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diff --git a/old/50276-0.txt b/old/50276-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 99a488e..0000000 --- a/old/50276-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4797 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of More Tales of the Birds, by W. Warde Fowler - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: More Tales of the Birds - -Author: W. Warde Fowler - -Illustrator: Frances L. Fuller - -Release Date: October 22, 2015 [EBook #50276] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE TALES OF THE BIRDS *** - - - - -Produced by Shaun Pinder, Stephen Hutcheson, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - [Illustration: The Lark’s Nest.] - - - - - MORE TALES - OF THE BIRDS - - - BY - W. WARDE FOWLER - AUTHOR OF “A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS,” ETC. - - - _ILLUSTRATED BY FRANCES L. FULLER_ - - - _London_ - MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited - NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1902 - - _All rights reserved_ - - Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, - LONDON AND BUNGAY. - - - TO - A. A. E. F. - IN MEMORY OF PLEASANT DAYS - IN THE SUNNY SUMMER - OF 1901 - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - I. The Lark’s Nest 1 - II. The Sorrows of a House Martin 24 - III. The Sandpipers 51 - IV. The Last of the Barons 79 - V. Downs and Dungeons 104 - VI. Doctor and Mrs. Jackson 130 - VII. A Lucky Magpie 147 - VIII. Selina’s Starling 185 - IX. Too Much of a Good Thing 204 - - - - - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - The Lark’s Nest _Frontispiece_. - The Sorrows of a House Martin _To face page_ 24 - The Sandpipers ” 52 - The Last of the Barons ” 80 - Downs and Dungeons ” 104 - Doctor and Mrs. Jackson ” 131 - A Lucky Magpie ” 148 - Selina’s Starling ” 186 - - - - - MORE TALES OF THE BIRDS - - - - - THE LARK’S NEST - A STORY OF A BATTLE - - - I - -It was close upon Midsummer Day, but it was not midsummer weather. A -mist rose from moist fields, and hung over the whole countryside as if -it were November; the June of 1815 was wet and chill, as June so often -is. And as the mist hung over the land, so a certain sense of doubt and -anxiety hung over the hearts of man and beast and bird. War was in the -air as well as mist; and everything wanted warmth and peace to help it -to carry out its appointed work; to cheer it with a feeling of the -fragrance of life. - -The moisture and the chilliness did not prevent the Skylark from taking -a flight now and then into the air, and singing to his wife as she sat -on the nest below; indeed, he rose sometimes so high that she could -hardly hear his voice, and then the anxious feeling got the better of -her. When he came down she would tell him of it, and remind him how dear -to her that music was. “Come with me this once,” he said at last in -reply. “Come, and leave the eggs for a little while. Above the mist the -sun is shining, and the real world is up there to-day. You can dry -yourself up there in the warmth, and you can fancy how bad it is for all -the creatures that have no wings to fly with. And there are such numbers -of them about to-day—such long lines of men and horses! Come and feel -the sun and see the sights.” - -He rose again into the air and began to sing; and she, getting wearily -off the nest, followed him upwards. They passed through the mist and out -into the glorious sunshine; and as they hung on the air with fluttering -wings and tails bent downwards, singing and still gently rising, the sun -at last conquered the fog to the right of them, and they saw the great -high road covered with a long column of horsemen, whose arms and -trappings flashed with the sudden light. They were moving southward at a -trot as quick as cavalry can keep up when riding in a body together; and -behind them at a short interval came cannon and waggons rumbling slowly -along, the drivers’ whips cracking constantly as if there were great -need of hurry. Then came a column of infantry marching at a quickstep -without music, all intent on business, none falling out of the ranks; -they wore coats of bright scarlet, which set off young and sturdy -frames. And then, just as an officer, with dripping plume and cloak -hanging loosely about him, turned his horse into the wet fields and -galloped heavily past the infantry in the road, the mist closed over -them again, and the Larks could see nothing more. - -But along the line of the road, to north as well as south, they could -hear the rumbling of wheels and the heavy tramp of men marching, -deadened as all these sounds were by the mud of the road and by the -dense air. Nay, far away to the southward there were other sounds in the -air—sounds deep and strange, as if a storm were beginning there. - -“But there is no storm about,” said the Skylark’s wife; “I should have -felt it long ago. What is it, dear? what can it be? Something is wrong; -and I feel as if trouble were coming, with all these creatures about. -Look there!” she said, as they descended again to the ground at a little -distance, as usual, from the nest; “look there, and tell me if something -is not going to happen!” - -A little way off, dimly looming through the mist, was a large cart or -waggon moving slowly along a field-track. Leading the horses was the -farmer, and sitting in the cart was the farmer’s wife, trouble written -in her face; on her lap was a tiny child, another sat on the edge of the -cart, and a third was astride on one of the big horses, holding on by -his huge collar, and digging his young heels into the brawny shoulders -below him. All of these the Skylarks knew well; they came from the farm -down in the hollow, and they must be leaving their old home, for there -was crockery, and a big clock, and a picture or two, and other household -goods, all packed in roughly and hurriedly, as if the family had been -suddenly turned out into the world. The farmer looked over his shoulder -and said a cheering word to his wife, and the Skylark did the same by -his. - -“Don’t get frightened,” he said, “or you won’t be able to sit close. And -sitting close is the whole secret, dear, the whole secret of nesting. -I’m sorry I took you up there, but I meant well. Promise me to sit -close; if any creature comes along, don’t you stir—it is the whole -secret. They won’t find you on the eggs, if you only sit close; and -think how hard it is to get back again without being seen when once -you’re off the nest! There’s nothing to alarm you in what we saw. See, -here we are at the nest, and how far it is from the big road, and how -snugly hidden! Promise me, then, to sit close, and in a day or two we -shall begin to hatch.” - -She promised, and nestled once more on the eggs. It was true, as he had -said, that the nest was some way from the road; it was in fact about -halfway between two high roads, which separated as they emerged from a -great forest to the northwards, and then ran at a wide angle down a -gentle slope of corn-land and meadow. In the hollow near to the western -road lay the farmhouse, whose owners had been seen departing by the -Skylarks, standing in a little enclosure of yard and orchard; near the -other road, but higher up the slope, was another homestead. On the edge -of the slope, connecting the two main roads, ran a little cart-track, -seldom used; just such a deeply-rutted track as you may see on the slope -of a south-country down, cutting rather deeply into the ground