“I was aware of a rush and a roar, and then something gave me a pound on the back, then a blow on my head. I rolled over and over, and for a time I knew nothing.
“When I recovered, the Italian was bending over me, his face quite frightened and sympathetic.
“‘Poor dog!’ he said; then when I tried to get up, he lifted me and put me under his arm. I found he was climbing on a train.
“Another man was grinning at him. ‘We gave your dog a fine clip as we came in,’ he said. ‘He got a roll and a turnover fast enough.’
“The Italian said nothing. He was not a bad man. He was just thoughtless. I knew he was sorry for me and his children, but times were hard and the price of food was high, and he thought they could not afford to keep me. He knew the children often gave me bits of their bread, and he knew, too, that sometimes when the hunger rat was gnawing too sharply I would even steal.
“I found out that he was a fireman on a freight train which had a big engine, not like the neat electric ones on the passenger trains.
“He put me down on some lumps of coal, and I sat and stared stupidly at him.
“Presently the train started, and, though I was still terrified, I found it was not as bad to be on the thing as to watch it going by.
“I had only a short trip on it. In about five minutes we stopped at a station, and to my immense surprise he picked me up, threw his coat over me, and sprang to the platform.
“I felt myself jammed against something hard, then the coat was pulled off me, and I was alone. He had deserted me.
“I looked about me. I was on a high platform, railway tracks on both sides of me; and beyond me were other platforms and more railway tracks. This was the One Hundred and Eightieth Railway Station in the Bronx, I found out afterward. The Italian had put me close to the door of a waiting-room, and you may be sure that I was in no haste to leave my shelter. It was just a tiny corner, but I flattened myself in it, for even if I had wished to leave it, my limbs were too tired and sore to carry me.
“Trains came dashing by every few minutes, first on one side, then on the other. It seemed to me that I would go crazy with the noise and confusion, and I was sure that each train would strike me. That was very stupid in me. There were the tracks, why should the trains leave them? But my head was still dizzy from the blow I had received, and my dog mind was bewildered.I was crazy for the time. Then back of all fright and body pain was the dreadful ache of homesickness. I had no place to go. No one can tell the terror of a lost dog, especially when that dog is timid. I had been torn from my home—a poor home, but still a dear one to me, and I was out in a world of confusion and fright and hurry. If I stepped from my corner, some of those rushing people might hurl me to the railway track in front of one of the cruel-looking engines, which would grind me to pieces. Oh, if some one would only come to my aid, and I stared and stared at the nice faces whirling by. My eyes felt as big as the engine headlights. Why could not some one read my story in them?
“It is astonishing how few people can tell when a dog is lost. They don’t even know when it is unhappy. Yet dogs have expression in their faces. So many kind men and women gave me a glance. Some even said, ‘Good doggie.’ One nice old lady in glasses remarked, ‘The emblem of faithfulness is a dog. See that one sitting there, waiting for his master’s return.’
“Unthinking old lady! My master wouldnever return, and where, oh, where was I to get some water, for by this time my tongue was so dry that it felt swollen and my throat was as parched as a brick.
“Hour after hour I sat there, and the dreadful railway rush of New York went on. You know nothing about that rush here in this comparatively quiet city of Toronto. The station hands and ticket sellers were all downstairs, for I was on the elevated part of the station. Finally two young men stopped in front of me, and one of them said, ‘What a dismayed-looking dog! I wonder if we could do anything for it?’
“‘Come on,’ said the other. ‘Here’s the White Plains train.’
“The first young man went away, looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t interested enough to stay.”
THE painful hours went by, and I heard nine, ten, and eleven o’clock strike, and at last twelve. There weren’t so many passengers now. I was to be left here all night. A chilly breeze sprang up, my limbs began to get cold and shaky, and it seemed to me that I must just lie down and die.
“Then something seemed to come over me. I would not give up yet, and I braced up and flattened myself more tightly against the corner, in order to get as far as possible from the dreadful trains that came roaring and bellowing at me like bull monsters. They should not get me yet, and I propped myself up on my trembling legs. Oh, why could I not cry or squeal or beg, or do tricks to attract the attention of some of the passers-by? Alas! I was not that kind of a dog. I have always been timid and retiring.A dog that forages for himself does not learn to attract the attention of the public.
“At a quarter past twelve, when one poor tired-out paw was just crumpling under me, another subway train from New York rumbled in, and the passengers ran up the steps to catch the Boston and Westchester train whose track was nearest me.
“The last two passengers to come up were ladies. A number of men were ahead of them, and they passed me by, but the ladies stood and looked at me.
“They were laughing and talking about going to hear a man preach called Billy Sunday, and getting on a wrong train that took them to the Bronx Park where the animals are in the Zoological Garden.
“Suddenly one of the ladies said quickly, ‘Lost dog!’ and stooping down, she stared in my face.
“‘How do you know?’ said the other.
“‘By the look in her eyes,’ the first one went on. ‘She’s dirty, neglected, and probably hungry; likely has been deserted. We have ten minutes before our train leaves. I’ll run down and speak to the man in the ticket office.’
“This dear lady, who was Mrs. Martin, has told to her friends so many times the story of her experiences that I know just what happened. She went first to the office by the gate she had come through, and asked the man sitting there if he knew anything about the lost dog on the platform above.
“He said he did not, but probably some one had dropped it there from a train.
“‘Could it have come in from the street?’ Mrs. Martin asked.
“‘It might,’ he said, ‘but it would have a long passage to come through, and would have to pass in this narrow gate. I guess it’s deserted,’ he said. ‘No dogs ever climb up there.’
“‘Would you take care of it for the night?’ asked Mrs. Martin. ‘Perhaps to-morrow some one might come to look for it.’
“He looked bored, and said he would not.
“‘Do you suppose there is any one about the station that would take charge of it?’ she went on.
“‘No,’ he said; he knew there wasn’t.
“‘Then will you give me a piece of string?’ she asked.
“He gave her a bit of twine and she hurried upstairs to me. Bending over me, she tied her handkerchief round my neck—that little handkerchief would not go round my fat neck now—then she fastened the twine to it.
“A few minutes later the train came roaring in, and she pulled on the twine, but I would not budge. How could I go near that horrible monster?
“‘Nothing to do but carry you,’ she said, and she lifted me up and took me on the train and sat me down on her lap, and the black patch on my back where the wheels of the train struck me made a grease spot on her coat.
“Now one is not allowed to carry dogs on these trains unless they are in the baggage car, but it was late in the evening and not many persons were traveling, and my new friend did not say a word to the conductor, and he did not say a word to her.
“We passed several stations, then we reached the pretty town of New Rochelle. The two ladies got out of the train and now I was willing to follow, for we were leaving the terrible railway behind us. I ran down the station steps beside my new friend, and when wegot in the street and I felt real grass under my feet, I felt like barking with joy. But my dry mouth would not open, and I just sagged along, a happy feeling inside me, for I knew I should have a drink of water as soon as we reached the lady’s home.
