“My master’s off to seek the wood,My lady’s on the ocean,The cook and butler fled last night,But where, I’ve not a notion.The tutor and the boys have skipped,I don’t know where to find them:But tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?“I haven’t any place to sleep,I haven’t any dinner.The milkman never comes my way;I’m growing daily thinner.The butcher and the baker pass,There’s no one to remind them:O tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?“The dog next door has hidden bones,They’re buried in the ‘arey’;The parrot’s boarding at the zoo,And so is the canary.The neighbors scatter, free from care,There’s nothing here to bind them:I wonder if they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?”
“My master’s off to seek the wood,My lady’s on the ocean,The cook and butler fled last night,But where, I’ve not a notion.The tutor and the boys have skipped,I don’t know where to find them:But tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?“I haven’t any place to sleep,I haven’t any dinner.The milkman never comes my way;I’m growing daily thinner.The butcher and the baker pass,There’s no one to remind them:O tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?“The dog next door has hidden bones,They’re buried in the ‘arey’;The parrot’s boarding at the zoo,And so is the canary.The neighbors scatter, free from care,There’s nothing here to bind them:I wonder if they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?”
“My master’s off to seek the wood,My lady’s on the ocean,The cook and butler fled last night,But where, I’ve not a notion.The tutor and the boys have skipped,I don’t know where to find them:But tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?
“My master’s off to seek the wood,
My lady’s on the ocean,
The cook and butler fled last night,
But where, I’ve not a notion.
The tutor and the boys have skipped,
I don’t know where to find them:
But tell me, do they never think
Of the cat they’ve left behind them?
“I haven’t any place to sleep,I haven’t any dinner.The milkman never comes my way;I’m growing daily thinner.The butcher and the baker pass,There’s no one to remind them:O tell me, do they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?
“I haven’t any place to sleep,
I haven’t any dinner.
The milkman never comes my way;
I’m growing daily thinner.
The butcher and the baker pass,
There’s no one to remind them:
O tell me, do they never think
Of the cat they’ve left behind them?
“The dog next door has hidden bones,They’re buried in the ‘arey’;The parrot’s boarding at the zoo,And so is the canary.The neighbors scatter, free from care,There’s nothing here to bind them:I wonder if they never thinkOf the cat they’ve left behind them?”
“The dog next door has hidden bones,
They’re buried in the ‘arey’;
The parrot’s boarding at the zoo,
And so is the canary.
The neighbors scatter, free from care,
There’s nothing here to bind them:
I wonder if they never think
Of the cat they’ve left behind them?”
OUR Mary, on account of her lameness, has a little bedroom downstairs, just back of the dining room. Her mother does not worry about her being down there alone, for Billie always sleeps beside her bed in a box, and if any strange step is heard in the hall, or outside the open window, she gives her queer half bark, half scream, and rouses the family.
Our Mary used to have a young dog of her own to sleep beside her, a mongrel spaniel, but to her great grief some one stole the dog a year ago, and she has never known what became of it.
One day when I was talking to Billie about sleeping downstairs she told me that she would far rather be upstairs with Mrs. Martin, but at the same time she is very glad to do something to oblige our Mary, whom everybody loves.
“If any stranger dares to come near her room at night,” said Billie, “I’ll scream my head off. I hate night prowlers. They’re after no good. The Italians always locked up at nine o’clock and said that any one not in bed then was a thief.”
“But, Billie,” I said, “that is rather severe. Many nice persons are out after nine.”
“Well, I’ll bark at them,” she said stubbornly, “and if they’re honest it won’t hurt them, and if they’re rogues they’ll be caught.”
Poor Billie—on the night our Mary had her adventure with what she thought was a prowler she was in a dogs’ hospital. They had been having lobster à la Newburg at the boarding house, and the remains in the trash can were too attractive for Billie, and she had to go away to be dosed. How she reproached herself afterward, and vowed she would never go near a trash can again!
It had been a very dark afternoon, and was a very black night. A thunderstorm was brooding over the city, and our Mary, though not at all nervous, for she is a very brave girl, had said to please her mother that she would sleep upstairs.
“I will undress down in my own room, though,” she said, “then put on my dressing-gown and come up.”
About ten o’clock she was just going to turn out the electric light when she heard something moving softly on the veranda outside her window. Turning out the light, she picked up a good-sized bell she kept on the table at the head of her bed and approached the window.
“Are you a tramp?” she said cautiously.
There was a kind of groan in reply to this, but no one spoke.
“I want you to go away,” she said sternly, “or I shall ring this bell and my father will come down and turn you away pretty quickly. Do you hear?”
The thing groaned again, and she heard a beseeching murmur, “Jus’ a crumb—jus’ a crumb.”
“A crumb!” she said indignantly. “I suppose you have been drinking too much. Go away, you scamp.”
The thing gave a kind of flop and she saw two red eyes gleaming at her. Dropping the bell, she fled from the room, calling wildly, “Daddy! Daddy!”
Mr. Martin, who was just undressing, came leaping down the stairs like a boy. “What is it—where is it?” he cried.
“Out on the veranda—right in the corner by the table. Oh, Daddy, it has such a dreadful voice!”