in some -places, so that a man walking up to it along the grass slope might take -an easy jump from the edge into the ruts, and need a vigorous step or -two to mount on the other side. Just under this edge of the grass-field, -and close to the track, the Larks had placed their nest; for the grass -of the field, cropped close by sheep, offered them little cover; and -they did not mind the cart or waggon that once in two or three days -rolled lazily by their home, driven by a drowsy countryman in a short -blue frock. - -Next day the weather was worse, though the fog had cleared away; and in -the afternoon it began to rain. Long before sunset the Larks began to -hear once more the rumbling of waggons and the trampling of horses; they -seemed to be all coming back again, for the noise grew louder and -louder. Each time the cock bird returned from a flight, or brought food -to his wife, he looked, in spite of himself, a little graver. But she -sat close, only starting once or twice from the nest when the distant -crack of a gun was heard. - -“Sit close, sit close,” said her consort, “and remember that the way to -get shot is to leave the nest. We are perfectly safe here, and I will be -hiding in the bank at hand, if any danger should threaten.” - -As he spoke, men passed along the track; then more, and others on the -grass on each side of it. Then that dread rumbling grew nearer, and a -medley of sounds, the cracking of whips, the clanging of metal, the -hoarse voices of tired men, began to grow around them on every side. -Once or twice, as it began to grow dusk, men tried to kindle a fire in -the drizzle, and by the fitful light groups of men could be seen, -standing, crouching, eating, each with his musket in his hand, as if he -might have to use it at any moment. Officers walked quickly round giving -directions, and now and then half-a-dozen horsemen, one on a bay horse -always a little in advance, might be seen moving about and surveying the -scene. Then more men passed by, and ever more, along the slope; more -horses, guns, and waggons moved along the track. A deep slow murmur -seemed to rise in the air, half stifled by the pouring rain, and broken -now and then by some loud oath near at hand, as a stalwart soldier -slipped and fell on the soppy ground. Then, as lights began to flash out -on the opposite rise to the southward, a noise of satisfaction seemed to -run along the ground—not a cheer, nor yet a laugh, but something -inarticulate that did duty for both with wet and weary men. In time all -became quiet, but for the occasional voice of a sentinel; and now and -then a cloaked form would rise from the ground and try to make a -smouldering fire burn up. - -All this time the Skylark’s wife had been sitting close; men and horses -were all around, but the nest was safe, being just under the lip of the -bank. Her husband had crept into a hole close by her, and was presently -fast asleep, with his head under his wing. They had already got used to -the din and the sounds, and they could not abandon the nest. There they -slept, for the present in peace, though war was in the air, and seventy -thousand men lay, trying to sleep, around them. - - - II - -On that first day, when the sun had broken through the mist and shone -upon the army hastening southwards, an English lad, in the ranks of an -infantry regiment, had heard the singing of the Larks high above them. -He was a common village lad, a “Bill” with no more poetry or heroism in -him than any other English Bill; snapped up at Northstow Fair by a -recruiting serjeant, who was caught by his sturdy limbs and healthy -looks; put through the mill of army discipline, and turned out ready to -go anywhere and do anything at command—not so much because it was his -duty, as because it was the lot that life had brought him. He was hardly -well past what we now call schoolboy years, and he went to fight the -French as he used to go to the parson’s school, without asking why he -was to go. He might perhaps have told you, if you had asked him the -question, that trudging along that miry road, heavily laden, and wet -with the drippings of the forest they had just passed through, was not -much livelier than trying to form pothooks under the parson’s vigilant -eye. - -When they emerged from the forest into the open, and began to descend -the gentle slope into the hollow by the farmhouse, the sun broke out, as -we have seen, and Bill, like the rest, began to look about him and shake -himself. Looking up at the bit of blue sky, he saw two tiny specks -against it, and now for the first time the Lark’s song caught his ear. - -At any other moment it would have caught his ear only, and left his mind -untouched. But it came with the sun, and opened some secret spring under -that red coat, without the wearer knowing it. Bill’s sturdy legs tramped -on as before, but his thoughts had suddenly taken flight. There was -nothing else to think of, and for a minute or two he was away in English -midlands, making his way in heavy boots and gaiters to the fields at -daybreak, with the dew glistening on the turnip-leaves, and the Larks -singing overhead. In those early morning trudges, before work drove all -else from his mind, he used to think of a certain Polly, the blooming -daughter of the blacksmith; so he thought of Polly now. Her vision -stayed awhile, and then gave way to his mother and the rest of them in -that little thatched cottage shrinking away from the road by the -horsepond; and then the Rectory came in sight just beyond, and the old -parson’s black gaiters and knotted stick. Bill, the parson’s schoolboy, -bringing home one day a lark’s nest entire with four eggs, had come upon -the parson by the gate, and shrunk from the look of that stick. - -Bill had put the nest behind him, but it was too late; and he was -straightway turned back the way he came, and told to replace the nest -where he found it. - -“And mind you do it gently, Bill,” said the old parson, “or the Lord -won’t love you any more!” - -To disobey the parson would have been for Bill a sheer impossibility, -though easy enough for other lads. For him the old parson had been in -the place of a father ever since he lost his own; and at home, in -school, in church, or in the village, he often saw the old man many -times a day. Not that he exactly loved him—or at least he was not aware -of it; he had more than once tasted of the big stick, and oftener -deserved it. But in Bill there was a feeling for constituted authority, -which centred itself in those black gaiters and in that bent form with -the grey hair; and it was strengthened by a dim sense of gratitude and -respect; so he turned back without a word, and put back the nest with -all the care he could. - -When he came in sight once more, the parson was still at his gate, -looking down the road for him from under the wide brim of his old hat. - -“Have you done it, Bill?” he said, and without waiting for an answer, -“will they thrive yet, do ye think?” - -“I see the old ’uns about, sir,” says Bill “There’s a chance as they may -take to ’un again, if the eggs be’ant to’ cold ’owever.” - -“Then the Lord’ll love you, Bill,” said the old man, quite simply, and -turned away up his garden. And Bill went home too; he told no one the -story, but the parson’s last words got a better hold of him than all the -sermons he had ever heard him preach. - -And so it came about that, years afterwards, as he trudged along that -Belgian highroad, besides Polly and his mother and the cottage, he