“The lady who was with my new friend was younger and had rosy cheeks and dark eyes. ‘What are you going to do with your lost animal?’ she said.
“‘I think I will put her in the garage for the night,’ said Mrs. Martin.
“‘Don’t do that. The creature will be lonely. Bring her in the house.’
“‘Well, it’s your hotel,’ said Mrs. Martin. ‘If you’re willing to have her, I will bring her in.’
“‘Put her in my bathroom. I’ll take care of her,’ said Miss Rosy Cheeks, whose name I found out later was Miss Patricia MacGill.
“‘No, thank you—you have enough to do without having a dog added to your cares,’ said my friend. ‘I’ll take care of the burden thrust upon us through going to hear Billy Sunday.’
“Miss MacGill, who was very fond of a joke, began to laugh, and looking down at me, said,‘Welcome to New Rochelle, Billy Sunday.’
“We were walking all this time along streets lighted and with nice shops each side. I just lifted my weary head occasionally to glance at them; then suddenly the street was not so bright and, looking up, I saw that the shops were behind us, and we were in a region of pretty homes and gardens. I had a confused impression of being in a very grand neighborhood. It was nothing extraordinary, but I had been brought up in a very poor way, and up to that time the biggest house I had seen was the café and the railway stations. Soon we came to a corner where there were three houses joined together by broad verandas.
“There my two nice ladies turned in, went up a stone walk, crossed a veranda, and entered a big front door.
“‘Do you wish anything for the dog?’ asked Miss MacGill.
“‘No, thank you,’ said Mrs. Martin. ‘I know the kitchen and pantry are shut up, and the boys in bed, so I will do with what I have in my room.’
“I was nearly dropping in my tracks by this time. While the two friends said good night Istood still and tried to steady myself. Everything inside the house was going round and round, and everything was red. In a few seconds things cleared, and then I saw I was in a hall brightly lighted, and with a red stair carpet. Poor little ignorant dog—I did not know that hotel keepers in New York State are obliged to keep their halls lighted all night, in case of fire.
“Mrs. Martin was pretty clever. She looked down at me as I stood with my feet braced far apart, then she bent over me, took my dirty little body in her arms and toiled up the stairs with me, for she was pretty tired herself.
“I closed my eyes. She was not a person that needed watching. Then I felt myself let down gently, a button snapped to turn on the light, and there I was in the middle of what seemed to me a great big lovely nest, that smelt of flowers.
“Later on I heard even grand ladies who came to call on Mrs. Martin say it was a pretty room, so imagine what it was like to me, a little dog from the dumps!
“It was all pink and white and soft looking, but I did not take in all the furnishings thatnight. I smelt water and I staggered toward the table where was a big glass jug of ice water.
“Mrs. Martin filled a glass and put it down on the floor. I drank it, and she filled another. I drank that, and then she said, ‘Moderation in all things, doggie. Wait a few minutes before you have any more.’
“I flopped down on a soft fur rug and put my nose on my paws.
“‘Poor little victim!’ she said. ‘I will make up your bed.’
“Opening a drawer, she took out a big soft shawl. ‘It came from Canada,’ she said. ‘It belonged to my aunt, who liked dogs.’
“I did not know then what she meant by Canada, but I was glad to hear her aunt liked dogs, and when she went to a closet and arranged the shawl in a corner of it, I staggered after her and dropped on it.
“There were some dresses hanging over me, and I felt as if I were in an arbor like the one at the back of the café, where the men used to sit in summer over their drinks, with green leaves all round them.
“‘Happy, eh?’ she said in an amused voice, as she stood looking down at me. ‘Now forsomething for the inner dog,’ and she went to a little table where there were shiny-looking dishes. She snapped another button, and presently I heard the hissing of hot water. Then she went to one of her windows, opened it, and took in a bottle.
“In a few minutes I had set before me what I never had had before, namely, a bowl of delicious bread and cream.
“I wagged my tail and agitated my muzzle. The very smell of this warm food put new life into me. Then I half raised myself on my bed, put my head in the bowl, and just gobbled.
“Talk about manners! When I look back, I wonder that Mrs. Martin was not disgusted with my greediness. But she is a very sensible woman, and she merely smiled, and, taking the bowl from me as I was trying to lick it nice and clean for her, she pushed me back on my soft shawl, with a gentle, ‘Pleasant dreams, doggie.’”
THERE was no need for me to watch that night. I knew that the kind person in the brass bed would not let anything hurt me, but I never had such troubled dreams in my life. I was running over vast dump heaps, and everywhere I went a terrible monster pursued me, with two enormous red eyes. I tried to hide in the ashes, and behind heaps of tin cans, but it came round every corner and leaped over every obstacle, and several times I had nightmare and cried out in my anguish.
“Mrs. Martin spoke to me very quietly, and then I sank down on my bed again. Not until I heard the rattle of milk cans as the dairyman came up the back entrance to the hotel did I sink into a really refreshing sleep.
“When I woke up it was high noon, and Mrs. Martin sat by a window sewing. I wasashamed of myself, and lay trembling in every limb, for I quite well remembered the nightmare.
“She threw down her work and looked at me. ‘Poor little creature, how you must have been hunted! Come here and tell me your life history.’
“I shambled out of the closet, walking with my legs half doubled under me, as if I were a very old dog.
“‘Stand up, Billy Sunday,’ she said. ‘I am not going to hurt you. Now tell me, where did you come from?’
I stood up beside her, looking this way and that way, my ears laid back. I fancy I appeared a perfect simpleton. Suddenly I caught sight of another poor, dirty, whipped-looking cur across the room, and I gave a frightened ‘Bow-wow,’ and ran back to my closet.
“She was laughing heartily. ‘Poor doggie, did you never see a cheval glass before? Come here and look at yourself.’
“With every hair bristling, I walked stiff-legged out of the closet, all ready to snarl at my rival. I went close up to the glass, touchedit with my muzzle, then I looked behind it. Where was the dog?
“‘Goosie,’ said Mrs. Martin, ‘it’s yourself! Evidently they had no mirrors where you came from. Listen to this,’ and she set something going on a table in the corner of the room.
“It was a man, laughing hideously, I thought. He did not stop for about five minutes. What kind of a lady was this that had things that looked and sounded like human beings and animals, but were only pieces of wood?
“‘Oh, how funny your face is, doggie,’ she said: ‘Now hear this,’ and she went to the wall and took up a queer thing, like a horn.
“‘Do you wish some scraps for the dog?’
“I pricked up my ears. It was a faint and squeaky voice, but still quite distinct. I was a very, very much astonished dog, and seeing it, she put down this curious thing and said, ‘Dog, I think you have come out of a poor family.’
“I said nothing. I still felt weak and bewildered, and she said, ‘Come out to the fresh air,’ and, taking up a hat and coat, she went out of the room and down the red staircase to the veranda.
