III.My wings were still feeble, and while my guide flew like the wind, I struggled along at his side, keeping up pretty well for some time. Soon I became confused, and nearly fainting with fatigue, gasped out, “Are we near Brussels?”“No, we are at Cambray, and have sixty miles to fly.”Bracing myself for a final effort, I flew for another quarter of an hour, and besought him to rest a little as I felt thirsty.“Bother! you are only a Blackbird,” replied my companion, continuing his journey as I fell into a wheat-field.I know not how long I lay there. When at last I made an effort to raise myself, the pain of the fall and fatigue of the journey so paralysed me that I could not move. The dread of death filled my breast when I saw approaching me two charming birds, one a nicely-marked coquettish Magpie, the other a rose-coloured Ringdove. The Dove stopped a few paces off and gazed on me with compassion, but the Magpie hastened to my side, saying, “Ah, my poor child, what has befallen you in this lonely spot?”“Alas! madam, I am a poor traveller left by a courier on the road; I am starving.”“What do I hear?” she exclaimed, and flew to the surrounding bushes, gathering some fruits, which she presented on a holly leaf. “Who are you?” she continued; “where do you come from? Your account of yourself is scarcely to be credited; you are so young, you have only cast your down. What are your parents? how is it they leave you in such a plight? I declare it is enough to make one’s feathers stand on end.”While she was speaking I raised myself a little and ate the fruit ravenously, the Dove watching my every movement most tenderly. Seeing I was athirst, she brought the cup of a flower half full of rain-drops, and I quenched my thirst, but not the fire kindled in my heart. I knew nothing of love, but my breast was filled with a new sensation. I should have gone on dining thus for ever, had it been possible, but my appetite refused to keep pace with my sentiment, nor would my narrow stomach expand.The repast ended and my energies restored, I satisfied the curiosity of my friends by relating my misfortunes. The Magpie listened with marked attention, while the tender looks of the Dove were full ofsympathy. When I came to the point where it was necessary to confess ignorance of my name and nature, I felt certain I had sealed my fate.RESCUED.“Come,” cried the Magpie, “you are joking. You a Blackbird? Nonsense; you are a Magpie, my dear fledgling—a Magpie, if ever there was one, and a very nice one too,” she added, touching me lightly with her fan-like wing.“Madam,” I replied, “it seems to me that I am entirely white, and that to be a Magpie—— Do not be angry, pray.”“A Russian Magpie, my dear; you are a Russian Magpie.”“How is that possible, when I was hatched in France, of French parents?”“My good child, there is no accounting for these freaks of nature. Believe me, we have Magpies of all colours and climes born in France. Only confide in me, and I will take you to one of the finest places on earth.”“Where, madam, if you please?”“To my verdant palace, my little one. There you will behold life as it ought to be. There you shall not have been a Magpie for five minutes before you shall resolve to die a Magpie. We are about one hundred all told, mark you, not common village Magpies who pick up their bread along the highway. Our set is distinguished by seven black marks and five white ones on our coats. You are altogether white. That is certainly a pity, but your Russian origin will render you a welcome addition to our number. I will put that straight. Our existence is spent in dressing and chattering, and we are each careful to choose our perch on the oldest and highest tree in the land. There is a huge oak in the heart of our forest, alas! it is uninhabited; it was the home of the late Pius X., and is now the resort of Penguins. We pass our time most pleasantly, our women folk are not more gossiping than their husbands are jealous. Our pleasures are pure and joyous, since our hearts are as true as our language is free. Our pride is unbounded. Should an unfortunate low-born Jay or Sparrow intrude himself, we set upon him and pick him to pieces. Nevertheless, our fellows are the best in the world, and readily help, feed, and persecute the poor Sparrows, Bullfinches, and Tomtits who live in our underwood. Nowhere can one find more gossip, and nowhere less malice. We are not without devout Magpies who tell their beads all day long, and the gayest of our youngsters are left to themselves, even by dowagers. Ina word, we pass our time in an atmosphere of glory, honour, pleasure, and misery.”