saw -the Rectory and the old parson, standing at the gate—waiting for the -postman, perhaps with news from the seat of war. “I never wrote to ’un,” -thought Bill, “as I said I would, to let ’un see a bit of my scrawlen——” - -But a nudge of the elbow from the next man drove all these visions away. - -“D’ye hear that, youngster?” said this neighbour, an old Peninsular -veteran, once a serjeant, and now degraded to the ranks for drunkenness; -“d’ye hear that noise in front? That’s a battle, that is, and we’ll be -too late for it, unless Bony fights hard, drat him!” - -The pace was quickened, and for several miles they went on in silence, -the sound of battle gradually getting louder. At last it began to die -away; and soon an aide-de-camp came galloping up and spoke to their -colonel, who halted his men in a field by the roadside. Then tumbrils -full of wounded men began to roll slowly along the road, at which Bill -looked at first with rather a wistful gaze. At last night set in, and -they bivouacked on the field as they were. - -Early next morning troops began to file past them—infantry, artillery, -and baggage; the cavalry, so Bill was told by his neighbour in the -ranks, was in the rear keeping off the enemy. Bony was coming after -them, sure enough, he said, and the Duke must draw back and get all his -troops together, and get the Prussians too, before he could smash that -old sinner. - -At last their turn came to file into the road, and retrace their steps -of yesterday. It was now raining, and already wet and cold, and Bill -simply plodded on like a machine, till a slight descent, and the sight -of the farmhouse, and of the dark forest looming in front of them, told -him that he was again on the ground where the sun had shone and the Lark -sung. And his trials for that day were nearly at end, for no sooner had -they mounted the slope on the further side, than they were ordered to -the right, and turning into the fields by the little cross-track, were -halted between the two roads, and lay down as they were, tired out. - - - III - -Dawn was beginning at three o’clock on Sunday the 18th of June, and the -Lark was already astir. In the night an egg had been hatched, and great -was the joy of both parents. All was quiet just around the nest; at a -little distance a sentinel was pacing up and down, but no one else was -moving. The wife, at a call from her mate, left the nest, and rose with -him through the drizzling rain. - -“Higher, higher,” cried the cock bird, “let us try for the blue sky -again, and look for the sunrise as we sing!” And higher they went, and -higher, but found no blue that day; and when the sun rose behind the -clouds, it rose with an angry yellow light, that gave no cheer to man or -beast. And what a sight it showed below them! All along the ridge for a -mile and a half lay prostrate forms, huddled together for warmth; -picketed horses stood asleep with drooping heads; cannon and waggons -covered the ground towards the forest. And all that host lay silent, as -if dead. And over there, on the opposite height, lay another vast and -dark crowd of human beings. What would happen when they all woke up? - -The Larks spent some time, as was their wont, bathing themselves in the -fresher air above, and then descended slowly to find insects for the -new-born little one. Slowly—for a weight lay on the hearts of both; -there was peril, they knew, though neither of them would own it. As they -approached the earth, they saw a figure kneeling against the bank, and -prying into the ground just where lay the home of all their fond desire. -Each uttered at the same moment a piteous cry, and the figure, looking -up, rose quickly from his knees and watched them. Then he went slowly -away, and lay down among a group of cloaked human forms. - -It was Bill, just released from sentinel duty. As he paced to and fro, -he had seen the Larks rise, and, relieved by a comrade in a few minutes, -he searched at once for the nest. Bill was not likely to miss it; he -knew the ways of larks, and searched at a little distance right and left -from the spot he had seen them leave. There was the nest—three brown -eggs and a young one; it brought back once more the Rectory gate, and -the old parson, and those few words of his. “I wish as I’d sent ’un a -letter,” he said to himself, as he heard the Larks’ cry, and rose from -his knees. That was all he said or thought; but Bill went quietly back -to his wet resting-place, and slept with a clear conscience, and dreamed -of pothooks and Polly. - -When he woke nearly every one was astir: all looking draggled, cold, and -dogged. Breakfast was a poor meal, but it freshened up Bill, and after -it he found time to go and spy again at the nesting-place. The hen was -sitting close, and he would not disturb her. The cock was singing above; -presently he came down and crept through the grass towards her. But Bill -saw no more then, for the bugles began to call, and all that great host -fell gradually into battle array. - -Bill’s regiment was stationed some little way behind the cart-track, and -was held ready to form square at a moment’s notice. Hours passed, and -then a hurried meal was served out; the battle was long in beginning. -Every now and then Bill could hear the Lark’s song overhead, and he -listened to it now, and thought of the nest as he listened. He could not -see it, for a battery of artillery was planted between him and the -track; but he kept on wondering what would happen to it, and it helped -him to pass the weary hours of waiting. - -At last, just at the time when the bells of the village church were -beginning to ring at home—when village lads were gathering about the -church door, and the old clerk was looking up the hymns, and getting the -music out on the desks for the two fiddles and the bassoon—a flash and a -puff of white smoke were seen on the opposite height, then another and -another, and every man knew that the battle had begun. - -And then the time began to go faster. Bill watched the artillerymen in -front of him, and the smoke in the enemy’s lines, when he was not -occupied with something else under his serjeant’s quick eye. Something -was doing down there at the farmhouse; he could hear it, but could not -see. Away on the left, too, he could see cavalry moving, and once saw -the plumes of the Scots Greys on the enemy’s side of the valley, and -then saw them galloping back again, followed by squadrons of French -horse. Then an order was given to form square; cannon-balls began to -whistle round, and as the square was formed, some men fell. Then a long -pause. Suddenly the artillerymen came running back into the square, and -Bill, in the front of the square, could see the further edge of the -cart-track in front of him lined with splendid horsemen, who dropped -into it and rose again on the other side, charging furiously at the -square. Not a word was said, or a gun fired, till they were quite close; -then the word was given, the front ranks of the square fired, and half -the horsemen seemed to fall at once. Others rode round it, and met the -same fate from the other sides. Then back went all the rest as best they -could, with another volley after them, and Bill had seen his first -fight. - -Again and again this wave of cavalry came dashing against them, and each -time it broke and drew back again. So the day wore on, and the battle -raged all round. Ranks grew thinner and men grew tired of carrying the -dead and dying out of their midst. Bill’s square was never