“‘Stay here till I come back,’ she said, and I walked down to the lawn and ate some of the freshest, nicest grass blades I had ever tasted.
“Presently she returned with my breakfast, and such a breakfast! Toast crusts—nice buttered toast crusts, and little bits of bacon.
“‘Just scraps from plates,’ she said, as she put the dish down on the lawn, ‘but very good.’
“I soon disposed of this breakfast. Then she went up to the birds’ bath on a stand and lifted down a nice, shallow green dish for me to have a drink.
“‘And now,’ she said, when I stood gazing adoringly up at her and wagging my tail gratefully, ‘hey ho! for the veterinary’s.’
“I did not know what she meant, but by this time I was ready to follow her anywhere, and I trotted after her down to the sidewalk, where stood one of the fast automobiles that we saw dashing by our cottage in the Bronx, but that never stopped anywhere near us.
“‘Come in,’ she said, and held open the door.
“I was terrified and drew back. It was not so bad as a train, but I just hated to go near it.
“‘Now, doggie,’ she said, ‘can’t you trust me?’
“I could not move, and she had to lift me up and put me on the seat. Then she put her arm round me, and little by little I began to lose my fright. How we hurried through the streets, but it was not nearly so bad as the train, for here it was open and pleasant, and I could look about me as we flew along.
“The thing we were in was called a taxi, and now I am not at all afraid of one, and Mrs. Martin jokes me and says she has seen me on the corner of the street waving my paw for the taxi men to stop and take me in when I feel lazy.
“‘A dog in very humble circumstances,’ she said, ‘for even the poor drive in automobiles now.’
“When we arrived at the veterinary’s I jumped out and followed her. I was struck dumb with surprise. Mrs. Martin had explained to me that the man who lived here earned his living by doctoring dogs and horses. The house was a very fine one, much larger than the café, and it had a lovely neat garden and not a trash can or ugly box in sight.
“We went past the house to a stable, and there we found a nice-looking man, and a colored servant boy.
“‘Good morning, doctor,’ said Mrs. Martin. ‘I have brought you another cur. Please tell me whether she is sound in wind and limb. Otherwise, we will——’ She nodded her head toward a closet, and I trembled like a leaf. I knew what she meant. If I were not a healthy dog they would kill me.
“How would they do it? and I lay down on the floor and panted. I knew death would mean an end of my troubles, but I had seen dogs killed, and cats and chickens, and it was not till a long time after that I found out that one can kill without torturing.
“The doctor poked my ribs, examined my teeth and rubbed back my hair. Then he said, ‘A healthy dog, three-quarters smooth-haired fox-terrier; age, about three years; a few fleas, coat harsh and uncared for, skin not too dirty, has been washed recently—been struck by motor car or railway train, judging by black plaster on rump.’
“‘Will you let your boy wash her again?’ asked Mrs. Martin.
“‘Certainly,’ said the doctor. ‘Jim, take the dog into the bathroom.’
“A bathroom for dogs! I nearly fainted as I thought of the pump the Italians went to. But was this right for me to have a bathroom, and the poor human beings to have none? My education, or lack of it, had early taught me that a dog is much lower in the scale of beings than men and women. In fact, we Bronx dogs were not taught to think half enough of ourselves.
“For the second time in my life, and within one week, I, three-year-old dog, was given a bath, and this time it was almost a pleasure, for though the colored boy had great, heavy hands like sledge hammers, he had been taught to use them carefully.
“While he was passing his soapy hands carefully over me, a number of dogs in near-by stalls screamed and jumped and barked jealously.
“‘You boardah dogs hush up,’ he said, ‘or Jim will lick de stuffin’ outen you.’
“They yelled all the louder at this, and I saw he was very indulgent with them.
“I was put in a hot box to dry, and then Mrs. Martin gave Jim a quarter and the doctor fiftycents, and we sauntered out to the street.
“Oh, how perfectly delicious the air felt on my clean skin! I tried to gambol a little, but did not make much of a success of it, as I was still stiff from my blow of yesterday from the car wheels.
“We went back to the hotel by way of the main street, and that day I enjoyed looking at the people and into the shop windows. Dogs like a gay, pretty little town, much better than a big city. When I went to New York for a few days and had to wear a muzzle I thought I should die, but that is another story.
“To my unutterable delight, Mrs. Martin went into a harness shop and asked to look at collars.
“‘What color?’ asked the man.
“‘The Lord has made her yellow and white,’ said Mrs. Martin, ‘suffrage colors. Give me a yellow and white one, please.’
“How often in the Bronx had I admired proud, rich dogs trotting by our cottage with handsome collars on and things dangling from them! True, mine was very uncomfortable, but what did that matter? I was ‘dressed to kill,’ as Angelina used to say when her friendsgot new blue or green dresses. Oh, if she and the children could only see me now!
“I held my head up, walked high and pricked my ears as we went down the street, being often gratified by remarks from passing ladies and children, ‘What a stylish dog! What a pretty creature! What a clean little fox-terrier!’
“When we got back to the hotel the ladies sitting knitting on the veranda called out, ‘Why, Mrs. Martin—where did you get that dog?’
“She smiled and told them about the night before, and one dear old lady, when she finished said, ‘I believe my grandchildren would like to have it.’
“My ears went down like a spaniel’s, and I pressed myself against Mrs. Martin’s dress. I had suffered much from the hands of children that I loved. How could I let myself be mauled by children that I did not love?
“Mrs. Martin heard me moaning, and gave me a sympathetic look, but said nothing.
“How I tried to please her the next few days! I ate nicely and not greedily, and if she went out of the room I left my choicest big beef bone to follow her. If we were out walking I kept closely at her heels and did not speak to a singledog we met. If she put me in her room and said she was going to see her sick sister, I wagged my tail and tried to look cheerful.
“The day after she found me I had discovered that Mrs. Martin was far away from her own home and she had come to New Rochelle to be with her younger sister who lived there and had been quite ill.
“In my anxiety to please her I grew quite sad faced, as I saw in the cheval glass. I wished her to be my new owner, for I had given up all thought of returning the few miles to the Bronx, as I knew Antonio would keep his word and shoot me.
“Mrs. Martin said nothing at first to reassure me, but sometimes she took me on her lap and rocked me. That did not look like giving me away, and one day I ventured to whimper and laid a paw on her arm.
“‘It’s all right, Billy,’ she said; ‘I understand. You are not to leave me.’
“I jumped off her lap and ran round and round the room very soberly and quietly, and trying to avoid the furniture, but still running.
“She laughed gaily, ‘And some people say that dogs don’t know what we say to them.Now remember, Billy, you’re to be my own true dog, and not run away nor do naughty things, and I’ll give you a home as long as you live. Do you promise?’
“‘Oh, yes, yes, yes!’ I barked loudly and joyfully, raising myself from the floor on my forelegs each time I opened my mouth.
