a great deal of good, and among other things they killed a great many tiresome little flies that were always buzzing and humming about; and the wasps went after them and caught them by the back, and then snipped off their wings and head, and flew off and ate the best parts of them up.
“Sky-high, sky-high, twitter-twitter, sky-high-higher-higher,” sang the lark, and he fluttered and circled round and round, making the air about him echo again and again with the merry song he was singing—a song so sweet, so bright and sparkling, that the birds of Greenlawn stopped to listen to the little brown fellow with the long spurs and top-knot, whistling away “sweet and clear, sweet and clear,” till he rose so high that the sounds came faintly, and nothing could be seen of him but a little black speck high up against the edge of the white flecky cloud; and still the sweet song came trilling down so soft and clear, that the birds clapped their wings and cried “Bravo!” while the jackdaw said he would take lessons from the lark in that style of singing, for he thought it would suit his voice, and then he was quite offended when the thrush laughed, but begged pardon for being so rude. And then, while the birds were watching the lark, he began to descend; slowly, and by jerks, every time sending forth spurts from the fountain of song that gushed from his little warbling throat; and then down, lower and lower still, singing till he was near the ground, when, with one long, clear, prolonged note, he darted down, falling like a stone till close to the grass, when he skimmed along for some distance, and then alighted in a little tussock of grass that stood by itself in the field, which came close up to Greenlawn, and ran right down to the farther edge of the pond. And what was there in the tussock of grass but a tiny cup-like nest in the ground, lined with dry grass, and covered snugly over by the lark’s little brown wife, who was keeping the little ones warm, while her husband had been up almost out of sight in the bright sunny air singing her one of his sweetest songs,—a song so sweet that the birds had all stayed from their work to listen.
And this is what he sang—the song that made his little mate’s black beady eyes twinkle and shine as she sat in the tussock; for she felt so proud to think how her mate could warble:—
“Low down, low down, sitting in the tussock brown,Little mate, the sky is beaming; little mate, earth wears no frown.Higher, higher; higher, higher; toward the cloudflecks nigher, nigher,Round and round I circle, singing; higher, higher ever winging;Over meadow, over streamlet,Over glistening dew, and beamletFlashing from the pearl-hung grasses,Where the sun in flashes passes;Over where sweet matey’s sitting;Ever warbling, fluttering, flitting;Praising, singing—singing, praising;Higher still my song I’m raising.Sky-high, sky-high; higher—higher—higher—higher,Little matey, watch your flier;Sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet;Here the merry breezes meet,Where I twitter, circling higher,Watch me flying higher, higher.Low down, low down, nestling in the tussock brown,Little mate, I’m coming down.”
“Low down, low down, sitting in the tussock brown,Little mate, the sky is beaming; little mate, earth wears no frown.Higher, higher; higher, higher; toward the cloudflecks nigher, nigher,Round and round I circle, singing; higher, higher ever winging;Over meadow, over streamlet,Over glistening dew, and beamletFlashing from the pearl-hung grasses,Where the sun in flashes passes;Over where sweet matey’s sitting;Ever warbling, fluttering, flitting;Praising, singing—singing, praising;Higher still my song I’m raising.Sky-high, sky-high; higher—higher—higher—higher,Little matey, watch your flier;Sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet—sweet;Here the merry breezes meet,Where I twitter, circling higher,Watch me flying higher, higher.Low down, low down, nestling in the tussock brown,Little mate, I’m coming down.”
“Well, that beats the owl hollow,” said Mr Specklems to his wife. “I think I could sing as well myself though, if it was not for this constant feeling of having a cold. There must have been a draught where I was hatched, and I’ve never recovered it. I can’t think how he manages to sing and fly too at the same time: I can’t. Why, I should be out of breath in no time.”
“There, don’t be a booby,” said his wife; “you are not a song-bird at all. I heard the crow say we were distant relations of his, and no one would for a moment think that he was a singer.”
“Hark at her now!” said Specklems, “not a singer; why, what does she call that?” And then the vain little bird whistled and sputtered and cizzled away till he was quite out of breath, when his wife laughed at him so merrily, but told him that she liked his whistle better than the finest trill the skylark ever made; and so then Specklems said that after all he thought the crow might be right, but, at all events, the Specklems could do something better than cry “Caw-waw” when they opened their beaks.
Just then who should come buzzing along but a wasp, a regular gorgeous fellow, all black and gold, and with such a thin waist that he looked almost cut in two.