broken, but -the men were worn out, the colonel and most of the officers were killed -or wounded, and still the battle went on. - -At last, when the sun was getting low, the regiment was suddenly ordered -forward. Glad to move their stiffened limbs at last, the men deployed as -if on parade-ground, and dashed forward in line at the double. Bill saw -that he would cross the cart-track close by the Lark’s nest; in all that -din and fever of battle, he still thought of it, and wondered what its -fate had been. Another minute and they were crossing the track, and as -they leapt up the other side, he saw a bird fly out from under the feet -of a soldier next but one to himself. The next moment he felt a sudden -sharp blow, and fell insensible. - -When he came to himself he could see the redcoats pouring down the slope -in front of him; every one was going forward, and the enemy’s cannonade -had ceased. A wounded soldier close by him groaned and turned heavily on -his side. Bill tried to pull himself together to walk, but his right leg -was useless, and he could only crawl. He crawled to the edge of the bank -and found himself close to the nest; he put his hand in and found two -warm eggs and two nestlings. Then he slipped down the bank and fainted -at the bottom. - - -A fortnight afterwards, the old parson came down to his garden-gate with -a letter in his hand, and stepped across to the thatched cottage. Bill’s -mother met him at the door with a curtsey and a pale face. - -“It’s his own writing,” said the parson, “so don’t be frightened. Shall -I read it you?” And he opened and read the letter; here is a faithful -copy of it— - - - “Brussles Ospitle, _June 22_. - -“Dear Mother,—We ave won a glorous Victry, and old Bony and all of em -they run away at last. I see em a runnin just as I got nocked over my -dear mother I did for some on em but don’t know how many twas, them -cavalry chaps mostly twas as I nocked over I be rather smartish badly -hit dear mother the Doctor ave took off my rite Leg but I feels as if -twur thur still it do hurt so tell passon I found a Lark’s nestie as I -didn’t never take none of the eggs on twur a marvelous wunder as they -warn’t scruncht with them Frenchies a gallopin over the place and our -fellows wen they sent em a runnin tell passon as the Lord do love me I -partly thinks I carn’t rite no more dear mother but I’m a comin ome soon -as I’m better so no more now from yr affexnit son - - “Bill.” - - -The letter was read a hundred times, and laid carefully away when all -the village had seen it. But the lad never came home; he lies in the -cemetery at Brussels. The Larks brought up their young, and sang even -while the dead were being buried; then they left the terrible field of -Waterloo, and never dared return to it. - - - - - THE SORROWS OF A HOUSE MARTIN - - -Little Miss Gwenny was sitting alone in the garden, taking her tea. Her -comfortable little garden chair was placed under the projecting eaves on -the shady side of the Parsonage; the unclipped jessamine that climbed up -the wall was clustering round her, and a soft breeze was stirring its -long shoots, and gently lifting the little girl’s long hair with the -same breath. She looked the picture of comfort and enjoyment. - - [Illustration: The Sorrows of a House-Martin.] - -On the table by her side were the tea-tray and a well-worn copy of -“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” She was not reading, however, though -now and then she turned over the pages and looked at a picture. Except -when she did so, she kept her eyes half closed, and leaning back in her -chair gazed sleepily into the garden through her drooping eyelashes. The -fact was that she was every minute expecting something wonderful to -happen. What it would be she could not in the least guess; but that -lovely September day it really seemed as if there might be fairyland in -the garden at last. Twice before during that summer she had contrived to -have the garden to herself, without fear of interruption from parents, -brothers, servants, or visitors; but nothing wonderful had happened, and -this would probably be her last chance before cold and wet set in. - -But in spite of her tea and her book and her beloved solitude, Miss -Gwenny was not at this moment in quite such a happy frame of mind as to -deserve to have her garden turning into fairyland. Several things had -happened to vex her; and when one is vexed it is too much to expect -White Rabbits or Cheshire Cats or Mock Turtles or March Hares to wait -upon one at pleasure and tell their tales. It was true indeed that her -brothers were well out of the way at a cricket-match, and that her -father and mother had just set out on a long drive, taking with them the -manservant, who was always spoiling her plans by poking about in the -garden with his tools. But this same man had spitefully (so she thought) -locked up the tool-house before he went away, and it was just this very -tool-house on which she had been setting her heart all the morning. -There she could not possibly be seen either from the road or the -windows, while she could herself see enough of the garden to catch sight -of anything wonderful that might come; and there too she had some -property of her own in a dark corner, consisting of a dormouse, the gift -of her brothers, and sundry valuable odds and ends, with which she might -amuse herself if nothing did come. - -And this was not the only thing that troubled her. She had heard her -mother say that she was going to ask Aunt Charlotte to look in and see -after Gwenny: and Gwenny did not want, I grieve to say, to be seen after -by Aunt Charlotte. That kind lady was sure to stay a long time in the -garden fidgeting with the rose-trees, and collecting snails and -caterpillars in an old tin pan. These creatures she always carefully -killed, to the great delight of the boys, by pouring boiling water on -them, and she had more than once sent Gwenny to the kitchen to fetch a -kettle for this purpose. Gwenny secretly determined to rebel if such -were her lot this afternoon; for how could there be fairyland in the -garden if all the animals were killed? And every minute she was -expecting to hear the latch of the gate lifted, and the quick decided -step of her aunt coming up the garden path. - -Several times as she sat there a quick shadow had passed over the white -page of her book, but she did not notice it, nor did she heed a -continuous quiet chatter that was going on over her head. At last, just -as she happened to turn to the page on which is the picture of the -Duchess carrying the pig-baby, the shadow hovered for a moment and -darkened the leaf, so that she looked up with a little frown on her -face. - -“Everything teases me this afternoon!” she exclaimed. But the House -Martin, whose shadow had disturbed her, had flown into his nest with -food for his young ones. Gwenny watched for his coming out again, and -listened to the chattering that was going on in the nest. She could just -see his tail, and the bright white patch above it, as he clung to the -door of his nest up there under the eaves. Presently he came out, and -then she watched for his return; and soon, so constant was the hovering -and chattering, that Aunt Charlotte, and the gardener, and fairyland -itself, were all forgotten, and she began, after her own odd fashion, to -talk to the Martins in a dreamy way. - -“What busy people you are!” she said, very softly, so as not to disturb -them: “how tired you must get, fussing about like that all day long! -Fancy if my mother had to run round the garden twenty times before -giving me anything to eat! That would be more in Aunt Charlotte’s way, -wouldn’t it? I won’t get the boiling water today,—or at least I’ll spill -it. You look very happy, gossiping away all day, with a nest full of -young to look after; anyhow it’s lucky for you that you can’t be caught, -and have boiling water poured on you. She’d do it if she could, though. -Yes, you are certainly very happy; you don’t come back to your nest and -find it locked up like my tool-house. How you do skim about, like fish -swimming in the air! And how nice and clean you are!