“This opens up a splendid prospect, madam, and I would be foolish not to accept your hospitality; yet, before starting on our journey, permit me to say a word to this good Ringdove. Madam,” I continued, addressing the Dove, “tell me frankly, do you think I am a Russian Magpie?”At this question the Dove bent her head and blushed. “Really, sir,” she replied, “I do not know that I can.”“In Heaven’s name, madam, speak; my words cannot offend you. You who have inspired me with a feeling of devotion so new and so intense that I will wed either of you if you tell me truly what I am.” Then softly I continued, “There seems to be something of the Dove about me, which causes me the deepest perplexity.”“In truth,” said the Dove, “it may be the warm reflection from the poppies that imparts to your plumage a dove-like hue.”She dared say no more. “Oh, misery!” I exclaimed, “how shall I decide? How give my heart to either of you while it is torn with doubts? O Socrates, what an admirable precept was yours, yet how difficult to follow, ‘Know your own mind’! It now occurred to me to sing, in order to discover the truth. I had a notion that my father was too impulsive, as he condemned me after hearing the first part of my song. The second part, I was fain to believe, might work miracles with these dear creatures. Politely bowing by way of claiming their indulgence, I began to whistle, then twitter and make little warblings, after which, inflating my breast to its fullest, I sang as loud as a Spanish muleteer in his mountains. The melody caused the Magpie to move away little by little with an air of surprise, then in a stupefaction of fright she described circles round me like a cat round a piece of bacon which had burned her, and which proved too tempting to relinquish. The more impatient she became, the more I sang. She resisted five-and-twenty bars, and then flew back to her green palace. The Ringdove had fallen asleep—admirable illustration of the power of song. I was just about to fly away when she awoke and bade me adieu,saying—“Handsome, dull, unfortunate stranger, my name is Gourouli. Think of me, adieu!”“Fair Gourouli!” I replied, already on my way, “I would fain live and die with thee. Such happiness is not for me.”
My wings were still feeble, and while my guide flew like the wind, I struggled along at his side, keeping up pretty well for some time. Soon I became confused, and nearly fainting with fatigue, gasped out, “Are we near Brussels?”
“No, we are at Cambray, and have sixty miles to fly.”
Bracing myself for a final effort, I flew for another quarter of an hour, and besought him to rest a little as I felt thirsty.
“Bother! you are only a Blackbird,” replied my companion, continuing his journey as I fell into a wheat-field.
I know not how long I lay there. When at last I made an effort to raise myself, the pain of the fall and fatigue of the journey so paralysed me that I could not move. The dread of death filled my breast when I saw approaching me two charming birds, one a nicely-marked coquettish Magpie, the other a rose-coloured Ringdove. The Dove stopped a few paces off and gazed on me with compassion, but the Magpie hastened to my side, saying, “Ah, my poor child, what has befallen you in this lonely spot?”
“Alas! madam, I am a poor traveller left by a courier on the road; I am starving.”
“What do I hear?” she exclaimed, and flew to the surrounding bushes, gathering some fruits, which she presented on a holly leaf. “Who are you?” she continued; “where do you come from? Your account of yourself is scarcely to be credited; you are so young, you have only cast your down. What are your parents? how is it they leave you in such a plight? I declare it is enough to make one’s feathers stand on end.”
While she was speaking I raised myself a little and ate the fruit ravenously, the Dove watching my every movement most tenderly. Seeing I was athirst, she brought the cup of a flower half full of rain-drops, and I quenched my thirst, but not the fire kindled in my heart. I knew nothing of love, but my breast was filled with a new sensation. I should have gone on dining thus for ever, had it been possible, but my appetite refused to keep pace with my sentiment, nor would my narrow stomach expand.
The repast ended and my energies restored, I satisfied the curiosity of my friends by relating my misfortunes. The Magpie listened with marked attention, while the tender looks of the Dove were full ofsympathy. When I came to the point where it was necessary to confess ignorance of my name and nature, I felt certain I had sealed my fate.