“‘And bear in your dog mind,’ she said, ‘that I will talk to you a good deal and I expect you to talk to me. If I do not understand your language at first, you must be patient with me.’
“I went right down on the floor before her. I felt so humble. To think of this big, stout, grand lady saying that she would try to understand what a poor little cur dog was trying to tell her! I have never forgotten that remark of my beloved new mistress, and I do wish there were more people in the world who would try to understand dog language.
“‘Now come for a walk,’ she said. ‘I must do something that will seal this bargain, for the town authorities are very particular about dogs, and I may have to stay a long time yet.’
“I just tore down the staircase and into the street. We went right to the little red brickcity hall and Mrs. Martin inquired for the license room. She paid a man a dollar and got a little tag which she fastened to my collar, and if you go to the New Rochelle town hall to-day you will see in a big book, ‘Billy Sunday, fox-terrier, 1917, N. R. D. T. L. 442.’
“My paws were just dancing when we came out, and when we got back to the hotel and met the dear old lady who wished to get me for her grandchildren I did the newest dog-trot all round her.
“‘The children are coming for that dog to-day,’ she said.
“‘The veterinary has a nice one for them,’ replied my new mistress. ‘I am going to keep Billy.’
“The old lady looked astonished. ‘But she is such a trouble to you.’
“‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs. Martin cheerfully. ‘I have nothing to do here but go to the hospital once a day to see my sister. It is good for me to have a dog to exercise.’
“The old lady looked down at me and exclaimed, ‘I believe that creature understands what you are saying.’
“‘Oh, Mrs. James,’ said my dear new mistress,‘if you only knew! Dogs and cats and birds and all animals have a language of their own. They are crying out to us, begging us to listen to them, to sympathize, but we are blind and deaf. We do not try to understand.’
“‘Well, there’s one thing I understand,’ said Mrs. James bluntly, ‘you are calling that dog Billy Sunday when she ought to be Ma Sunday.’
“Mrs. Martin dearly loved a joke, and she burst out laughing. ‘I sent word to the famous preacher that I had named a dog for him, and I don’t think he approved, for I received no message, so I am going to change her name to Billie Sundae.’
“‘Which will be much sweeter,’ said the old lady, ‘though I am not one to run down a preacher. I suppose eventually you will take your sweet dog to Canada, and make her singGod Save the King.’
“‘Not if she wishes to singThe Star-Spangled Banner,’ said Mrs. Martin. ‘We Canadians have always been good friends with you Americans, and since we have fought side by side for the freedom of the world I feel as if we were brothers and sisters.’
“The old lady nodded her head a great many times and said, ‘Quite right, quite right—and now, you two birds, I am tired and want to go to sleep,” and suddenly stopping her tale, Billie dropped down on the hearth rug and put her nose on her paws.
“Won’t you tell us about the sudden death of Mrs. Martin’s sister and your trip here with her and the two children, Sammy-Sam and Lucy-Loo?” I asked.
“Some other day,” she said sleepily.
“I’d love Chummy to hear that, and also about Fort Slocum and the lovely American soldier boys.”
She did not reply, and Chummy spoke up, “Thank you, Billie. I’ve enjoyed hearing about your adventures. Lost dogs and lost birds have a very sad time of it, and now I must be going. It will soon be dark. Thank you for a pleasant time, Dicky-Dick,” and flying out the window, he went to his hole in the wall.
MRS. MARTIN has a great deal of work to do for soldiers. The dear woman never gets tired of going to hospitals, and the day after Billie had told Chummy and me the story of her life our Missie left home quite early.
I felt lonely, so I called to Billie who was curled up on the sofa, “You are certainly the sleepiest dog I ever saw.”
Billie blinked at me. “I am the most tired dog that ever lived. It seems to me I will never make up the sleep I lost during the first part of my life, when the children’s feet were always making earthquakes under me in the bed. Then you must remember that Mrs. Martin gives me lovely long walks.”
“And you take lovely long ones yourself,” I said suspiciously. “I believe you have been foraging in back yards this very day.”
Billie gave a heavy sigh. “A neglected pup makes a disobedient dog, Dicky-Dick.”
“And our Mary gave you a heaping plate of food for your lunch, Billie,” I went on. “You’re like that Tommy boy at the corner. He only minds his mother half the time, and Chummy says it’s because he had his own way too much when he was a little fellow.”
“I know I’m forbidden to eat in the neighbors’ yards,” said Billie, “but what can I do? My paws just ache—they carry me where I don’t want to go.”
“But why don’t you come home when you’re called? I was up on the roof the other day, and heard Mrs. Martin whistling for you, and you stayed stuffing yourself by a trash can. Why didn’t you mind her?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You heard her, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, quite plainly. I never was deaf.”
“It’s a mystery,” I said. “I see how you can be a little bad, but I don’t see how you can be so very bad. You knew Mrs. Martin would give you some good taps when you got back—and you pretend to be so fond of her.”
“I just love her,” said Billie warmly. “She may beat me all day if she likes.”
“She doesn’t like,” I said, “and you know it. She hates to give pain.”
Billie curled her lip in a dog smile. “You don’t understand, Dicky-Dick. You were brought up in a proper way, and it’s no trouble for you to mind, and then, anyway, it’s easier for a bird to be good than a dog.”
“Easier!” I exclaimed. “Don’t I want to disobey? I’m crazy to go next door and see that little canary, Daisy, in her tiny cage, but our Mary and Mrs. Martin warned me about the treacherous cat in the house.”
“So you have troubles,” said Billie.
“Yes, I have—and mine are worse than yours—it’s dreadful to be lonely.”
“Lonely, in a nice, lively house like this; with plenty of animals and human beings about you, and that fine bird-room upstairs to visit! Dicky-Dick, you are ungrateful.”
“You don’t understand about the bird-room,” I said. “I’ve got weaned away from it. I can’t live there steadily. The birds are suspicious of me, and will not let any of the youngones play with me. I really have no bird society.”
“You have Chummy.”
“A street sparrow—he is good as far as he goes, but he only opens up one side of my nature. I am a highly cultured bird, whose family has been civilized for three hundred and fifty years.”
“I didn’t know your family was as old as that,” said Billie.
“Indeed it is—we are descended from the wild birds of the Canary Islands and Madeira, but canaries are like Jews, they have spread all over the world and have become parts of many nations. I am not boasting, Billie. I am merely stating a fact.”
“Well,” said Billie, going back to what I had first said, “I never dreamed you were lonely. Why don’t you sing a little song about it to our Mary, or her mother, and they will get you another bird from downtown to play with.”
“I want Daisy, and didn’t I sit for an hour this morning with my throat puffed out, singing about her to our good Missie as she sat sewing?”
“And what did she say?”
“Yes, Dicky-Dick—I know all about your little lonely cage, and the spring coming, and how you would like to have a playmate; and if you’ll wait till I get my next month’s allowance I’ll try to buy Daisy for you, for I think she’s neglected in that lodging house.”