—though I did see -you grubbing in the mud the other day on the road. I say, I should like -to be you instead of _me_, with all sorts of things to worry me.” - -At this moment a Martin stopped to rest on a bare twig of the apple-tree -which grew close to the house and almost touched it; and at once fell to -ruffling up its feathers, and pecked at them with great energy. - -“What are you doing that for?” asked Gwenny, watching in a lazy way, -with her eyes half closed. - -The Martin seemed to take no notice, but clinging to his twig with some -difficulty against the rising breeze (for his feet were not much used to -perching) he went on diligently searching his feathers with his bill. - -“What are you doing that for?” asked Gwenny again, rousing herself. And -recollecting her manners, she added, “If you will be kind enough to tell -me, I should really like to know, because, you see, I’m interested in -all the animals in our garden.” - -“That’s easily answered,” said the Martin: “it’s only because these -things I’m pecking at tease me so.” - -“Tease you!” cried Gwenny. “Why, I was just thinking that you had -nothing in the world to tease you. I’m sure you look as happy as the day -is long. I have so many little things to worry me, you see!” - -“Dear little Gwenny!” said the Martin, after a pause, “so you have your -troubles too! Do you know, I’ve seen you here every summer since you -were hardly big enough to toddle about the garden, and I should have -thought you were the happiest little girl in the world.” - -Gwenny shook her head sadly; and indeed at that moment she heard the -latch of the gate lifted. But it was only the postman, and there was no -sign yet of Aunt Charlotte. The Martin went on: - -“And do you really think that a House Martin has not troubles? Why, dear -me, to think only of these ticks! There are half a dozen in each -feather, I really believe; and if you had to count my feathers, it would -be your bedtime long before you got through half of them. I could sit -here by the hour together hunting for them, if I hadn’t plenty of other -work to do. You can’t think how they fidget one, tickling and creeping -all day long! And the nest up there is swarming with them! Have you got -ticks under your feathers, I wonder?” - -“Don’t talk of such horrid things,” said Gwenny. “Of course I haven’t. -Please don’t fly down: you might drop some about. I had no idea you were -such nasty creatures!” - -“Speak gently, please,” returned the Martin. “It’s not our fault. They -will come, and there’s not a Martin in the world that hasn’t got them. -You see we have our troubles; and you are a very lucky little girl. You -have no ticks, and no journeys to make, and no droughts to go through, -and no sparrows to bully you, and no men or cats to catch and kill you. -Dear me,” he added with a sigh, “such a spring and summer as my wife and -I have had! Troubles on troubles, worries on worries—and, depend upon -it, we haven’t seen the end of it yet. But it’s no good talking about -it. When one is worried the best thing is to be as busy as possible. So -I had better say goodbye and get to work again.” And he fluttered off -his perch. - -“No, don’t go,” said Gwenny. “Tell me all about it; I’m sure it’ll do -you good. I always go and tell some one when I get into trouble.” - -So the Martin began, while Gwenny arranged herself comfortably as for a -story, while the breeze blew the brown locks all about her face. - -“The wonder is,” he said, “that I am here at all. Every year it seems -more astonishing, for half the Martins that nested in the village in my -first summer are dead and gone. And indeed our numbers are less than -they used to be; we have to face so many troubles and perils. When we -left Africa last spring——” - -“Why did you leave it?” asked Gwenny. “If you will make such terribly -long journeys, (and I know you do, for father told us) why do you ever -come back? Of course we’re very glad to see you here,” she added, with -an air of politeness caught from her mother, “but it seems to me that -you are very odd in your ways.” - -The Martin paused for a moment. “I really don’t quite know,” he -presently said; “I never thought about it: we always do come here, and -our ancestors always came, so I suppose we shall go on doing it. -Besides, this is really our home. We were born here, you see, and when -the heat begins in South Africa there comes a strange feeling in our -hearts, a terrible homesickness, and we _must_ go.” - -“Then when you are once at home, why do you leave it to go away again so -far?” asked Gwenny. - -“My dear,” said the Martin, “if you will listen, and not ask so many -questions beginning with ‘why,’ you may possibly learn something about -it. Let me begin again. When we left Africa this year we went our usual -way by some big islands in a broad blue sea, where we can rest, you -know, and stay a day or two to recruit ourselves,—and then we made -another sea-passage, and came to land near a large and beautiful town, -with great numbers of ships lying in its harbour. Of course we are not -afraid of towns or men: we have always found men kind to us, and willing -to let us build our nests on their houses. Long ago, you know, we used -to build in rocks, and so we do now in some places; but when you began -to build houses of stone we took to them very soon, for then there was -plenty of room for all of us, and no one to persecute us either, as the -hawks used to do in the rocky hills. But really I begin to fear we shall -be obliged to give it up again one of these days.” - -“Why?” said Gwenny. “Don’t think of such a thing, now we’re friends. Why -should you?” - -“If you want to know why,” continued the Martin, “you must wait a little -till I get on with my story. When we reached that fine town with the -ships, we rested, as we always do, on any convenient place we can -find,—chimneys, towers, telegraph wires; and of course as we come in -thousands and much about the same time, the people look out for us, and -welcome us. So they used to, at least: but of late years something has -possessed them,—I don’t know what,—and they have set themselves to catch -and kill us. It may be only a few wicked persons: but this year nearly -all those towers and wires were smeared with some dreadful sticky stuff, -which held us fast when we settled on it, until rough men came along and -seized us. Hundreds and thousands of us were caught in this way and -cruelly killed, and will never see their old home again.” - -“Horrible!” cried Gwenny. “I believe I know what that was for: I heard -mother reading about it in the paper. They wanted to sell the birds to -the Paris milliners to put on ladies’ bonnets. But how did you escape?” - -“Only by a miracle,” said the bird. “And indeed I do wonder that I’m -safe here; I alighted on a tall iron fence near the sea, and instantly I -felt my claws fastened