“Now then, old spiketail,” said the starling, “keep your distance; none of your stinging tricks here, or I’ll cut that waist of yours in two with one snip.”
“Who wants to sting, old peck-path?” said the wasp. “It’s very hard one can’t go about one’s work without being always sneered and jeered and fleered at by every body.”
“Work,” said the starling, “ho-ho-ho, work; why, you don’t work; you’re always buzzing about, and idling; it’s only bees that work and make honey.”
“There now,” said the wasp, “that’s the way you people go on: you hear somebody say that the bees are industrious and we are idle, and then you believe it, and tell everybody else so, but you never take the trouble to see if it’s true; and so we poor wasps have to go through the world with a bad name, and people say we sting. Well, so we do if we are touched; and so do bees too, just as bad as we do, only the little gluttons make a lot of sweet honey and wax, and so they get all the praise.”
And then away went the little black-and-yellow fellow with his beautiful gauzy wings shining in the sun, and he flew over the garden wall, and was soon scooping away at a ripe golden-yellow plum that was hanging from the wall just ready to pick; and then off he flew again to his nest, where dozens more wasps were going in and out of the hole in a fallen willow-tree, all soft like touchwood, and in it the wasps had scooped out such a hole, where they had been working away quite as hard and industriously as the bees their cousins; and here they had made comb, and cells, and stored up food, and instead of their cells being made of wax, they were composed of beautiful paper that these busy little insects had made. There were grubs, too, and eggs that would turn to grubs, and afterwards to wasps; and here the wasps worked away, in and out all day, as busy as could be. But they had a very hard life of it, for everyone was trying to kill the poor things, and set traps for them to tumble into and be smothered in sweet stuff. But though people did not think so, the wasps did a great deal of good, and among other things they killed a great many tiresome little flies that were always buzzing and humming about; and the wasps went after them and caught them by the back, and then snipped off their wings and head, and flew off and ate the best parts of them up.
Chapter Twelve.Busy Bees.One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine round-topped straw hives there were at Greenlawn—hives full of such rich, thick honey, and such beautiful combs, and all about these round heavy hives the bees would hum and buzz of a hot day, flying in and out loaded with honey and pollen; and outside some of the hives the bees would hang down like great pockets made of insects, all hanging to one another; and there they hung, getting ready to swarm and fly off to a new home; but they did not know how to choose one for themselves, for they would only fly off to a tree and hang there all of a lump, when the master of Greenlawn would take a nice, clean, sweet hive and sweep them all into it, and set them on a board by the side of the other hives. It was such a nice, sweet place, all amongst flowers, and the scent of the honey would come from the hives so strongly that very often the birds would come and think they would like a taste, while the wasps would even go so far as to creep in and steal some of the luscious food. As to flies, they would come without end, and if they had not been afraid of the bees they would soon have run off with all the sweet honey. But one day there was a very serious bluebottle who had sat upon the end of a sweet pea watching the bees so busy, while he had been doing nothing all day but make a noise, and he felt at last so ashamed of himself, that when he saw a bee come to the flower he was on, and put his long trunk into it to find whether there was any honey, he began to buzz very loudly; and the bee, looking up to know what he meant, heard him say—“Little bee, buzzing about in the air,For once be not busy, a moment pray spare,And tell me, pray tell me, how honey you makeFrom the flowerets of garden, soft meadow, and brake.You rise with the sun, and your gossamer wingBears you swiftly away where the heather-bells spring;Whence you come heavy laden with nectary spoil,For the sweet winter stores of your summer of toil.“Oh! I would be busy; and lay up in storeFor the days of the winter when cold showers pour,And the wild wintry breezes sweep flowers away,While the sun sets in gloom o’er the dim-shadowed day;But I’m a poor bluebottle, spoken of ill;Whilst you are protected, all bear me ill-will;And if I escape from each murderous blow,The first cutting frost lays the bluebottle low.“So little bee buzzing, a lesson pray give;Remember the motto to ‘liveand let live;’ For one moment teach me sweet honey to make,That again in the spring-time with you I may wake.”“Buzz,” said the bee, “that’s all very fine, but you were never meant to make honey. Go and do your duty, and lay eggs in the bad meat to make maggots to eat it up, so that we may not have the nasty stuff lying about. I daresay you think we have a very fine time of it amongst the honey; but, don’t you know, sometimes somebody comes with the brimstone and smothers us all, and takes the honey away? How should you like that, old blue-boy?”