“Then what are you squealing about now?” asked Billie.
“Nothing—I just want you to know that birds have troubles and things to put up with, as well as dogs.”
“Everybody has troubles,” said Billie. “There’s something the matter with good Mr. Martin. He sighs when his wife is not in the room, and his eyes are troubled—Dicky-Dick, I’m going to sleep again.”
“Oh, no, Billie,” I said; “keep awake and talk to me. Wouldn’t you like to hear a story about a canary that belonged to a friend of our Mary? It could talk and said quite well, ‘Baby! Baby!’”
Billie became wide awake. “Nonsense!” she said sharply. “Canaries can’t talk.”
“Billie dear,” I said gently, for I was afraid of rousing her temper, which is pretty quicksometimes, “you have lived in a very quiet way, and you have traveled only from New York to Toronto. How can you know everything about canaries?”
“I used to know one in the café,” said Billie sharply, “a little green fellow with a top-knot. He died after a while. The smoke from the men’s pipes killed him.”
“And did you know another one?”
“Yes, the grocer at the Four Corners had a yellow one, but he never talked. I mean real talk that human beings could understand. Of course, we animals have our own language that people don’t know at all. In fact, we can talk right before them, and they don’t know it.”
“Then you have known two canaries only in your life,” I said, “and yet you lay down rules about them. Do you know that there are Scotch Fancy canaries with flat snakelike heads and half circle bodies, and big English canaries, notably the Manchester Coppy?”
“What’s that?” asked Billie. “It sounds like a policeman.”
“Well, the Coppy is a policeman among canaries, for he has an enormous body, often eight inches long. His coloring is lovely, andhis head most imposing. Coppy comes from crest, or copping, our Mary says. Then there are the Belgian canaries, all sharp angles. They are very sensitive birds, and their owners do not handle them, but touch them with little sticks when they wish them to step from one cage to another.”
“You’re of English descent, aren’t you?” asked Billie.
“Of mixed English and American blood. English people breed their birds for looks and coloring.”
Billie began to snicker.
I was going to be annoyed with her, then I thought, “What’s the use?” So I said quite pleasantly, “I know I’m not English in that way. I am more like a German canary. Germans don’t care how a bird looks if he sings well.”
“Is there a French canary?” inquired Billie.
“Oh, yes, a very pretty little bird with whorls of feathers on its breast and sides—now, Billie, I haven’t time to tell you all the other kinds of canaries. I will go back to what I was going to say. My father, who has seen hundreds of canaries, for he was a show bird before our Mary got him, says that if trainers will havepatience with young birds they can teach them to say certain things. Why, right in your own United States was a canary who talked.”
“Where?” asked Billie.
“In Boston. A lady had a canary that she petted very much. He used to light on her head when she was knitting and pull her hair.”
“Why did he do that foolish thing?” asked Billie.
“He wished her to play with him. She would shake her knitting needle at him and say, ‘Fly high, Toby, fly high.’
“To her surprise, the bird one day repeated her words. ‘Fly high, Toby, fly high.’ She at once began to train other young birds, and made quite a good living at teaching short sentences to them, but it took a great deal of patience. So you see, if human beings spent more time in teaching us, we’d be more clever.”
Billie looked dreadfully. “Don’t speak about training birds and animals too much, Dicky-Dick. It makes me shudder. If you knew what horrible things are done to animals who appear in public.”
“I do know,” I said. “I’ve heard shockingtales from Chummy, told him by downtown pigeons.”
“Once,” said Billie, “I met a strange dog looking for food on the dumps. You never saw such a scarecrow, and he was frightened of his own shadow. He told me he had run away from The Talented Terrier Traveling Troupe. He said his life had been simply awful. A big man used to stand over him with a whip, and make him mount ladders and hang by his paws and do idiotic things that no self-respecting dog should be required to do.”
“Billie,” I said, “I do know about these things, and the whole subject is so affecting to me that I often have nightmare over it. I dare not tell you the horrible things they sometimes do to the little performing birds you see on the stage. Starvation is one of the least dreadful ways of making them do their tricks.”
“Why do human beings who are often so sensible allow this wickedness?” asked Billie wistfully.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” I said. “It breaks my heart to think of little gentle birds and nice dogs and cats and monkeys and other creatures being hurried from city to cityin little stuffy traveling boxes, and whipped on to a stage, and made to bow and act silly to please great theaters full of people who applaud and praise, and don’t know what they’re doing. If they did know, if the great big kind-hearted public knew what those smooth-looking men in the long-tailed coats do to their animals behind the scenes, they would get up in a body and walk out whenever an animal act is put on the stage.”
“That’s the best way to put these fellows out of business,” said Billie warmly. “Let no one patronize their shows. Then they would have to earn their living in some honest way—but there is Chummy at the window. I wonder what’s happened.”
We both looked at the little fellow as he stood by the open window.
“News! News!” said Chummy, flapping his little dusky wings. “New arrivals in the neighborhood—a boy and a girl and their parents in the yellow boarding-house.”
“Some canaries are afraid of strange children,” I said, “because they come so close and poke their fingers at them, but I can always get away from them.”
“I like children,” said Chummy, “for if theyhave food, they nearly always throw some to me.”
“There are very few children in this neighborhood,” I said.
“Yes, because there are so few private houses. Come on out and see them, Dicky.”
“If you will excuse me,” I said to Billie. “I will talk to you some other time on this subject of performing animals.”
Billie grumbled something between her teeth. Now that I was called away, she wanted me to stay.
“You come out, too, dear Billie,” I said. “If you do not, I will stay with you.”
Billie got up and sauntered out of the room and downstairs to the sidewalk where she sat down in the sun, on a black snow-bank, which had become that color in the long thaw we were having.
CHUMMY and I flew up into our favorite elm tree, sat on our feet to keep them warm, and stared at the boarding house. A taxi was standing before the front door, and two children were running up and down the graveled drive, running as if they were glad to be able to stretch their young legs.
“Their parents went in the house,” said Chummy. “They are choosing rooms. I can see them going from window to window. I wonder whether these children will throw me some of the seed cakes they are eating.”
“How little they know that our sharp eyes are on them,” I said.
Chummy clacked his beak together in a bird laugh. “I often think that as I sit here and listen to what persons say as they go up and down the street. If I could tell you the secretsI know! I know a very bad story about that black-haired woman in the red house.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Chummy,” I said. “I dislike gossipy stories.”
“You’re a funny bird,” he said, with a sidelong glance from his queer, tired, yet very shiny eyes.
Suddenly I had a mischievous impulse to sing. “Spring is coming, coming,” I sang, all up and down the scale, then I broke into my latest song that a very early white-throated sparrow was teaching me—“I—love—dear—Canada—Canada—Canada.”
The children were so astonished that they rushed over to the tree and stared up at me.
“Is it a sparrow?” asked the little boy, who was straight and slim and handsome.