to the iron,—not a bit would they move. A few -yards off were two or three of my friends just in the same plight; and -after a time of useless struggling, I saw to my horror a man come along, -with a boy carrying a big bag. As the fence was high, he carried a pair -of steps, and when he came to the other birds, he put these down and -mounted them. Then he seized my poor friends, gave their necks a twist, -and dropped them into the bag, which the boy held open below. It was -sickening: I could see one or two which he had not quite killed -struggling about at the bottom of the bag. Poor things, poor things! And -there was I just as much at the mercy of these ruffians, and my turn was -to come next.” - -“It’s too horrible,” said Gwenny: “I wonder you can bear to tell it.” - -“Ah, my dear,” said the Martin, “we have to get hardened to these -things. And it’s good for you to hear my story, as you thought our lives -were all happiness. Well, the man came along to me with his steps, and I -struggled, and he chuckled, and in another moment it would have been all -over. But just as he was going to grip me, he noticed that his boy was -not below with the bag, and turning round he saw him a little way off in -the road practising standing on his head, while the bag was lying in the -dust with its mouth open. He shouted angrily, scolded the boy, and bade -him bring back the bag directly; and when he came, gave him a kick in -the back that made him squeal. Then he turned round again, seized me -with a rough dirty hand, and wrenched my claws loose. Oh, the dreadful -misery of that moment! But it was only a moment. At the very instant -when he got me loose, the steps were pulled from beneath him, and as he -struggled to save himself he let go his hold of me. Away I went as fast -as I could fly, only looking back for a moment to see the man on his -face in the dust, and the boy running away with all his might. I owe my -life to that urchin’s mischief. He served his master out well, and I -hope he didn’t get beaten for it afterwards. - -“Well, I flew off, as I said, and it was a long time before I rested -again. I was afraid that sticky stuff would hold me fast again, and I -dipped into the rivers and scraped myself in the dusty roads, till I -felt I had pretty well got rid of it. And no other misadventure happened -while we were in France; and then there came a pleasant morning with a -gentle breeze, in which we crossed the sea to this dear home of yours -and ours, where no one wants to catch and kill us; and then we felt as -happy as you fancy we always are. It was mid-April, and your fields -looked so fresh and green, we had not seen such a green for nearly a -whole year. The sun shone into the grass and lit it up, and forced the -celandines and marigolds to open their blossoms all along the valley as -we made our way to our old home here. Every now and then a delicious -shower would come sweeping down from the west, and the labouring men -would get under a tree, and throw old sacks over their shoulders to keep -them dry; and the gentlefolk out walking in the roads would put up their -umbrellas and run for it. But we,—ah! how we did enjoy those showers -after the long weary journey! We coursed about and chatted to each -other, and greeted our friends the Sand Martins by the river bank, -knowing that the sun would be out again in a few minutes, and would -bring all sorts of juicy insects out of the moistened grass. And when -the rain had passed, and the blue sky above was all the bluer for the -dark cloud in the distance, where the rainbow was gathering its -brightness, what delicious feasts we had! how we did career about, and -chatter, and enjoy ourselves!” - -“I daresay you did,” said Gwenny. “And I’m very glad you are happy some -time: but I’m sure there’s something dreadful coming yet!” - -“Only too soon there came something dreadful,” the Martin -continued,—“dreadful to us at least. The very next day—the day we came -here—the soft west wind dropped, and no more showers came. Quite early -in the morning I felt a difference—a dryness about the skin, and a -tickling at the roots of my feathers, which I knew was not caused by -those little creepers I told you of. And when I rested on the telegraph -wires to scratch myself with my bill, I got so cold that I had to leave -off and take to flight again. And then I knew that the wind was in the -_east_, and that I should get very little good by flying, though fly I -must, for the insects would not rise. Those of yesterday were dead -already, nipped with a single night’s frost, and there was no sun to -bring new ones to life. But we managed to get on fairly that day, and -hoped that the east wind would be gone the next morning.” - -“Why, what a difference the east wind does make to some people!” put in -Gwenny. “You’re just like Aunt Charlotte; whenever she’s sharper than -usual, my mother says it’s the east wind, and so it is, I believe. It -dries up the snails, so that they go under the bushes, and she can’t -find them. That’s the only way I can tell an east wind: the snails go -in, and Aunt Charlotte gets put out.” - -“Then Aunt Charlotte must have been very cross last spring,” said the -Martin; “and so were we, and very wretched too. It lasted quite three -weeks, and how we contrived to get through it I hardly know. Some of us -died—the weaker ones—when it turned to sleeting and freezing; and when -the Swifts came early in May they had a dreadful time of it, poor -creatures, for they are very delicate and helpless, in spite of their -long wings. There were no flies to be had, except in one or two places, -and there we used all to go, and especially to that long strip of -stagnant water which the railway embankment shelters from the east. We -used to fly up and down, up and down, over that dreary bit of water: but -to collect a good beakful of flies used to take us so long that we had -often to rest on the telegraph wires before it was done, and we got so -cold and so tired that we could only fly slowly, and often felt as if we -should have to give in altogether.” - -“I saw you,” said Gwenny; “I watched you ever so long one day, and I was -quite pleased because I could see the white patches over your tails so -nicely; you flew so slowly, and sometimes you came along almost under my -feet.” - -“And I saw you,” returned the Martin, “one day, but one day only; for -you caught your bad cold that very day while you were watching us; and -the next time I saw you, when I peeped in at the window as I was looking -for my old nest, you were in bed, and I could hear you sneezing and -coughing even through the window panes. It was a bad time for all of us, -my dear.” - -“Well, I don’t know,” said Gwenny. “I don’t much mind staying in bed, -especially in an east wind, because then Aunt Charlotte stops at home, -and can’t——” - -“Never mind Aunt Charlotte,” said the Martin. “She’ll be here directly, -and you mustn’t say unkind things of her. I can feel with her, poor -thing, if she lives on snails like the thrushes, and can’t catch them in -an east wind.” - -Gwenny was about to explain, but the Martin said “Hush!” and went on -with his tale, for he was aware that it was getting rather long, and -that Aunt Charlotte might be expected at any moment. - -“At last the east wind went, and then for a while we had better luck. -Rain fell, and the roads became muddy, and we set to work to rebuild our -nest. For you must know that it was one of our bits of bad luck this -year that our dear old nest had