Mr. Martin snatched a big walking stick from the hat-stand in the hall and rushed into the bedroom. There was nothing there, so he jumped through the window to the veranda. Nothing there, either, but at this moment there was such a heavy peal of thunder that he sprang in again and locked the window behind him.
“We are going to have a deluge,” he said. “The tramp must have taken himself off. I see nothing of him.”
“He couldn’t have got into the house, could he?” said Mrs. Martin, who by this time had appeared and had her arm round Mary.
“No, no—Mary stood in the hall till I came. He could not have passed her, and he is not in the room.”
He looked about him as he spoke. The room was in perfect order except the bed, which was tumbled and tossed.
Our Mary suddenly gave a scream. “Thebed—I never touched it! He is in it—there’s a lump there. Father, take care.”
“Go to the hall,” said Mr. Martin, “you two—leave me to deal with him.”
Mrs. Martin drew back her arm from Mary and pushed her out into the hall, then she went to stand by her husband. She would not leave him alone.
I heard every detail of this adventure a few minutes later, in the sitting room, and I was quite thrilled at this part where Mrs. Martin stood pushing her child out into the hall with one hand and extending the other to her husband.
He was afraid she would get hurt and, hurrying to her, was about to urge her to go upstairs when more thunder and lightning came.
The crashing and flashing were so dreadful that they made Daisy nestle anxiously against me in our cage. We had been awake for some time, listening to the unusual and strange sounds below.
All at once we heard Mr. Martin cry out, “Mary—run—he’s coming!”
Every light in the house had gone out. The lightning had struck the power house downtown,but we could hear our Mary tearing upstairs faster than she had ever come before. The lameness was not in her feet, which were quite well shaped and pretty, but in her hips. The doctor said afterward that the sudden fright was bad for her nerves but an excellent thing for her hips, for her lameness has been ever so much better since. Well, Daisy and I heard her rushing upstairs, darting into the sitting room and flinging herself on a sofa there.
She knew just where everything was, though the room was pitch dark. “Oh, mother,” she cried, “oh, father—what a coward I am! Why didn’t I stay?”
Then we heard her mother’s clear voice, “Mary, Mary, my child—are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, Mummy dear,” she cried; “but, oh, do come up! Where is Daddy?”
“Down in the cellar after the tramp. He flew by us to the kitchen. Hester had forgotten and left the cellar door open. Shut and lock the door of the room you are in. I will be right up.”
Our poor Mary did as she was bid, and as we heard afterward, Mrs. Martin followed her husband to the cellar. As the tramp had notshown fight, they were not afraid of him, and they said afterward they knew he must be a slight, frail creature, perhaps only a boy, for he dashed by so quickly and smoothly, and bent over as if he were on all fours.
Well, by the time they got a lantern and went down into their big, old-fashioned cellar, Mr. Tramp was nowhere to be seen. There is a great deal of stuff in our cellar. I went down there one day on our Mary’s shoulder. There are trunks and boxes, and plants and barrels, and old furniture, and shelves of china, and a storeroom and coal rooms, and a furnace room, and a lot of other things—a very paradise of hiding places.
No lights would go on yet, so the two Martins poked about with their lantern, passing several times a heap of bearskin rugs that the furnace man had thrown in a corner to shake in the morning.
“Could he be there?” said Mrs. Martin, at last.
“There’s no other place,” said Mr. Martin, and he prodded the rugs with his stick. “Come out, you—we won’t hurt you.”
They heard a touching groan, then “Jus’ acrumb—jus’ a crumb,” in a voice that Mrs. Martin said afterward was hoarse and broken like that of an old man who has been drinking too much all his life.
“Get up, you beggar,” said Mr. Martin, for he was pretty tired and excited by this time. “If you don’t come out, you’ll get a walloping.”
At this and his persistent prodding there crawled from under the rugs, not a battered old man nor a slender boy, but a good-sized mongrel spaniel dog.
Mrs. Martin says that she and her husband literally staggered against the wall. Dog-lovers as they were, they had never heard of such a thing as a dog talking.
Then, when they got over their surprise there was such a shouting. By this time, Hester and Anna were aroused and were running round the top of the house calling out to know what was the matter.
Our Mary unlocked the sitting room door and cried out to them to come down to her, and then Mr. and Mrs. Martin appeared leading between them this big black spaniel.
He was terribly cowed and frightened, but when they held up the lantern and he saw ourMary, he gave a leap at her and buried his head in her lap.
“Why, it’s my Niger,” she screamed, “my darling Niger that was stolen when he was a puppy! Oh, oh, Niger, Niger!”
I never saw anything more affecting. Our Mary was so unstrung that she cried, and her parents stood looking at her with glistening eyes.
“And he’s been in good hands,” she said at last, when she got calm. “See how glossy his hair is, mother dear, and he smells of some exquisite perfume. My darling doggie, where have you been?”
I touched Daisy with my beak. All this would have been hard on Billie if she had been here, for she is of a very jealous nature.
Niger was fagged out. He lay panting and rolling his bright eyes from one to another of the little group. He had evidently run far to get home.
“This is one of the most interesting dog cases I have ever heard of,” said Mrs. Martin. “Just examine that collar under his black curls, and see if there is a name on it.”