RESCUED.
“Come,” cried the Magpie, “you are joking. You a Blackbird? Nonsense; you are a Magpie, my dear fledgling—a Magpie, if ever there was one, and a very nice one too,” she added, touching me lightly with her fan-like wing.
“Madam,” I replied, “it seems to me that I am entirely white, and that to be a Magpie—— Do not be angry, pray.”
“A Russian Magpie, my dear; you are a Russian Magpie.”
“How is that possible, when I was hatched in France, of French parents?”
“My good child, there is no accounting for these freaks of nature. Believe me, we have Magpies of all colours and climes born in France. Only confide in me, and I will take you to one of the finest places on earth.”
“Where, madam, if you please?”
“To my verdant palace, my little one. There you will behold life as it ought to be. There you shall not have been a Magpie for five minutes before you shall resolve to die a Magpie. We are about one hundred all told, mark you, not common village Magpies who pick up their bread along the highway. Our set is distinguished by seven black marks and five white ones on our coats. You are altogether white. That is certainly a pity, but your Russian origin will render you a welcome addition to our number. I will put that straight. Our existence is spent in dressing and chattering, and we are each careful to choose our perch on the oldest and highest tree in the land. There is a huge oak in the heart of our forest, alas! it is uninhabited; it was the home of the late Pius X., and is now the resort of Penguins. We pass our time most pleasantly, our women folk are not more gossiping than their husbands are jealous. Our pleasures are pure and joyous, since our hearts are as true as our language is free. Our pride is unbounded. Should an unfortunate low-born Jay or Sparrow intrude himself, we set upon him and pick him to pieces. Nevertheless, our fellows are the best in the world, and readily help, feed, and persecute the poor Sparrows, Bullfinches, and Tomtits who live in our underwood. Nowhere can one find more gossip, and nowhere less malice. We are not without devout Magpies who tell their beads all day long, and the gayest of our youngsters are left to themselves, even by dowagers. Ina word, we pass our time in an atmosphere of glory, honour, pleasure, and misery.”
“This opens up a splendid prospect, madam, and I would be foolish not to accept your hospitality; yet, before starting on our journey, permit me to say a word to this good Ringdove. Madam,” I continued, addressing the Dove, “tell me frankly, do you think I am a Russian Magpie?”
At this question the Dove bent her head and blushed. “Really, sir,” she replied, “I do not know that I can.”
“In Heaven’s name, madam, speak; my words cannot offend you. You who have inspired me with a feeling of devotion so new and so intense that I will wed either of you if you tell me truly what I am.” Then softly I continued, “There seems to be something of the Dove about me, which causes me the deepest perplexity.”
“In truth,” said the Dove, “it may be the warm reflection from the poppies that imparts to your plumage a dove-like hue.”
She dared say no more. “Oh, misery!” I exclaimed, “how shall I decide? How give my heart to either of you while it is torn with doubts? O Socrates, what an admirable precept was yours, yet how difficult to follow, ‘Know your own mind’! It now occurred to me to sing, in order to discover the truth. I had a notion that my father was too impulsive, as he condemned me after hearing the first part of my song. The second part, I was fain to believe, might work miracles with these dear creatures. Politely bowing by way of claiming their indulgence, I began to whistle, then twitter and make little warblings, after which, inflating my breast to its fullest, I sang as loud as a Spanish muleteer in his mountains. The melody caused the Magpie to move away little by little with an air of surprise, then in a stupefaction of fright she described circles round me like a cat round a piece of bacon which had burned her, and which proved too tempting to relinquish. The more impatient she became, the more I sang. She resisted five-and-twenty bars, and then flew back to her green palace. The Ringdove had fallen asleep—admirable illustration of the power of song. I was just about to fly away when she awoke and bade me adieu,saying—
“Handsome, dull, unfortunate stranger, my name is Gourouli. Think of me, adieu!”
“Fair Gourouli!” I replied, already on my way, “I would fain live and die with thee. Such happiness is not for me.”