been quite destroyed when we returned, -and instead of creeping into it to roost during that terrible east wind, -as we like to do, we had to find some other hole or corner to shelter -us. You see your home is our home too; and how would you like to have to -sleep in the tool-house, or under the gooseberry bushes in the garden?” - -“I should love to sleep in the tool-house,” said Gwenny, “at least, if I -could have my bed in there. But I didn’t know you slept in your old -nests, nor did father, I am sure, or he would have taken care of them -when the workmen were here painting the window-frames and the timbers -under the roof.” - -“I thought that was how it was done,” said the Martin; “they like to -make everything spick and span, and of course our nests look untidy. -Well, it can’t be helped; but it was bad luck for us. We went to work -all the same, gathering up the mud in our bills, and laid a fresh -foundation, mixing it with a little grass or straw to keep it firm.” - -“Like the Israelites when they had to make bricks!” cried Gwenny. - -“Just so,” said the Martin, though he did not quite understand. “And all -was going on nicely, and my wife up there was quite in a hurry to lay -her eggs, and we were working like bees, when out came the sun, and -shone day after day without a cloud to hide him, and all the moisture -dried up in the roads, and our foundations cracked and crumbled, because -we could get no fresh mud to finish the work with. We made long journeys -to the pond in the next village and to the river bank, but it was soon -all no good; the mud dried in our very mouths and would not stick, and -before long there was nothing soft even on the edge of pond or -river—nothing but hard-baked clay, split into great slits by the heat.” - -“Why, we could have watered the road for you, if we had known,” said -Gwenny. - -“Yes, my dear, to be sure; but then you never do know, you see. We know -a good deal about you, living as we do on your houses; we know when you -get up (and very late it is) and when you go to bed, and a great deal -more that you would never expect us to know; but you know very little -about us, or I should not be telling you this long story. Of course you -might know, if you thought it worth while; but very few of you take an -interest in us, and I’m sure I don’t wonder.” - -“Why don’t you wonder?” asked Gwenny. - -“Because we are not good to eat,” said the Martin decisively. “Don’t -argue,” he added, as he saw that she was going to speak: “think it over, -and you’ll find it true. I must get on. Well, we waited patiently, -though we were very sad, and at last came the rain, and we finished the -nest. Ah! how delicious the rain is after a drought! You stay indoors, -poor things, and grumble, and flatten your noses against the nursery -windows. We think it delightful, and watch the thirsty plants drinking -it in, and the grass growing greener every minute; it cools and -refreshes us, and sweetens our tempers, and makes us chatter with -delight as we catch the juicy insects low under the trees, and fills us -with fresh hope and happiness. Yes, we had a few happy days then, though -we little knew what was coming. An egg was laid, and my wife nestled on -it, and I caught flies and fed her,—and soon another egg was laid, and -then,—then came the worst of all.” - -The Martin paused and seemed hardly able to go on, and Gwenny was silent -out of respect for his feelings. At last he resumed. - -“One afternoon, when the morning’s feeding was over, I flew off, so -joyful did I feel, and coursed up and down over meadow and river in the -sunshine, till the lengthening shadows warned me that my wife would be -getting hungry again. I sped home at my quickest pace, and flew straight -to the nest. If I had not been in such a hurry I might have noticed a -long straw sticking out of it, and then I should have been prepared for -what was coming; but I was taken by surprise, and I never shall forget -that moment. I clung as usual to the nest, and put my head in before -entering. It was a piteous sight I saw! My wife was not there; the eggs -were gone; and half a dozen coarse white feathers from the poultry yard -told me what had happened. Before I had time to realise it, I heard a -loud fierce chatter behind me, felt a punch from a powerful bill in my -back, which knocked me clean off the nest, and as I flew screaming away, -I saw a great coarse dirty sparrow, with a long straw in his ugly beak, -go into the nest just as if it were his own property. And indeed it now -was his property, by right of wicked force and idle selfishness; for as -long as I continued to hover round, he sat there looking out, his cruel -eyes watching me in triumph. I knew it was no good for me to try and -turn him out, for I should never have lived to tell you the story. Look -at my bill! it’s not meant to fight with, nor are my claws either. We -don’t wish to fight with any one; we do no one any harm. Why should we -be bullied and persecuted by these fat vulgar creatures, who are too -lazy to build nests for themselves? Up there at the farm-house they have -turned every one of us out of house and home, and I daresay that next -year we shall have to give up your snug house too. You could prevent it -if you liked, but you take no notice, and you think us always happy!” - -This was too much for poor Gwenny, and the tears began to fall. “No, -no,” she implored, “you _shall_ come here again, you _must_ come here -next year! I’ll tell father, and I know he’ll protect you. We’ll do all -we can if you’ll only promise to come again and have a better summer -next year—I’ll promise, if you’ll promise.” - -“Dear child, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” said the Martin. “It’s all -right now, so dry your eyes. We built another nest, and there it is over -your head. But it’s very late in the season, and if the cold sets in -early my little ones will have hard work to keep alive. In any case they -will be late in their journey south, and may meet with many trials and -hardships. But we must hope for the best, and if you’ll do your best to -keep your promise, I’ll do my best to keep mine. Now we are friends, and -must try not to forget each other. As I said, this is your home and mine -too. Often and often have I thought of it when far away in other lands. -This year I thought I should have hardly one pleasant recollection to -carry with me to the south, but now I shall have you to think of, and -your promise! And I will come back again in April, if all is well, and -shall hope to see you again, and your father and mother, and Aunt -Charlotte, and the sn——” - -“Gwenny, Gwenny!” said a well-known voice; “my dear child, fast asleep -out of doors, and evening coming on! It’s getting cold, and you’ll have -another chill, and drive us all to distraction. Run to the kitchen and -make the kettle boil, and you can warm yourself there before the fire.” - -“I’m not cold, Aunt Charlotte, and I’m not asleep,” said Gwenny, -stretching herself and getting up. “And, please, no boiling water -to-day! It’s fairyland in the garden to-day, and I really can’t have the -creatures killed, I really can’t!” - -“Can’t _what_!” cried Aunt Charlotte, lifting the pan in one hand and -the garden scissors in the other, in sheer amazement. “Well, what are we -coming to next, I wonder! Fairyland! Is the child bewitched?” - -But at that moment the Martin, who had left his perch, flew so close to -Aunt Charlotte’s ear that she turned round startled; and catching sight -at