Mr. Martin held the lantern up so our Mary could see. “The collar is very handsome,” she said, “studded with some red stones—‘Mrs. Ringworth, Hillcrest,’ is on it.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. “Third Cousin Annie!”
Everybody laughed at her comical tone. “Now we’ll have some fun getting the dog away from her,” said Mrs. Martin. “Annie never was known to give up anything that ever belonged to her.”
“And the amazing thing about his talking would appeal to her,” said Mr. Martin gloomily; “she does love to be singular.”
“Why, I remember having her tell me about this dog,” our Missie went on. “Just a year ago I met her downtown and she told me she had just bought a young dog from a man in the street and she had become so fond of him that she was going to take him to California with her—and I told her we had just had a puppy stolen from us. Fancy Niger being both dogs,” and she began to laugh so heartily that her husband and daughter and the maids joined her, and Niger, feeling that he ought to do something,rumbled out, “Jus’ a crumb, jus’ a crumb—crumb—crumb!”
“Bless him, he’s hungry,” said Mr. Martin, and he turned to his wife. “Couldn’t Hester make us some of her nice coffee—I declare I’m thirsty and hungry myself, after all that prancing about our dusty cellar.”
Mrs. Martin pretended to be vexed, and drew herself up proudly. “My cellar is as clean as any housekeeper’s in this neighborhood.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” laughed Mr. Martin; “I wasn’t censuring. Where there is a furnace there is dust. But the coffee—”
Hester and Anna had already disappeared, and soon they came back with the coffee and some lovely fresh doughnuts and bread and butter. Daisy and I had just a tiny scrap of doughnut, but Niger ate half a dozen.
“Mother,” said Mary, “I want to go down and sleep in my little bed with Niger in his box beside me, as he used to do. It will seem like old times.”
“Very well, my child,” said our Missie, and she went downstairs herself, tucked her daughter in bed, and hovered over her like a greatbird, for Niger, who at once became friends with us, told us all about it in the morning.
“Would, oh, would Third Cousin Annie leave Niger with us?” was the question, and “What, oh, what would Billie say to him when she came home?”
THIRD COUSIN ANNIE was a very grand person, and very rich, and her limousine drew up before our door in the middle of the next morning.
She flew into the house and greeted Niger most effusively, and Mrs. Martin and our Mary quite calmly.
Niger wagged his tail at her, then looked out the window.
“My darling dog,” she cried, “companion of my travels, how I have missed you!”
Niger looked up at Daisy and me and at Sister Susie, who was sitting on the top of our cage, and winked.
“Do you know, Cousin Annie,” said our Missie, “that this is the dog that was stolen from us?”
“Not possible,” she said.
“Yes, and he ran back last night and got into Mary’s bed. First, he was afraid of her—he thought she was scolding him for leaving her; he is very sensitive, you know—then, when she left the room, he got in her bed.”
“Only fancy!” exclaimed Third Cousin Annie—“I’m so sorry to take him from you.”
“But you’re not going to take him,” said our Missie firmly.
“But he’s my dog. I gave the man ten dollars for him.”
“And we, prior to that, gave another man five dollars for him, because Mary had taken a fancy to him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Ringworth, getting up, “but he’s my dog, and I’m going to have him. Come home, Blackie!”
I was sitting beside Daisy, who had laid three beautiful eggs, and I trembled nervously, for I hate to see human beings upset. I had never before seen Mrs. Martin angry, and I was sorry to see the red spots in her cheeks. Our Mary said nothing, but just sat patting the dog.
“Of course he is a fool of a dog,” said Mrs. Ringworth, “and can do nothing but roll overand act silly, but I have got used to him and like him.”
“Has he never talked to you?” asked our Missie.
“Talked to me—what do you mean?”
“Has he never asked you for a crumb?” said Missie coldly.
Mrs. Ringworth stared at her, as if she thought she were crazy.
“A crumb—how foolish!—but I remember that you Martins are always reading things into dogs. Of course he can’t talk.”
“Niger,” said Mrs. Martin, “can’t you say, ‘Jus’ a crumb?’”
“Tra, la, la, la, la,” I sang, “don’t you do it, Niger,” and Sister Susie cooed, “No—no—no—ooo.”
He winked again and said, “Bow, wow, wow,” quite roughly.
Mrs. Ringworth got up and burst into a forced laugh. “You are certainly very short-sighted, cousin, to try to add to the value of a thing you wish to retain. Come on, Blackie.”
“Don’t you do it, doggie, doggie, doggie,” I sang, and Daisy peeped, “Stay, stay dog, stay here.”
Niger looked out the window and yawned as if he were bored.
“Dog,” said Mrs. Ringworth angrily and stamping her foot, “come with me; I command you!”
He got up and, sauntering over to the corner, picked up some crumbs that had fallen from our cage.
“Ungrateful cur,” said Mrs. Ringworth, “after all I have done for you—but you’ve got to go with me. You’re my property. I wish I had a string.”
Mrs. Martin and Mary sat like two stuffed birds, and did not move even their eyes.
Their cousin pulled a handsome silk scarf off her neck and tied it to the dog’s collar. Then she started to pull him—Niger perfectly good natured but bracing his feet.