The girl, who was big and bouncing and had golden hair and blue eyes, burst into a merry laugh. “Oh, Freddie, whoever heard of a sparrow singing! It’s a wild canary. How I wish we could catch it! I’m going to see if there’s a cage anywhere in the boarding house,” and she ran away.
Her brother came quietly under the tree. “Pretty bird,” he said quietly, “come down andhave some of my cake,” and he threw quite a large piece on the ground.
“Fly down, Chummy,” I said, “and get it. What a joke that the little girl thinks I am a wild bird!”
“Lots of grown people make her mistake,” said Chummy. “They speak about seeing wild canaries, when we haven’t such a thing in Canada. They mean yellow summer warblers or goldfinches. Well, I’m going down for the cake.”
The boy stood very still and watched him eat it, so I knew he was a good child.
Presently his little sister came hurrying out of the house with a battered old cage in one hand and something clasped tightly in the other.
“Cook gave me something that she said would be sure to catch the little fellow,” she called out to her brother, “if I can only get near enough to put it on his tail.”
“What is it?” asked the little boy.
“Nice fine white salt. She says the least pinch on his tail will make him as tame as a cat. Stand back, Freddie, till I put the cage on the low branch of this tree. I have some crumbs in it.”
It was amusing to see the two little creatures stand away back in the drive waiting for me to go in the cage.
Chummy was nearly killing himself laughing. “Naughty cook to spring that old joke on these innocents!”
“Would you dare me to go in, and let them put salt on my tail?” I asked.
Chummy was very much taken aback. “You never would, would you?”
“Why not? I never saw a cage yet that could keep me between its bars. I am so slim that I can slip between anything, and you know what a swift flier I am.”
“Go on, then,” said Chummy. “I dare you; but take care you don’t get trapped.”
I made two or three scalloping flights about the children’s heads, as they stood open-mouthed staring at me, then I darted in the open door and pretended to eat the bread crumbs—things I dislike very much.
The little girl screamed with delight and loud enough to frighten the flock of wild geese we had just seen passing overhead on their way north. Then she ran to the branch, took the cage off, and sticking her chubby young hand inthe door, eagerly sprinkled a generous handful of moist salt on my tail.
I kept my head down, so none of it would go in my beak, and cast a glance up at Chummy, who was sitting on his branch, rocking with laughter. Some of the neighborhood sparrows were with him now, staring their eyes out at me, and up on the roof Slow-Boy, the pompous old pigeon, was bending over the edge to look at me, with the most amusing expression I had ever seen on the face of a bird.
I felt full of fun, and pretended to be quite happy in my new home. Hopping up on the perch, I gazed at the little girl with twinkling eyes.
Children are very sharp little creatures. She plunged her own blue eyes deep into mine and said what an older person would never have thought of saying, “Freddie, this bird looks as if he were laughing at me.”
Her brother gave me a long stare; then he said, with a puzzled face, “Sure—he’s laughing. What makes him laugh?”
“He’s planning to fly away,” she said, with amazing promptness. “Let’s take him in the house.”
This did not suit my plans at all. I had no desire for a further acquaintance with Black Thomas, so I promptly flew between the bars of the cage, and, lighting on a near-by shrub, favored the children with one of my best songs.
They were delighted, and old Thomas, who had been watching the whole performance from some hole or corner, came out on the front doorstep, and said, “Meow! Meow!” a great many times.
Of course the children did not understand him, but I did. He was saying to me, “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, to fool the children in my house? Hold on, I’ll get you some day.”
At this, Billie who had been fussing about on her snowbank in great anxiety, came forward. “If you ever touch that little bird, or even frighten him, Black Thomas, I’ll choke you to death.”
Thomas made a terrible face and began to spit at her, and I called out, “Serves you right, you old murderer! We’ll both attend your funeral. What is that behind you?”
He looked over his shoulder, then he ran away. It was the dead body of Johnny White-Tail,one of Chummy’s sparrow friends. He had been ailing for some time, and probably Thomas had sprung on him while he sat moping and killed him.
Chummy gave a cry of dismay and flew to the steps. This attracted the children’s attention and, seeing the dead bird, they exclaimed, “Oh, poor birdie, poor birdie—let’s bury him!”
“I’ll go in the house and get some grave clothes out of my trunk,” said the little girl whose name was Beatrice.
“And I’ll be the parson and go borrow a book,” said the boy.
Just at this moment, Sammy-Sam and Lucy-Loo came down the street with their school bags in hand.
Their bright eyes soon caught sight of the newcomers, and it was amusing to see them getting acquainted.
They walked round each other and stared at each other, and finally spoke and soon the strangers were exhibiting the dead sparrow, and said they were going to have a funeral.
“Why, that’s Albino,” said Sammy-Sam.
I must explain that the children did not knowour names for each other. We could not tell them that the white-tailed bird was called Johnny by us.
“And we’ve fed him all winter at the birds’ table in the yard,” said Lucy-Loo. “Auntie will be sorry that he is dead.”
“You needn’t trouble burying him,” said Sammy-Sam to the strangers. “He’s our bird. We’ll dig his grave.”
Young Beatrice rudely snatched the sparrow’s dead body from Sammy-Sam. “He’s ours,” she said; “we found him. I’m going to dress him in some of my best dolly’s clothes, and bury him with words and music.”
Sammy-Sam and Lucy-Loo looked pretty cross, but they said nothing. They had had weeks of training from their good aunt, who had told them over and over again that children must have good hearts and good manners, or they will never get on in the world.
While Beatrice ran in the house Freddie pointed up to the elm where I was now sitting beside Chummy. “We caught that wild canary up in the tree. We had him in a cage, but he flew away.”
Our own children stared up at us, and exclaimedtogether in tones of dismay, “You caught our Dicky-Dick.”
“Yes, in that cage,” and he pointed to the old thing.
Sammy-Sam’s face was furious and, throwing down his bag, he began to pull at his smart little overcoat. He was a great fighter, and had whipped all the boys his size in the neighborhood.
Lucy-Loo twitched his sleeve, “He never caught Dicky-Dick. He’s a liar.”
This soothed Sammy-Sam, and he picked up his bag.
“I think we’ll go home, and not wait for the funeral,” he said, “but I tell you, you just let our birds alone. If any boy hurts birds on this street, I’ll fight him. Now there!” and he strutted away, like a little peacock with Lucy-Loo trotting after him and casting backward glances over her shoulder.
Freddie looked puzzled. He had been misunderstood. However, his face brightened when his sister came out with some little lace and muslin rags in her hand, a small black book and a wreath of artificial flowers.
She seemed to be the manager, and said toher brother in a masterful way, “I just thought I’d bring everything. Now help me dress the bird—no, you go dig the grave—we must hurry, for it’s ’most our tea time. Go to the back door for a shovel.”
Freddie did as he was bidden and, finding the frozen earth too hard for his small coal shovel, he dug a good-sized grave in a big snow bank on the lawn.