“Worse and worse—wuz–z–z–ooz–wooz,” said the bluebottle, and off he flew, and never sang any more songs to the bees; while the old bee burst out laughing so heartily at the way in which the bluebottle was frightened, that he let all the bee-bread tumble out of his baskets, and before he could pick it up, a bee from another hive flew off with it.“There,” said the first bee, “that comes of laughing at other people, and now I’ve got all my work to do over again; but, oh dear! how he did bustle off when I told him about the brimstone.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine round-topped straw hives there were at Greenlawn—hives full of such rich, thick honey, and such beautiful combs, and all about these round heavy hives the bees would hum and buzz of a hot day, flying in and out loaded with honey and pollen; and outside some of the hives the bees would hang down like great pockets made of insects, all hanging to one another; and there they hung, getting ready to swarm and fly off to a new home; but they did not know how to choose one for themselves, for they would only fly off to a tree and hang there all of a lump, when the master of Greenlawn would take a nice, clean, sweet hive and sweep them all into it, and set them on a board by the side of the other hives. It was such a nice, sweet place, all amongst flowers, and the scent of the honey would come from the hives so strongly that very often the birds would come and think they would like a taste, while the wasps would even go so far as to creep in and steal some of the luscious food. As to flies, they would come without end, and if they had not been afraid of the bees they would soon have run off with all the sweet honey. But one day there was a very serious bluebottle who had sat upon the end of a sweet pea watching the bees so busy, while he had been doing nothing all day but make a noise, and he felt at last so ashamed of himself, that when he saw a bee come to the flower he was on, and put his long trunk into it to find whether there was any honey, he began to buzz very loudly; and the bee, looking up to know what he meant, heard him say—
“Little bee, buzzing about in the air,For once be not busy, a moment pray spare,And tell me, pray tell me, how honey you makeFrom the flowerets of garden, soft meadow, and brake.You rise with the sun, and your gossamer wingBears you swiftly away where the heather-bells spring;Whence you come heavy laden with nectary spoil,For the sweet winter stores of your summer of toil.“Oh! I would be busy; and lay up in storeFor the days of the winter when cold showers pour,And the wild wintry breezes sweep flowers away,While the sun sets in gloom o’er the dim-shadowed day;But I’m a poor bluebottle, spoken of ill;Whilst you are protected, all bear me ill-will;And if I escape from each murderous blow,The first cutting frost lays the bluebottle low.“So little bee buzzing, a lesson pray give;Remember the motto to ‘liveand let live;’ For one moment teach me sweet honey to make,That again in the spring-time with you I may wake.”
“Little bee, buzzing about in the air,For once be not busy, a moment pray spare,And tell me, pray tell me, how honey you makeFrom the flowerets of garden, soft meadow, and brake.You rise with the sun, and your gossamer wingBears you swiftly away where the heather-bells spring;Whence you come heavy laden with nectary spoil,For the sweet winter stores of your summer of toil.“Oh! I would be busy; and lay up in storeFor the days of the winter when cold showers pour,And the wild wintry breezes sweep flowers away,While the sun sets in gloom o’er the dim-shadowed day;But I’m a poor bluebottle, spoken of ill;Whilst you are protected, all bear me ill-will;And if I escape from each murderous blow,The first cutting frost lays the bluebottle low.“So little bee buzzing, a lesson pray give;Remember the motto to ‘liveand let live;’ For one moment teach me sweet honey to make,That again in the spring-time with you I may wake.”
“Buzz,” said the bee, “that’s all very fine, but you were never meant to make honey. Go and do your duty, and lay eggs in the bad meat to make maggots to eat it up, so that we may not have the nasty stuff lying about. I daresay you think we have a very fine time of it amongst the honey; but, don’t you know, sometimes somebody comes with the brimstone and smothers us all, and takes the honey away? How should you like that, old blue-boy?”
“Worse and worse—wuz–z–z–ooz–wooz,” said the bluebottle, and off he flew, and never sang any more songs to the bees; while the old bee burst out laughing so heartily at the way in which the bluebottle was frightened, that he let all the bee-bread tumble out of his baskets, and before he could pick it up, a bee from another hive flew off with it.
“There,” said the first bee, “that comes of laughing at other people, and now I’ve got all my work to do over again; but, oh dear! how he did bustle off when I told him about the brimstone.”