Suddenly she turned in a passion to our Missie. “Why don’t you prevent me? He’s your dog, you say.”
“I shall not use force, cousin,” said Mrs. Martin. “If I thought you were going to be unkind to him, I would, but I know you would never illtreat an animal.”
Her tone was quite amiable, though cold, andher cousin looked as if she did not know what to do. Then she started again, pulling and hauling Niger over the carpet. By the time she reached the hall she was quite out of breath, and meeting Mr. Martin who was coming home early to lunch, she was confounded to hear him burst into a roar of laughter.
Quickly recovering himself, he said, “A thousand pardons, Mrs. Ringworth, but the sight was so—so overcoming. Allow me to pull that dog for you.”
“Your wife wants to keep it,” said Mrs. Ringworth defiantly.
“Naturally,” he said with great good humor. “He’s our dog.”
“But I bought him,” said Mrs. Ringworth persistently.
“And you love the creature,” said Mr. Martin, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
“I adore him,” said the lady fervently.
“And wish him to be happy,” went on Mr. Martin.
“Y—y—yes,” she said rather unwillingly, for she began to see the door of the trap he was leading her into.
“Then suppose we leave it to the dog,” said Mr. Martin. “We are quite willing to abide by his own choice,” and gently taking the scarf from her hands, he slipped it through the dog’s collar, and Niger stood free.
“Now, allow me to escort you to your car,” said Mr. Martin, “or, better still, go alone, for I would confuse the dog. You call him, and we will say nothing, and see which he prefers.”
Third Cousin Annie was nearly choking with wrath, but she was helpless. Looking beyond her, I could see Chummy’s amused face, as he sat staring in the hall window. He was greatly interested in all that concerned the Martin family.
“Come here, Blackie, Blackie!” said Mrs. Ringworth, backing toward the staircase.
Niger never budged, but when she kept on he turned his back on her and went to lay his head on our Mary’s lap.
Mrs. Ringworth was so furious that she could not speak, and she turned and went quickly down the staircase to her car.
Mr. Martin ran after her and presently came back laughing. “She is all right now. I toldher I could get her a thoroughbred Airedale that a friend of mine wishes to give away, and what do you think she said?”
“One never knows what Third Cousin Annie will say,” replied Missie.
Mr. Martin smiled. “She said, ‘I am glad to get a thoroughbred; I am tired of curs.’”
I stared at Niger. He didn’t care—he was wagging his tail.
“Who is going for Billie?” said our Mary suddenly. “The veterinary has just telephoned that she is ready to come home.”
“I will,” said Mrs. Martin. “Mary dear, sit with your father while he has his lunch. Come on, Niger, and have a walk.”
“Oh! jus’ a crumb,” growled Niger, “jus’ a crumb, jus’ a crumb, crumb, crumb!”
They all burst out laughing. “You slyboots,” said Mrs. Martin, “we will stop in the kitchen and pick up a crumb as we go out.”
Niger told us afterward, that while he was in California, he had throat trouble, and Mrs. Ringworth had kindly spent a lot of money in having his throat doctored. But, he said, he had a lump there, until the night he ran back to his dear Mary, when in his emotion, somethingseemed to break and he was growling out a strange sound he had never made before.
The children on the street nearly went crazy over his accomplishment, and Sammy-Sam used to lead him up and down, making him say “Jus’ a crumb,” till his throat was sore. He says it hurts him to say it, and he only does it in moments of deep feeling, or to please a friend.
THERE was a great commotion in this neighborhood on the first of April, for then the robins came back.
I never heard such a clatter of talk from any bird as came from Vox Clamanti, the head robin. Instead of contenting himself with saying, “Cheer up cheerily, cheer up cheerily,” as the other robins did, he just screamed a great amount of information about where he had spent the winter and what he had been doing, and how the colored people down South had tried to catch him, to make pie, but he was too smart for them.
Finally he got into a quarrel about the Great War. “Of course, you know, birds,” he said fussily, “that robins are the most important birds in the world, and the war was all about them. The bad robins in many nations persecutedmy brothers, the English robins, and would not let them into their countries. Then of course the Englishmen, who love their robins, took up arms and began to fight the bad nations who were persecuting us.”
Chummy laughed when he said this, but he was too sensible to argue with him. Black Gorget, Chummy’s next best friend after me, was not so wise, and he said, “I suppose you forget that English robins are not any relation to your family.”
Vox Clamanti looked thoughtful, then he said, “Well, if not brothers, then cousins. My cousins, the English robins—”
“They’re not even cousins,” said Bronze-Wing, the head grackle, “and the war is not about robins, but grackles.”
Vox Clamanti said very rudely, “You are lying,” and then the grackle gave a rough call in his squawky voice, and pulled out one of Vox Clamanti’s tail feathers.
One would have thought the grackle had tried to murder him. Such a screeching and yelling ensued that every bird in the neighborhood came to see what the noise was about.
“What’s the matter with that robin?” I askedChummy, as we sat side by side in our usual meeting place, a branch on the old elm opposite his tall brick house.
