CHAPTER VI.

“So many birds live in the tree,We do not want for fun.”

“So many birds live in the tree,

We do not want for fun.”

Tuesday morning dawns brightly, and Tuesday’s sun soon dries up the gravelled garden walks and shady croquet ground of Aunt Emma’s pleasant, roomy garden, where the merry party of young folk are feasting, like the bees, tasting the various cups of pleasure which nature offers, in most tempting freshness, to little city children in their visits to the country.

The Funny house on Funny street, though almost in the centre of the city’s trade and bustle, is surrounded by a large, old-fashionedgarden, where still may be seen those grand floral sentinels, the gay hollyhocks and the rich golden lily, whilst their lowly companions, the larkspur, sweet pea, and marigold still grace the garden borders, disdaining the urns and hanging baskets which confine their modern sisters.

The humming-bird and the golden butterfly still hover about this festive spot, and the fattest of scarlet-vested robin gentry still sing out their siren song, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,” from the great cherry and old pear-trees which have escaped the woodman’s axe.

Did you ever notice, children, how pert the robins are in such old city gardens?

They seem to think they are indeed privileged guests.

Aunt Emma, sitting under the shady arbor, with its drapery of clematis and honeysuckle,told the children that, one June morning, she had discovered that the robins were greedily devouring her choicest strawberries, so she told Hugh to hang a bell on a stick planted in the midst of the strawberry-bed, and fasten to it a long cord which should reach to her sitting-room window.

The next morning she laughed to herself as she heard the “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,” of the early morning pillagers, saying—

“Ha, ha! my gay visitors. For your naughtiness you shall lose your dainty breakfast. Stealing my finest berries without so much as ‘By your leave, ma’am.’”

Presently a whole flock of birdies descended upon the bed.

“‘Tinkle, tinkle,’ sounded the bell, and then such a fluttering of wings and spreading out of scarlet vests, and away flew the frightenedbirdies, far out of sound and sight of bells and berries.

Robin’s Nest in the Old Pear-tree. Page 89.

“I was quite satisfied with my plan,” continued Aunt Emma, “and the next morning seated myself with my work at my window.

“‘Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,’ sounded out their notes, but I fancied less boldly this time. The bell tinkled, and away flew my gay visitors, but this time they perched themselves on the old pear-tree, and chirped and twittered loudly, evidently complaining of their treatment, and studying, from their high perches, their enemy’s ground.

“I told my tale triumphantly to some of my friends, and the next morning they came to visit me and see the fun themselves.

“‘Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,’ sounded out loud and clear, and oh! what a bevy of birds had come for the morning’s visit!

“‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ sounded the bell, and would you believe it? The knowing birds turned toward the window, bobbed their saucy heads at me, and went on helping themselves with easy manners indeed.

“‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ pealed the bell, and again the saucy fellows dived and dodged, winked and blinked their little bright eyes, and nodded ‘It’s all right.’

“I was completely conquered; so now I let them taketheirbreakfast first, and then I feast on what they leave behind. Very often I find marks of their little beaks in the ruddiest berries on my plate, but they, in return, cheer me with their fullest, choicest notes, give life and brightness to my quiet garden, and guard my young plants from the ravages of devouring insects, and attract other birds, with their richer notes, to their banqueting spot.”

“Aunt Emma,” said Artie, “do you think those little thieving fellows knew you?”

“Indeed, I flatter myself, Artie, that they consider me their best friend. There is scarcely a morning, from the time when the last snow-flakes of Winter melt away, that some one or more of these gay fellows do not come to the window-sill of my sewing-room, chirp about me, and tell a long story of joy or grievance. Sometimes I fancy it’s a complaint of some fickle Jenny Wren who has left her true love for a gay English Sparrow, and again another has won for his mate a saucy Mattie Martin, and comes to me for my best wishes and the promise of my ends of thread and bits of wool to furnish the snug little home he is going to build for his little bride, up in the branches of my apple tree.”

“And does they tell you of the poor little Cock Robin that the naughty Sparrow killed with his bow-arrow?” questioned Rosie.

“I will tell you, Pet, if you are not already tired of my stories, a tale something like your Cock Robin.”

“Oh, do, do, please, Auntie, we’d never be tired of stories;” and the children stowed themselves in a little heap on the grass, at their Auntie’s feet, leaned their elbows on their knees, and rested their chubby cheeks on their hands, ready for any given quantity of tales.

“One day,” continued Aunt Emma, “having a bad headache, I sat in the part of my room farthest from the window, to be away from the light. Presently I heard a mournful sort of song, which soon became quite pitiful, and then came a quick, sharp pecking at my window-pane. I could not resist that appeal, and as I opened my window a Robin flew quickly in, fluttered in circles over my head, uttering pitiful cries. I followed him out into the garden till, near the old apple-tree, he disappeared under a bush. Carefully putting aside, with my hands, the leaves and branches, I found a poor, tiny, half-dressed Robin baby, uttering such little, sick, feeble peeps, I seem to hear them now. I think from the twinkle I afterward used to see in his eyes, that he was rather an adventurous young spirit, and very likely his Papa was a widower, for I never saw but the one parent.

“I fancy Papa Robin had gone out that morning to do the day’s marketing, after charging the younglings to stay quietly at home, and this daring little spirit had takenadvantage of his absence to step out on their balcony and see the world for himself; then he must have become giddy and fallen under the rose-bush, where his Papa had found him, and not knowing what to do with his wee, wounded birdie, had flown to tell me his trouble.”

“Oh! Auntie, what did you do with the poor little thing?” cried tender-hearted Daisy.

“I made a soft cotton bed for it, in a little basket, and put it on a chair near my window, in the sun, then fed it crumbs of bread wet with wine.”

“Did it live, Auntie, dear?”

“Yes, children; and now for the wonderful part of my story. Every morning the parent bird used to make a visit, bringing in his beak to his sick birdie, a bit of caterpillar, a juicy worm, or a ripe berry. I grew veryfond of my pet, and that I might know it, if at some distant day it should leave me, I wound a bit of silver wire about its leg. Birdie grew stronger and saucier, and its peep fuller every day. At last one bright morning—you may imagine my surprise—on entering the little sewing-room, to find my pet gone; and as I thrust my head out of the window, a loud burst of glad song, from the top of the old apple-tree, told me that birdie was—

“Safe, safe, at home.”

“Did you ever see the bird again, Auntie?”

“One morning, weeks afterward, I was in my usual place, and suddenly a bird appeared, from whose tiny leg dangled my thread of silver wire; lower and lower he descended without uttering a note, then something droppedupon the window-sill, and judge of my surprise, to find the very ruby ring I had lost in the garden some days before. I had mourned its loss, for it had been given me by your Papa’s own dear Mamma, on my tenth birthday. I had, for years, worn it on my watch-chain, and lost it whilst planting some seeds, as I supposed, in the mignonette bed. It might have been that the saucy robins had watched me, as I stowed away my seeds, winking their little eyes and bobbing their round heads as they marked their larder for the morrow. What a surprise to them, when, instead of a tiny seed, this bright jewel appeared. Some time after this, in my garden-walks, I found a few red and yellow feathers, a bird’s claw, and a bit of silver wire, which told the sad tale that my pet had been sacrificed by a strange cat.

“My story is ended. You have been patient little listeners for a full half hour, so, run away, dears, for a morning play.”

The merry children hasten off to welcome their little friend Charlie Leonard, who was coming to spend the day with them.

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