Chapter Thirteen.Cold Weather.At last the merry summer-time was gone, and the flowers began to hang their heads in the gardens, looking wet and soiled; for every now and then the cold wind would come with a rush and a roar and knock the poor things about dreadfully; sometimes they would be struck right down on the ground, where they would lie, never to get up any more. Sometimes, however, the sun would come out to cheer them up again, but he was not at all warm; and then the nights began to grow so long and cold that the flowers had nearly made up their minds to go to sleep for the winter, when Jack Frost sent word one night that he was coming, and his messenger left such a cold chill everywhere that he had been, that the flowers all went to sleep at once, and the leaves on the trees, turning yellow with fright, began to shake and shiver, and tumble off as hard as ever they could tumble, till they lay in great rustling heaps all over the gravel walks, where they were swept up and carried off into the back-yard. And then all the birds were as busy as ever they could be: the young ones were now strong on the wing, and there were such meetings and congregations in wood and field—on lawn and in tree—in hedgerow and down even in the ditches. The martins and swallows all said “Good-bye,” and were off in a hurry; and all the other summer visitors who were lagging behind, when they saw the swallows go, went off as hard as ever they could, not even stopping to take any cold flies with them, they were in such a hurry. Sparrows and finches, they all made excursion parties, and went feasting in the stubble-fields; starlings, jackdaws, and rooks, they went worm-picking in the wet marshlands; and all the thrush family went off to the fields and hedgerows, seeking berries and fruits that had now grown tender and sweet; and so at last Greenlawn began to look very deserted all day, but it was not so of a night, for there would be a fine noise in the ivy, where all the sparrows came home to roost, for they were in such high spirits that they could not keep quiet, but kept on chatter, chatter, till it grew so dark they could not see to open their beaks. As to the starlings, they came home by scores to the warm, thick cedar, and there they whistled and chattered until the moon began to shine, when they, too, went off to sleep; and so, wherever there was a snug, warm spot at Greenlawn, the birds came back in the cold wintry nights to sleep—flying far-off in the day-time, but always returning at night.They were hard times for the poor birds when Jack Frost had it all his own way; for in his sharp, spiteful, nip-toes fashion he would freeze and freeze everything until it was all as hard as steel; and then, so as to make sure that by hard work and bill-chipping no worms were dug out, he would powder the ground all over with white snow, so that all the footmarks were stamped upon it as the birds walked along. Shiver-shiver-shiver; ah! it was cold! and food was so scarce that no one could get anything to eat but the robin-redbreast; and he would go up to the house, and, sitting upon the snow-covered sills, peep in at the windows with his great round staring eyes, until the master’s little girls would come and open the sash, and shake all the crumbs out of their pinafores; so that the poor cold bird would often get a good hearty meal.Sometimes the sun would come out and shine upon the snow-wreaths, and they would glitter and sparkle, and turn of the most beautiful colours; while the trees were covered with frost-work that looked more brilliant than the finest silver that was ever worked.But, ah! the poor birds! it was a sad time for them; and they would huddle up together in flocks; and very often got to be so cold and hungry that the country people picked them up half dead, with their feathers all ruffled up and their beautiful little bright, beady eyes half-shut. Ah! those were sad times at Greenlawn; and the master would gladly have helped the poor things if he could; but generally they used to fly right off, miles away, so that very often not a bird was to be seen but Bob Robin, who kept hopping about the doors and windows.But Jack Frost did not care a bit, for he loved freezing; and when the winter nights were come, with the moon shining, and the stars twinkling and blinking ever so high up, Jack would put on his skates and go skimming over the country, breathing on people’s window-panes, and making them all over ferny frost-work; hanging icicles round the eaves of the houses; making the roads so hard that they would sound hollow and rattle as the wheels passed over; and turning the ponds, lakes, and rivers into hard ringing ice. Then the frost would hang upon the labourers’ hair, and little knobs of ice upon the bristles about the horses’ muzzles; while some of the branches of the trees would become so loaded with the white clinging snow that they would snap off and fall to the ground. Away would troop the birds in the day-time then to feast upon the scarlet berries of the holly, the pearly dew-like drops of the mistletoe, or the black coaly berries that grew upon the ivy-tod; and away and away they would fly again with wild and plaintive cries as Jack Frost would send a cutting blast in amongst them to scare them away. How the poor birds would look at the man cutting logs of wood to take to the master’s house; and how they would watch