“He was very much spoiled by a university professor,” said Chummy. “This old man, finding Vox Clamanti a weak and half dead young one, on the campus one day, brought him up by hand and named him Vox Clamanti which means something screechy. He praised the young robin too much, and told him he was the smartest bird in the city, and it made Vox put on airs. When the old professor died, and Vox flew outside, the robins never could down him, and they had to make him their head bird to keep him quiet, but he really has not as much brains as some of the other robins. See now, that fuss is all over, and he is looking about for a nesting site, before his mate Twitchtail comes. That tree that they had for a home last summer has been cut down.”
I made no reply, and for some time Chummy and I sat quietly looking down at the street below.
“We’ve had some nice times on this tree, Chummy, haven’t we?” I said.
“Indeed we have,” he replied, “and how much we have seen from here.”
“Have you heard anything more from Squirrie?” I asked.
He began to chuckle. “Yes, Chickari told me the latest news this morning.”
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“For a time Squirrie was pretty bad. The only way they could make him behave was to keep watching him. Then the Big Red Squirrel had an idea come in his head. He has a horrid old sister too ugly to mate with anyone. He keeps her up north. He sent for her and gave Squirrie to her. She is very strong and bad-tempered, and she soon cuffed the two policemen squirrels and sent them away. Squirrie hated her at first and begged the Big Red Squirrel to kill him and put him out of his misery, but now Chickari says she is leading him round like a little gentle baby squirrel. He is frightened to death of her, and never dares to rebel. She works him hard and has him even now laying up stores for winter. She says, ‘If you don’t behave I’ll take you further north, where the wind will cut you in two.’”
I laughed heartily. “What a joke on Squirrie;”then I said, “Hush, Chummy—what is this little girl saying about our dear Martins?”
We both looked down to the sidewalk where a young girl was trotting along beside her mother.
“Mummy,” she said pointing to the Martins’ house, “in there lives a woman who raises birds from the dead.”
The mother laughed and Chummy said, “Isn’t that a joke? Your Missie is getting famous.”
“They send for her from all over the city,” I said, “for her or for our Mary to go and doctor sick birds. A lady up in that big apartment house telephoned yesterday for Missie to come quickly, for her canary was having dreadful fits. Missie went and looking at the bird said, ‘Cut his claws, Mrs. Jones. They are so long that they trip him up and make him fall down on the floor of his cage.’”
Chummy was not listening to me. His eyes were fixed on Black Thomas who was gazing upward, his face as soulful as if he had been doing something to be proud of.
“He’s probably been catching an extra number of birds,” I said gloomily.
“No, that isn’t a bird look,” said Chummy. “T-check, t-chack, Thomas, what is the matter with you?”
Thomas strolled to our tree and stretching himself in the sunlight, said proudly, “I caught a burglar last night.”
“Ha! ha!” shouted Vox Clamanti who had been listening, “Thomas has reformed. He’s going to catch men instead of mice and birds.”
All the birds came flying up, Black Gorget and ever so many other sparrows with Sister Susie who had just flown out for an airing. Slow-Boy and Susan, Bronze-Wing, and even Chickari, the good squirrel, and his little mate came running along the branches overhead.
Thomas rolled his eyes at them as they assembled, and when they had calmed down, he began his tale.
“Last night,” he said, “when dinner was over, cook and the maids cleaned up in the kitchen and dining-room and went upstairs to their rooms. There was no one in the back of the house but me. I alone saw a strange man come along the lane by the garden, get over the fence, and come up to one of the dining-room windows which had been left open to air theroom. I, all by myself, watched him creep in and hide himself behind the big sideboard in the corner. I said nothing to him, and he said nothing to me, for he did not see me. I had been sleeping beside the radiator, for the night was chilly. At ten o’clock cook came downstairs to lock up. She opened the dining-room door, came in, and put the window down and locked it. I followed her out, and ran to my dear mistress’ room.
“She was in bed, but I mewed and fussed till she got up, and said, ‘What is the matter with Thomas?’
“I threw my whole hunting soul in my eyes, and turned my head from one side to another, like this—” and he moved his black head about, the way he does when he is stealing through the shrubbery looking for young birds.
“By my wings,” said Chummy in my ear, “Thomas is becoming quite a fancy speaker.”
Thomas was going on with his story: “I cried lustily and led her toward the dining room, but when she started to go there I got in front of her and acted in a frightened way.
“She understood me. She is a very cleverwoman, much cleverer even than your Mrs. Martin, Dicky-Dick.”
“She is not,” I chirped angrily.
“Hush up,” said Chummy, giving me a gentle peck. “Let him finish his tale. Don’t you see how wound up he is?”
“My mistress sent cook upstairs,” said old Thomas, going on, and keeping an eye on Chummy and me, for he knew we were inclined to make fun of him. “She asked two of the gentlemen to come down. They did so, and now I quite joyfully led the procession to the dining-room, and, on arriving there, I sprang toward the sideboard.
“The burglar ran to the window and smashed through it, but the gentlemen caught him, even as I catch a mouse, and they telephoned for the patrol wagon, and he is now in jail and they will probably hang him.”
“Oh, no, Thomas,” said Chummy protestingly, “you go too fast. He will likely get only a prison term.”