“Now take the book,” said his sister, “and read the service. I can’t, ’cause I’m a girl.”
“She’d run the city if she could,” said Chummy in my ear. “She’s a terror, is that one.”
The boy with many corrections from his sister mumbled something, then she said, “For hymn we’ll have, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning.’”
Freddie looked shocked. “That’s for soldiers,” he said, “not for funerals.”
“We’ll have ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning,’” she repeated.
“We’ll have ‘Down in the Deep Black Ground,’” he insisted.
Suddenly she lost her temper, slapped him in the face, threw the flowers at him, and ran into the house.
“Good!” said Chummy. “There’s some stuff in the boy, after all.”
He went on with the service all by himself, sang a dreadful little song, so mournful and horrible that all Johnny’s sparrow relatives who had by this time assembled just quailed under it, then gently laid Johnny in the hole in the snow bank, covered him up, put a shingle at the head of his little grave and the artificial roses on the top, and went in the house.
“Well,” said Chummy, “she didn’t get her own way that time.”
“Hold on,” I said, “here she comes. I notice that little girls usually beat the boys in the long run.”
There she was, the little funny creature, sneaking out of the house by the back door. She crept to the grave, seized the shovel that Freddie had forgotten to return, dug up poor Johnny, tore her doll clothes off him, threw his poor little body on the snow, and ran into the house.
“Well, I vow,” said Chummy. “I wish she could be punished.”
“Hold on,” I said, “look at our children coming. They’ve been watching all the time.”
Sammy-Sam and Lucy-Loo were galloping out of our yard like two young ponies. They snatched up Johnny’s body and rushed to their aunt with it. I hurriedly said good-bye to Chummy, and flew in the window.
Mrs. Martin heard the whole story. It was perfectly sweet to see her face, as she listened to the children. Then she got a little tin box, wrapped Johnny in a nice piece of white cloth, and told the children that the cover would be soldered on and the furnace man would dig a nice little grave in the corner of the garden which she kept as a graveyard for her pets.
“You will become friends with the children in the boarding house, my dear ones,” she said, “and tell them what you know about birds, for they evidently have not had much to do with them.”
TO-DAY, after lunch, Mrs. Martin gave Billie a walk round the square, then she brought her in the house and said, “I am going to a knitting party where dogs would not be welcomed. I will come home at five and give you another walk.”
Billie wagged her tail in her funny, slow way and gave Mrs. Martin one of her sweetly affectionate glances, as if to say, “It’s all right. I know if it were your party you’d let me go.”
Mrs. Martin pulled an armchair to the window and put a cushion on it. “Jump up there, Billie,” she said, “and amuse yourself by looking outside.” Then giving her a pat, and throwing me a kiss, for she knows pets are apt to be jealous of each other, she went away.
I flew to the arm of Billie’s chair and sat dressing my feathers in the sunshine.
Presently Billie said discontentedly, “There’s nothing to see out of this window but yards and that old barn.”
“That old barn is full of stories,” I said, “and very interesting.”
“What makes it interesting?”
“In the first place, many birds nest there, and in the second, many animals have been housed in it.”
“I never see anything going on in it,” she said.
I smiled. “You are not a keen observer, Billie, except along dog lines. Look out now and you will see Susan going in with a little soft hay in her bill for the bottom of her nest.”
“Who is Susan?” asked Billie.
“Don’t you remember that Chummy told you about Susan, mate to Slow-Boy, both street pigeons? They are taking care of two eggs. He sits all day, and she sits all night.”
“I know male pigeons help their mates,” said Billie. “I used to see them doing that in New York.”
“He will come off at five and have his evening to himself. If Susan isn’t on time, just to the dot, he calls loudly, and gives her a greatpecking. She is very patient with him usually, but the other day I saw her turn on him and give him a great blow with her wing. Pigeons fight that way, you know.”
“I’ve seen them,” said Billie. “They scrape and bow to each other, then step up and give a good whack.”
“Would you like to hear a story about a fire in the barn?” I asked.
“If you please. I feel very dull this afternoon, and would like something to amuse me. I think I ate too much tripe for my lunch. When our Mary’s back was turned I stole a nice little lump from the dish.”
“What a pity it is you are such a greedy dog, Billie!” I said.
“Yes, it is a pity,” she replied, with hanging head, “but believe me, Dicky, I can’t help it. I had to steal so much in my early life that I can’t keep from it now—please go on with your story.”
“Well, Susan and Slow-Boy are of course mated for life, for pigeons rarely change partners. They are very happy together, and only quarrel enough to keep things from getting stupid.You know, don’t you, that pigeons lay all the year round, if they can get food?”
“Oh, yes, Dicky, I know that. I should think they would get tired of raising families, but the Bronx pigeons only hold up in moulting time.”
“Now this Red-Boy I am going to tell you about,” I went on, “was one of their July pigeons of two years ago. Chummy told me the story, for of course I wasn’t here then. He says Red-Boy was a nice enough bird, but he took for a mate a very flighty half-breed fantail, called Tiptoe, from her mincing walk. You probably know, Billie, that when thoroughbred pigeons get mixed with street pigeons they lose all their fancy lines, and go right back to common ancestor blue rock dove traits.”
“Yes, I know,” said Billie; “but if they keep any fancy ways, or feathers, they are very proud of them.”
“Exactly,” I said, “so you can imagine how Tiptoe diddled about, putting on airs, before poor Susan, who is very plain-looking and has lost every trace of blue blood, except the half homer stripes on her solid old back. Now,when the time came for Red-Boy and Tiptoe to make a nest, Red-Boy wanted to build near his father and mother.
“Slow-Boy fought him and tried to get rid of him. He is a model father when his squabs come and when they turn to squeakers, but when they are grown up he naturally supposes that they will go out into the world and let him be free to bring up other young ones.”
“I suppose his mother had spoiled him,” said Billie. “Hen pigeons are often weak in the head.”
“Yes, Chummy says of all Susan’s young, Red-Boy was the favorite. She stood by him, and finally old Slow-Boy gave in, and Red-Boy and Tiptoe chose a ledge right above the parents’ nest. They even stole straws, when Slow-Boy wasn’t looking, and Chummy says he heard that Susan was foolish enough to give them some of the choicest ones she brought in. It wasn’t a tidy nest when it was finished—not a bit like the careful one the old birds made, with nice fine bits of straw arranged inside for little squab feet to cling to.”
“Don’t pigeons line their nests with wool and fine cotton, like you canaries?” asked Billie.
“My dear friend,” I replied, “do reflect an instant. Squabs are not like canaries. They have big feet and they want something to clutch when they raise themselves in the nest for the mother to pump milk down their necks.”
Billie stared at me. “Pigeons and milk, Dicky-Dick! Are you telling the truth?”