the blue smoke and sparks come curling out of the wide chimneys. In the night the wild geese would fly over to the moor, crying “Clang-clang-clang,” and frightening many a shivering sleeper with their wild shriek; and then the long-necked birds would dart down from their high swoop to some lonely lake in the wild moor, there to sit upon the cold ice, pluming themselves ere they started again for some spot where the frost king had not all his own way.Old Ogrebones, the kingfisher, lay snug at the bottom of his hole in the bank; while all the tender birds were far-off in milder climes, where flies were to be caught, and where the sun shone bright and warm. As to the poor ducks, they could do nothing but paddle and straddle about over the surface of the glassy pond, for almost as soon as the hard ice was broken for them to get water, it all froze together again; and in spite of their thick coats of warm down and feathers, they said it was almost too cold to be borne. The rooks had gone down to the sea-side and the mouths of the rivers to pick up a living when the tide went down; while all the other birds that were not in the fields made friends with the sparrows, and went in flocks to the farmyards, where they could find stray grains of corn, and run off with them, chased by the old cocks and hens. And still Jack Frost had it all his own way, and stuck his cold, sharp teeth into everything and everybody—even into the foreign thrushes and grey crows that came over from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, and nipped them so that they all said they had better have stayed at home.Now, all this could not have been borne, only that Jack Frost would go to sleep sometimes, and then down would come a soft, warm rain that would wash away the snow and melt the ice, and soften the ground so that food became plentiful again; and the birds would set to and make up for lost time by having such a feast as would make them better able to bear Jack Frost’s next fast, and strong enough to set his sharp teeth at defiance.They were fine times for feasting when the thaw had set in, for then, as the earth grew soft, the worms would come crawling out to have a stretch, after being asleep beneath the iron-bound earth. As for the rooks, they ate until they could hardly move, and gormandised in a way that could only be excused in things that could not get their meals at regular times. “Snip-snap” went the bills all over the marshlands, and gobble-gobble went the poor worms; and so for about a week the birds had such a feast that their skins all got quite tight with the thick jacket of fat that was spread beneath them to keep the cold out, and all their feathers began to stick up so that they had plenty of work to smooth them down. But such weather did not last long, for soon Jack Frost would wake up again, quite cross to think how long he had slept, and then on he would put his sharp steel skates again, and away over the country he would skim with all the land turning to iron wherever he went, and looking as if the keen old fellow had been sprinkling diamonds and emeralds and pearls all over the ground. As to the sheep, they would quite rattle with the knobs of ice upon their wool, while the turnips they were nibbling out in the fields were like snowballs. And away skimmed Jack Frost by the light of the bright moon, while all the stars kept laughing and winking at his freaks, and soon again all the country was powdered over with snow, and the water all turned to ice. Then at night, when the cold cutting wind would hum outside the doors and sing through all the chinks, trying to get in, people would draw the red curtains close, and heap up the dry logs of wood upon the fire till the bright blue flames would dance and flicker, and flicker and dance, and roar up the chimney; but all the time sending such warmth and comfort through the rooms that the wind would give up trying, and, knowing that it could not battle with such a warm fire, would rush off again over the bare woods and fields to help Jack Frost, and bear away the words of the song he was singing, so that everybody could hear it. For the icy fellow as he skimmed along would laugh and shout to see how everybody was afraid of him, and lighted fires to keep him away; and then he would sing,—“I kiss cheeks and make them rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;I send people quickly tripping.See my breath all silver lacing;Feel my touch how cold and bracing;Come and race o’er ground so snowy;Come and trip ’mid breezes blowy.I’ll make little eyes look brightly;I’ll make little hearts beat lightly;And when cheeks grow red as cherry,Then will echo voices merry.For I’m Jack Frost who makes cheeks rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;But send the little people tripping.”But in spite of all Jack Frost could do, the birds at Greenlawn would manage to get through the harsh time of winter, looking out for the spring to come again; and happy and contented, though always very busy, and trying hard to do their duty as well when the cold wintry rains fell, or the biting sleet, or soft falling snow, or even when the ground was all hard and they were nearly starved, as when plenty reigned around; for still they hoped on, and waited for spring, that seemed so long in coming, but yet would surely come at last, however long it might appear, and tire their patience.