The other birds burst out laughing, but Chickari said, “Good boy, Thomas—you are a public benefactor to catch a burglar! What isyour mistress going to do to reward you?”
“I am to have a silver collar,” said Thomas soberly, “which I know I shall hate. Cats should never have collars. They prevent us from going into out-of-the-way places.”
“Birds’ nests, for example,” said Bronze-Wing, in his rough voice. “Have you heard the latest thing about cats, Thomas—I mean the latest plan to keep them from catching birds?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Thomas shortly.
WELL,” said Bronze-Wing, “you catch pussy and cut the nails of his forefeet.
“It doesn’t hurt a bit, and when pussy’s claws are trimmed he can not climb trees nor hold little birds down while he tears them limb from limb.”
“No one shall trim my claws,” said Thomas stoutly.
“Wait and see,” said Bronze-Wing. “There may be a law to that effect.”
“Oh, look, birds,” called Black Gorget suddenly, “here come our darlings all dressed up.”
Sammy-Sam and Lucy-Loo and Freddie and Beatrice had got to be such dear children that all the birds and the animals in the neighborhood loved them. Just now they were coming down the sidewalk in very amusing costumes. They were going to have a Red Cross entertainmenton the big lawn of the boarding house. The day was so fine that the ladies were sitting out in front and the children thought it a good chance to make some money, for, like their elders, they were doing everything in their power to help the work for wounded soldiers.
Sammy-Sam was dressed to represent a dog, Freddie was a pony, Lucy-Loo was a bird, and Beatrice was a cat.
The two boys were going along on all fours. Sammy-Sam had on an old curly black woolen coat of his aunt’s, strapped well round his little body, so as to leave his arms and legs free to run on. Freddie wore a ponyskin coat of his mother’s.
Beatrice had on a gray costume that she had worn at a children’s party when she represented a cat, and Lucy-Loo was dressed in bright blue, and had a very perky little tail.
Beatrice, who usually took command of their play, marshaled them all in a row at the back of the lawn, then she stepped forward, adjusted the cat head mask she wore, which was always slipping on one side, so that the eye holes came over one ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, in herclear young voice, “no, I mean just ladies, you are always so kind about helping us with your money that when we saw you sitting out here we thought we would give our new entertainment. This is really truly brand new. We made up the verses ourselves. I did most of them, ’cause the boys aren’t much good at poetry. Costumes are new, too, ’cept mine. I will begin with my ‘Song of a Cat.’”
Then she made a pretty little bow, gave her long tail a throw, and began:
“THOMAS, THE NOBLE CAT”
“One night, not very long ago,Dear Thomas wandered to and fro.He saw a man come in his house,Creeping as quiet as any mouse.“Said Thomas cat unto himself,‘This man is after wicked pelf;Mayhap he’ll creep right up the stair,And steal the jewels of ladies fair.’“He hied him to his mistress dear,He told to her his fearful fear.She called some bold men from upstairs,And Tom was cured of all his cares.“They chased that burglar man as heSmashed through the window mightily;Policemen came; they seized him well,And now he droops within a cell!”
“One night, not very long ago,Dear Thomas wandered to and fro.He saw a man come in his house,Creeping as quiet as any mouse.“Said Thomas cat unto himself,‘This man is after wicked pelf;Mayhap he’ll creep right up the stair,And steal the jewels of ladies fair.’“He hied him to his mistress dear,He told to her his fearful fear.She called some bold men from upstairs,And Tom was cured of all his cares.“They chased that burglar man as heSmashed through the window mightily;Policemen came; they seized him well,And now he droops within a cell!”
“One night, not very long ago,Dear Thomas wandered to and fro.He saw a man come in his house,Creeping as quiet as any mouse.
“One night, not very long ago,
Dear Thomas wandered to and fro.
He saw a man come in his house,
Creeping as quiet as any mouse.
“Said Thomas cat unto himself,‘This man is after wicked pelf;Mayhap he’ll creep right up the stair,And steal the jewels of ladies fair.’
“Said Thomas cat unto himself,
‘This man is after wicked pelf;
Mayhap he’ll creep right up the stair,
And steal the jewels of ladies fair.’
“He hied him to his mistress dear,He told to her his fearful fear.She called some bold men from upstairs,And Tom was cured of all his cares.
“He hied him to his mistress dear,
He told to her his fearful fear.
She called some bold men from upstairs,
And Tom was cured of all his cares.
“They chased that burglar man as heSmashed through the window mightily;Policemen came; they seized him well,And now he droops within a cell!”
“They chased that burglar man as he
Smashed through the window mightily;
Policemen came; they seized him well,
And now he droops within a cell!”
The ladies were delighted with her tale of Black Thomas, and when she finished they clapped their hands and bowed and smiled, and we birds chirped and whistled to each other, and sat with our heads on one side, looking very knowing, for we had been among the first to hear of this story.
To the great amusement but not to the surprise of the ladies, Beatrice promptly took up a collection in a knitting bag that could have held a thousand dollars.
When she retired to the back of the lawn, Sammy-Sam came tumbling forward on hands and feet and, starting to bow politely, lost his dog mask, which Beatrice quickly clapped on again.