“Indeed I am,” I said earnestly. “When the squabs hatch out, a kind of milk is formed in the mother’s crop and softens the food which she pumps down into their little crops. They could not digest whole grain. They are too young and feeble. As they get older, the milk becomes thicker, and finally the parents feed them whole seeds.”
“Well, well,” said Billie, “I didn’t know that. They are something like human babies.”
“Very like them—but to get back to Red-Boy and Tiptoe and their nest-building. They thought they were doing a very smart thing when they found a card of old-fashioned sulphur matches. Some of the matches were broken off and silly Tiptoe took them to the nest and arranged them crosswise, among the straws.
“Susan saw her and said, ‘Throw out those things; they are dangerous.’
“‘Why are they dangerous?’ asked Tiptoe.
“‘I don’t know,’ said poor old Susan; ‘but I just don’t like the smell of them.’
“Tiptoe appealed to Red-Boy, and naturally he stood up for his mate.
“Old Susan went lumbering off to her nest with a worried face. She could do nothing, and hoped for the best. Time went by, and two eggs were laid and hatched out. Tiptoe was a very restless mother, and was always flying off her nest to stretch her wings, and for that reason it was good for her to be near her mother-in-law, for Susan often checked her. If it had been cold weather the young ones would have suffered from being left uncovered so much, but fortunately it was midsummer. One frightfully hot day, when the sun was pouring on the nest through that broken window high up in the peak of the barn—”
“Where?” asked Billie, stretching out her neck.
“Right up there, this side of the maple tree.”
“Yes, I see,” said Billie, and she lay down again on her cushion.
“This hot sun shining through the glass setfire to the matches, and wasn’t there a quick blaze! Some robins who nested outside the barn gave the alarm by crying out shrilly and swooping wildly about the yard. The landlady of the house where Chummy lives heard the noise, looked out, then rushed to the telephone. We are close to a fire station, and in just a few minutes an engine came dashing down the street and put the fire out. It was only a little blaze, but it was a very sad one. Tiptoe, as I said before, was a silly mother, but still she was a mother, and when she saw her frightened little ones rising up in their nest and clacking their tiny beaks at the blaze she flew right into the flame and hovered over them.”
“Of course she died,” said Billie.
“Oh, yes. She must have breathed flame and choked in an instant.
“The next day, Chummy says, he saw poor Red-Boy poking about the barn floor looking at a little dry burnt thing. His heart was broken, and he flew away and no one here ever saw him any more.”
“Young birds should mind what old birds say,” remarked Billie.
“But they never do,” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to let the young things find out for themselves.”
“What about Susan and Slow-Boy?” asked Billie. “You said their nest was near by.”
“Yes, they had one squab in it—a very big, fat squab. It was frightened and fell from the nest down on an old table on the barn floor.
“Chummy says it was pitiful to see old Slow-Boy looking at it, as if to say, ‘Why did I lose my baby?’
“Our Mary took a snapshot of him for her bird album, and also one of a robin who lost her young ones. She had a nest high up in the barn, over the pigeons. Her name is Twitchtail, and she is very bad-tempered, but she can’t hold a candle to her mate, Vox Clamanti. Chummy said he made a tremendous fuss when he came home, his beak full of worms for his beloved nestlings. He began to scream and shake his wings when he caught sight of the crowd around the barn. Something told him his young ones were gone. They had been washed out of their nest by the heavy stream of water from the hose and were lying on the ground, quite dead. He and Twitchtail blamedthe landlady, the firemen, the crowd, the pigeons, and everybody on the street. They loved their young ones, and were bringing them up very well.”
“Tell me some more about the barn,” said Billie. “I noticed a man leading a horse from it just now.”
“Chummy says it used to be a disgrace to the neighborhood,” I said angrily, “and he didn’t see why the nice people about here didn’t go and inspect the old rickety building. It was bad for human beings, for there was an unwholesome odor about it. It was full of holes, and last winter a poor pony kept there almost died of the cold. His owner was a simple old creature who needed some one to tell him how to take care of animals. He had a cow there too, but she died. He bought a poor quality of hay and did not give the pony enough water to drink, so he was having a terribly hard time when something beautiful happened to him.”
I stopped a minute, for Billie was heaving a long, heavy dog sigh. “I know something about unhappy horses and cows,” she said. “There are plenty of them in New York. Of course, human beings should take care of usanimals, because it is right to do so, but I don’t see why selfish people don’t see that it pays to take care of their creatures. Why, horses are worth a lot of money.”
“I know that,” I said, “but some persons are so unthinking that the strong arm of the law has to beat wisdom into them.”
“What was the beautiful thing that happened to the pony?”
“Well, I must tell you his life history. When he was young, he was very, very small, and was named Tiny Tim. His first master was a rich man who made such a pet of him that Tim was treated more like a dog than a pony. He used to go in his master’s home and walk up and down stairs, and when a servant came to put him out he would hide under the cloth on a big table.”
“He must have been very small to do that.”
“Yes, he says he was about as big as a Great Dane. He never walked in the street like the horses. He always went on the sidewalk. But when he grew older and larger he had to live with the horses and carry the children on his back. When he was tiny they used to play withhim, and he says he would butt them, as if he were a little goat, and knock them over.
“Time went by, and the rich man lost his money and Tiny Tim had to be sold. He passed from one poor owner to another, till at last he became the property of this old man who collected junk. Chummy says all the sparrows knew that pony and pitied him, for they saw that he had known better days. He always went along with his head hanging down. He was ashamed and unhappy, and he scarcely had strength to drag around the shaky old cart that he was harnessed to. Tiny Tim of course did not like this poor place he was kept in, but the junk man could not afford a better one. Tim had only an armful of damp bedding, and Chummy says it was pitiful to see him standing with his little head down, the water from the leaky roof dripping on him, mud oozing from between the planks under his hoofs, and his lip curling over the messy hay before him.
“One morning early this winter Chummy says the rats who live in the barn spread the news that Tiny Tim had been adopted. It seems that very late the night before, when Timwas sagging back to the old barn, for the junk man’s wife had insisted on going for a drive after working hours, he—that is, Tim—fell right over here in the street. Now you may have noticed that there is a military hospital near us.”
“Oh, yes,” said Billie, “Mrs. Martin walks me by there every day, and that’s where the one-armed soldier lives who owns the sad-faced Belgian pup that he rescued from starvation when he was fighting abroad. Our Mary photographed me with him the other day.”
“Well, Chummy says those soldier boys are the jolliest in the city. They have all been wounded, and a good many are one-legged and going on crutches, waiting for their stumps to heal so they can get artificial limbs. Some of them had had permission to go over to the University, and they were returning to the hospital when they saw the poor pony down between the shafts. They hobbled up, unharnessed him, told the junk man that they were Albertans and used to horses, and that his pony was starving. They collected twenty-five dollars among themselves, bought the pony and the cart, put the pony in it, and the men with two legs and onearm managed to haul Tiny Tim over to the hospital, while the one-legged men hopped alongside on their crutches.