At last the merry summer-time was gone, and the flowers began to hang their heads in the gardens, looking wet and soiled; for every now and then the cold wind would come with a rush and a roar and knock the poor things about dreadfully; sometimes they would be struck right down on the ground, where they would lie, never to get up any more. Sometimes, however, the sun would come out to cheer them up again, but he was not at all warm; and then the nights began to grow so long and cold that the flowers had nearly made up their minds to go to sleep for the winter, when Jack Frost sent word one night that he was coming, and his messenger left such a cold chill everywhere that he had been, that the flowers all went to sleep at once, and the leaves on the trees, turning yellow with fright, began to shake and shiver, and tumble off as hard as ever they could tumble, till they lay in great rustling heaps all over the gravel walks, where they were swept up and carried off into the back-yard. And then all the birds were as busy as ever they could be: the young ones were now strong on the wing, and there were such meetings and congregations in wood and field—on lawn and in tree—in hedgerow and down even in the ditches. The martins and swallows all said “Good-bye,” and were off in a hurry; and all the other summer visitors who were lagging behind, when they saw the swallows go, went off as hard as ever they could, not even stopping to take any cold flies with them, they were in such a hurry. Sparrows and finches, they all made excursion parties, and went feasting in the stubble-fields; starlings, jackdaws, and rooks, they went worm-picking in the wet marshlands; and all the thrush family went off to the fields and hedgerows, seeking berries and fruits that had now grown tender and sweet; and so at last Greenlawn began to look very deserted all day, but it was not so of a night, for there would be a fine noise in the ivy, where all the sparrows came home to roost, for they were in such high spirits that they could not keep quiet, but kept on chatter, chatter, till it grew so dark they could not see to open their beaks. As to the starlings, they came home by scores to the warm, thick cedar, and there they whistled and chattered until the moon began to shine, when they, too, went off to sleep; and so, wherever there was a snug, warm spot at Greenlawn, the birds came back in the cold wintry nights to sleep—flying far-off in the day-time, but always returning at night.
They were hard times for the poor birds when Jack Frost had it all his own way; for in his sharp, spiteful, nip-toes fashion he would freeze and freeze everything until it was all as hard as steel; and then, so as to make sure that by hard work and bill-chipping no worms were dug out, he would powder the ground all over with white snow, so that all the footmarks were stamped upon it as the birds walked along. Shiver-shiver-shiver; ah! it was cold! and food was so scarce that no one could get anything to eat but the robin-redbreast; and he would go up to the house, and, sitting upon the snow-covered sills, peep in at the windows with his great round staring eyes, until the master’s little girls would come and open the sash, and shake all the crumbs out of their pinafores; so that the poor cold bird would often get a good hearty meal.
Sometimes the sun would come out and shine upon the snow-wreaths, and they would glitter and sparkle, and turn of the most beautiful colours; while the trees were covered with frost-work that looked more brilliant than the finest silver that was ever worked.
But, ah! the poor birds! it was a sad time for them; and they would huddle up together in flocks; and very often got to be so cold and hungry that the country people picked them up half dead, with their feathers all ruffled up and their beautiful little bright, beady eyes half-shut. Ah! those were sad times at Greenlawn; and the master would gladly have helped the poor things if he could; but generally they used to fly right off, miles away, so that very often not a bird was to be seen but Bob Robin, who kept hopping about the doors and windows.
But Jack Frost did not care a bit, for he loved freezing; and when the winter nights were come, with the moon shining, and the stars twinkling and blinking ever so high up, Jack would put on his skates and go skimming over the country, breathing on people’s window-panes, and making them all over ferny frost-work; hanging icicles round the eaves of the houses; making the roads so hard that they would sound hollow and rattle as the wheels passed over; and turning the ponds, lakes, and rivers into hard ringing ice. Then the frost would hang upon the labourers’ hair, and little knobs of ice upon the bristles about the horses’ muzzles; while some of the branches of the trees would become so loaded with the white clinging snow that they would snap off and fall to the ground. Away would troop the birds in the day-time then to feast upon the scarlet berries of the holly, the pearly dew-like drops of the mistletoe, or the black coaly berries that grew upon the ivy-tod; and away and away they would fly again with wild and plaintive cries as Jack Frost would send a cutting blast in amongst them to scare them away. How the poor birds would look at the man cutting logs of wood to take to the master’s house; and how they would watch the blue smoke and sparks come curling out of the wide chimneys. In the night the wild geese would fly over to the moor, crying “Clang-clang-clang,” and frightening many a shivering sleeper with their wild shriek; and then the long-necked birds would dart down from their high swoop to some lonely lake in the wild moor, there to sit upon the cold ice, pluming themselves ere they started again for some spot where the frost king had not all his own way.