“Bow, wow, ladies,” he said,
“I am a little doggie dog.There’s only one person in the world for me,And that’s my master or mistress, whichever it happens to be.For her or for him I’ll lay down my life;Who says I am not a soldier dog? Bow, wow!”
“I am a little doggie dog.
There’s only one person in the world for me,
And that’s my master or mistress, whichever it happens to be.
For her or for him I’ll lay down my life;
Who says I am not a soldier dog? Bow, wow!”
We birds did not think his poetry as good as Beatrice’s, but the ladies greeted him with just as much applause, and he took up a collection in Beatrice’s bag, first pouring out its contents on the grass, so that he could compare his receipts with hers.
“Bow, wow, too many coppers, ladies!” he barked. “Silver, please, for me,” and he started round the half circle, the bag in his mouth, hopping from one to another, and then retiring to the background where he and the lamb counted the money and wagged their heads as if well pleased with what they had got.
Beatrice stepped to the edge of the lawn. “Ladies,” she said, “the next number on our programme is ‘The Song of a Birdie,’ written and recited by Miss Lucy-Loo Claxton.”
Amid much hand-clapping, Lucy-Loo stepped shyly forward. She was dressed all in blue, and she tried to give her perky little tail a flirt, but was too nervous to do more than shake it feebly, causing both boys to break into a roar of laughter, which Beatrice promptly checked. Then Lucy-Loo began—
“Dear Friends,I am a little birdie,And I don’t know what kind of a bird I am.I am just a bird.I have a pretty head and bright eyes to see you.I have a pair of wings that I like for myself.For I love to fly up toward the blue sky;Please don’t take my wings and put them in your hat.And in summer don’t let little boys shoot me.“Yours truly,“A Little Bird.”
“Dear Friends,
I am a little birdie,
And I don’t know what kind of a bird I am.
I am just a bird.
I have a pretty head and bright eyes to see you.
I have a pair of wings that I like for myself.
For I love to fly up toward the blue sky;
Please don’t take my wings and put them in your hat.
And in summer don’t let little boys shoot me.
“Yours truly,
“A Little Bird.”
The ladies were so warm in praising her that she quite lost her little bird head and announced that her collection would be neither coppers nor silver, but paper money.
Her hearers were convulsed with laughter, and gave her what she asked for, though I noticed that they had to do some borrowing from each other, not having foreseen an appeal for money on their own veranda, though Red Cross workers are everywhere now.
Freddie came last with his ditty about the pony. He looked very smooth and very innocent with his good young eyes shining out of a headpiece of black hairy skin, which made him perspire quite freely.
He rose on his little hoofs and recited very earnestly:
“Pony, pony is my name,Pony is my nature.Do not whip me up the hill,Do not hurry me down the road.Give me food and water plenty,Brush me well and give me a good bed.Don’t jerk my tender mouth when you drive me.Don’t beat me when you’re angry.Love me a little if you can,For I—love—you.”
“Pony, pony is my name,
Pony is my nature.
Do not whip me up the hill,
Do not hurry me down the road.
Give me food and water plenty,
Brush me well and give me a good bed.
Don’t jerk my tender mouth when you drive me.
Don’t beat me when you’re angry.
Love me a little if you can,
For I—love—you.”
WHEN he said, “I—love—you,” he rose still higher on his hoofs, blew the ladies a kiss with one of his forefeet, and spoke in such a tender kind of a voice that they just shrieked with laughter. Then he lost his head more than Sammy-Sam had, and, gamboling on the green, announced that he wished not money but souvenirs.
After a while he controlled himself and went soberly from one to another and had pinned on his pony coat neckties, a bangle, a ring or two, some purses and one lady put round one of his forefeet a handsome string of beads which she took from her own neck.
The children bowed, kissed their hands, then trooped down the street to tell our Mary, who had helped them dress, of the success of their entertainment.
Chummy gazed affectionately after them.
“Good children,” he said. “We sparrows love them.”
“Let’s fly down to our house and hear what they say,” I proposed to him.
“Hurrah!” said Chummy. “Of course I’ll go to see the most beautiful birds on the street—the Martins’.”
Deeply pleased, I gave him an affectionate tap with my bill, and we flew to the upper veranda railing, where Mrs. Martin was just bringing out Billie and Niger to the sunshine.
She had been bathing them, and she handed our Mary a towel, and asked her to finish drying their ears, for her back was most broken from bending over the dogs’ bath tub.
“Oh, Mary! Mary!” called the children, and they all burst on the veranda and exhibited their collections.
“Look at Billy,” I whispered to Chummy.
She was pressing close to Niger and was licking his sides dry before she touched her own.
“And we were afraid she would be jealous of Niger,” said Chummy. “She is a pretty good dog, after all.”
“We are all good,” I said happily, and,strange to say, just at that moment Missie turned to Chummy.
“Sparrow bird,” she said, for she did not know my name of Chummy for him, “sparrow bird, I am perfectly delighted at the attitude of your family toward the wild birds that are coming back. I expect you to eat very little food at my table in the garden this summer, but join with the wild birds in killing many tussock moths—will you?” she added smilingly.
Chummy understood her, and he tried so hard to tell her how grateful he was to her for all her kindness to him and his family that he actually croaked out a hoarse little song in which one could plainly distinguish some of my notes.
Even the children noticed it, and he got a good round of applause, as if he had been singing at a concert.
Mrs. Martin was looking at him so kindly, just as if she were his mother. “Sparrow,” she said softly, “I think you try to be a good bird, and that is all we human beings can do—just to be good and kind,” and she looked away toward the big lake and sighed.
Our Mary was still talking to the children,while she rubbed the dogs’ ears, and Mrs. Martin turned again to Chummy.
“And, sparrow boy, don’t feel unhappy if I take all the eggs but one out of your nest each time your little mate lays this summer. There are too many sparrows in this neighborhood.”
“T-check, t-chack, dear lady,” said Chummy, scraping and bowing, “whatever you do is right. We birds know you understand us, and love us, and even if you take our young we will not complain. You never call us rats of the air, or winged vermin, and I assure you we will be kinder than ever after this to the little wild birds.”
“Come here, sparrow bird,” said Mrs. Martin gently, holding out her hand to him.
“Go on, Chummy,” I said, giving him a push with my bill.
He had never lighted on her hand before, but he did so now, and stood there looking very proud of himself.
“Sparrow,” said Mrs. Martin earnestly, “how I wish that I could tell you just how I feel when I look at a bird. There is such a warm feeling round my heart—I know that inside your little feathered bodies are troubles verylike our own. You have such anxieties, such struggles, to protect yourselves from enemies. You are so patient, so unresentful, so devoted—even to laying down your lives for your young. You are little martyrs of the air.”
Chummy put his head on one side and said, “T-check, t-chack,” very modestly.
“Mary,” said Mrs. Martin to her daughter, “a covenant between us and this little bird, whose fall to the ground our Heavenly Father deigns to notice. We will love, protect, and try to understand them better—we will even thin their ranks if necessary, but we will never persecute.”
Our Mary turned round. The western sun shone on her pretty young face, and on the bright faces of the children beside her.
“Agreed,” she said sweetly. “The Martins for the sparrows.”
At that moment Anna came up to the veranda with a tray of tea and bread and butter. On her shoulder was Sister Susie, coming out to get a taste of the butter that she is just crazy about, for pigeons and doves love salt things.
“Here is something to seal our sparrow bargain,”said our Mary, holding out a scrap of bread to Chummy.
He fluttered to her, took it nicely, ate half, and saved the other half for Jennie, who was sitting on her nest on three eggs which would shortly be reduced to one.
“Chummy,” I said, as he came back to the railing where I sat. “This is a pretty happy family, isn’t it?”
“Very,” he said thickly, on account of the bread in his beak.
“And a pretty happy street,” I went on. “All the birds and animals are living nicely together.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered.
“And Nella the monkey is frisking in the Zoo, and Squirrie is as contented as he ever could be, and perhaps a time is coming when the birds and animals all over the world will be as happy as we are on this pleasant street. What do you think about it?”
Chummy laid down his bread on the railing and covered it with his claw, lest I or Sister Susie might eat it in a moment of absent-mindedness.
“What do I think?” he repeated slowly. “I think that birds and animals will never be perfectly happy till all human beings are happy. We are all mixed up together, Dicky-Dick, and I have heard that if all the birds in the world were to die, human beings would die too.”
“How is that?” I asked.
“Because insects would devour all the plants and vegetables if there were no birds to check them. Then human beings would starve to death.”
“Well, if that is so, Chummy,” I said, “why don’t men and women take better care of birds, and not let them be killed so much?”
“Give me time to think that over,” said Chummy. “I will answer it some other day. Just now I must take this bread to Jennie,” and he flew away.
That was some days ago, and Chummy has not answered my question yet. I can not wait for him to do so, for I must close my story. Summer days will soon be upon us, and the first duty of a canary to the world is to raise families and not concern himself too much with the affairs of other creatures.
Then something wonderful happened yesterday—alittle egg hatched out in our nest. The whole world for me is swallowed up in that tiny beak. Shall I ever get tired of looking in it? Shall I ever beat my own little first baby bird, and say coldly, “Who are you?” as my father Norfolk said to me?
“Yes, you will,” chirps my faithful Daisy; “but don’t worry about that. It is the way of birds, and it makes us independent. Feed him and love him while you can, and be good to everybody, everybody, everybody,” and as I close my story she is chirping me a funny, jerky little song to cheer me up, for she says Chummy is trying to make a hard-working, worrying sparrow out of me, instead of a gay, cheerful little canary.
“What is that I hear outside?” she said suddenly. “I don’t see why birds sing so loudly when there are young ones in the nest.”
I listened an instant, then I exclaimed, “It’s Vox Clamanti, and he is caroling, ‘Better times for birds, better times for birds, robins ’specially, robins ’specially!’”
“So he has got hold of it too,” said Daisy crossly; “he had better go help poor Twitchtail look for worms—and you, Dicky-Dick, flyquickly to the table and get some fresh egg food for your own baby. Our Mary is just bringing some in—” and as I did not just fly on the instant, she began to chirp in quick notes, “Feed your baby, feed your baby, baby, baby!—that’s what you’re here for, here for, here for!”
THE END