Old Ogrebones, the kingfisher, lay snug at the bottom of his hole in the bank; while all the tender birds were far-off in milder climes, where flies were to be caught, and where the sun shone bright and warm. As to the poor ducks, they could do nothing but paddle and straddle about over the surface of the glassy pond, for almost as soon as the hard ice was broken for them to get water, it all froze together again; and in spite of their thick coats of warm down and feathers, they said it was almost too cold to be borne. The rooks had gone down to the sea-side and the mouths of the rivers to pick up a living when the tide went down; while all the other birds that were not in the fields made friends with the sparrows, and went in flocks to the farmyards, where they could find stray grains of corn, and run off with them, chased by the old cocks and hens. And still Jack Frost had it all his own way, and stuck his cold, sharp teeth into everything and everybody—even into the foreign thrushes and grey crows that came over from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, and nipped them so that they all said they had better have stayed at home.
Now, all this could not have been borne, only that Jack Frost would go to sleep sometimes, and then down would come a soft, warm rain that would wash away the snow and melt the ice, and soften the ground so that food became plentiful again; and the birds would set to and make up for lost time by having such a feast as would make them better able to bear Jack Frost’s next fast, and strong enough to set his sharp teeth at defiance.
They were fine times for feasting when the thaw had set in, for then, as the earth grew soft, the worms would come crawling out to have a stretch, after being asleep beneath the iron-bound earth. As for the rooks, they ate until they could hardly move, and gormandised in a way that could only be excused in things that could not get their meals at regular times. “Snip-snap” went the bills all over the marshlands, and gobble-gobble went the poor worms; and so for about a week the birds had such a feast that their skins all got quite tight with the thick jacket of fat that was spread beneath them to keep the cold out, and all their feathers began to stick up so that they had plenty of work to smooth them down. But such weather did not last long, for soon Jack Frost would wake up again, quite cross to think how long he had slept, and then on he would put his sharp steel skates again, and away over the country he would skim with all the land turning to iron wherever he went, and looking as if the keen old fellow had been sprinkling diamonds and emeralds and pearls all over the ground. As to the sheep, they would quite rattle with the knobs of ice upon their wool, while the turnips they were nibbling out in the fields were like snowballs. And away skimmed Jack Frost by the light of the bright moon, while all the stars kept laughing and winking at his freaks, and soon again all the country was powdered over with snow, and the water all turned to ice. Then at night, when the cold cutting wind would hum outside the doors and sing through all the chinks, trying to get in, people would draw the red curtains close, and heap up the dry logs of wood upon the fire till the bright blue flames would dance and flicker, and flicker and dance, and roar up the chimney; but all the time sending such warmth and comfort through the rooms that the wind would give up trying, and, knowing that it could not battle with such a warm fire, would rush off again over the bare woods and fields to help Jack Frost, and bear away the words of the song he was singing, so that everybody could hear it. For the icy fellow as he skimmed along would laugh and shout to see how everybody was afraid of him, and lighted fires to keep him away; and then he would sing,—
“I kiss cheeks and make them rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;I send people quickly tripping.See my breath all silver lacing;Feel my touch how cold and bracing;Come and race o’er ground so snowy;Come and trip ’mid breezes blowy.I’ll make little eyes look brightly;I’ll make little hearts beat lightly;And when cheeks grow red as cherry,Then will echo voices merry.For I’m Jack Frost who makes cheeks rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;But send the little people tripping.”
“I kiss cheeks and make them rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;I send people quickly tripping.See my breath all silver lacing;Feel my touch how cold and bracing;Come and race o’er ground so snowy;Come and trip ’mid breezes blowy.I’ll make little eyes look brightly;I’ll make little hearts beat lightly;And when cheeks grow red as cherry,Then will echo voices merry.For I’m Jack Frost who makes cheeks rosy;I make people wrap up cosy;I bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping;But send the little people tripping.”
But in spite of all Jack Frost could do, the birds at Greenlawn would manage to get through the harsh time of winter, looking out for the spring to come again; and happy and contented, though always very busy, and trying hard to do their duty as well when the cold wintry rains fell, or the biting sleet, or soft falling snow, or even when the ground was all hard and they were nearly starved, as when plenty reigned around; for still they hoped on, and waited for spring, that seemed so long in coming, but yet would surely come at last, however long it might appear, and tire their patience.