that moment of the carriage coming down the lane, hastened to open -the gate and welcome Gwenny’s father and mother. - -Gwenny looked up at the Martin’s nest and nodded her thanks; and then -she too ran to the gate, and seizing her father with both hands, danced -him down the garden, and told him she had made a promise, which he must -help her to keep. It was an hour before they came in again, looking as -if they had greatly enjoyed themselves. Aunt Charlotte had gone home -again, and the snails were left in peace. And as the Martin flew out of -his nest, and saw Gwenny and her father watching him, he knew that the -promise would be kept. - - - - - THE SANDPIPERS - - -Fresh and sweet from its many springs among the moors, where the Curlew -and the Golden Plover were nesting, the river came swiftly down under -the steep slopes of the hills; pausing here and there in a deep, dark -pool under the trees, into which the angler would wade silently to throw -his fly to the opposite bank, and then hurrying on for a while in a -rapid flow of constant cheerful talk. Then making for the other side of -its valley, it quieted down again in another deep pool of still water: -and, as the valley opened out, it too spread itself out over a pebbly -bed, welcoming here another stream that rushed down from the hills to -the west. - -Just here, where winter floods had left a wide space of stones and -rubbish between the water and the fields, and before the river gathered -itself together again for a swift rush into another pool, a pair of -Sandpipers had made their scanty nest and brought up their young in -safety for two years running. And here they were again, this last June, -safely returned from all the perils of travel, and glorying in a nestful -of four large and beautiful eggs of cream colour spotted with -reddish-brown blotches. The nest was out of reach even of the highest -flood, but within hearing of the river’s pleasant chat: for without that -in their ears the old birds could not have done their work, nor the -young ones have learnt the art of living. It was placed among the -bracken under an old thorn-bush, on the brink of a miniature little -precipice some four feet high, the work of some great flood that had -eaten out the shaly soil. - -The Sandpipers felt no fear, for there was no village at hand, and -hardly a boy to hunt for nests: the fishermen kept to the bank of the -river or waded in it, and only glanced for a moment in admiration at the -graceful figure of the male bird, as he stood bowing on a stone in -mid-stream, gently moving body and tail up and down in rhythmical -greeting to the water that swirled around him, and piping his musical -message to the wife sitting on her eggs near at hand. - - [Illustration: The Sandpipers.] - -One day when he was thus occupied, before making a fresh search for food -for her, an answering pipe from the nest called him to her side. He -guessed what it was, for hatching time was close at hand. When he -reached the nest, he found that inside the first egg that had been laid -a tiny echo of his own clear pipe was to be heard. Whether you or I -could have heard it I cannot say; but to the keen ears of the parents it -was audible enough, and made their hearts glow with the most delightful -visions of the future. And this hidden chick was wonderfully lively and -talkative, more so than any chick of theirs had been before he came out -into the world. It was quite unusual for a Sandpiper, and both the -parents looked a little serious. Nor was their anxiety allayed when the -egg-shell broke, and a little black eye peered out full of life and -mischief. - -Then out came a head and neck, and then a sticky morsel of a mottled -brown body, which almost at once got its legs out of the shell, and -began to struggle out of the nest. Was ever such a thing known before? -The old birds knew not whether to laugh or cry, but they hustled him -back into the nest in double quick time, and made him lie down till the -sun and air should have dried him up a little. Hard work the mother had -of it for the next day or two to keep that little adventurer under her -wing while the other eggs were being hatched. When he was hungry he -would lie quiet under her wing; but no sooner had his father come with -food for him than he would utter his little pipe and struggle up for -another peep into the wide world. Terrible stories his mother told him -of infant Sandpipers who had come to untimely ends from disobeying their -parents. - -One, she told him, had made off by himself one day while his mother was -attending to his brothers and sisters, and before he had gone many yards -along the pleasant green sward, a long red creature with horrible teeth -and a tuft to his tail, had come creeping, creeping, through the grass, -and suddenly jumped upon him. His mother heard his cries, and flew -piping loudly to the spot; but it was too late, and she had to watch the -cruel stoat bite off his head and suck his blood. Another made off -towards the water and was crushed under foot by an angler who was -backing from the river to land a fish, and never even knew what he had -done. Another fell into a deep hole at nightfall and could not get out -again, and was found starved and dead when morning came. - -After each of these stories the little bird shuddered and crouched under -his mother’s wing again: but the mastering desire to see the world -always came back upon him, and great was the relief of the parents when -the other eggs were hatched and education could begin. Then the nest was -soon abandoned, and the little creatures trotted about with their -mother; for they are not like the ugly nestlings that lie helpless and -featherless in their nests for days and days, as human babies lie in -their cradles for months. Life, and manners, and strength, and beauty, -come almost at once on the young Sandpipers, as on the young pheasants -and partridges and chickens. And their education is very easy, for they -seem to know a good deal already about the things of the world into -which they have only just begun to peep. - -So one lovely day in June the whole family set out for the bank of the -river, the young ones eager to learn, and the old ones only too anxious -to teach. For what they had to learn was not merely how to find their -food—that they would soon enough discover for themselves—but what to do -in case of danger; and as they tripped along, the mother in her delicate -grey dress, white below with darker throat and breast, and the young -ones in mottled grey and brown, so that you could hardly tell them among -the pebbles and their shadows, she gave them their first lesson, while -the father flew down the river and back again to exercise his wings and -to look for food. - -They had not gone far when suddenly their mother cried “wheet whee-t” -with an accent they already knew, and flew away from them, calling -loudly as she went. The little ones, unable to fly, did the first thing -that came into their heads (and it seemed to come into all their little -heads at one moment), and dropped down among the pebbles motionless, -with eyes shut. There they stayed some time, and the eldest, getting -tired of this, at last opened a bright black eye, and turned it upwards. -There, far up above them, hovering with poised wings, was a Kestrel -clearly marked against the sky. The little black eye closed again, and -there they waited without moving till at last the mother returned. - -“Well done, my dears,” she said, “that was a good beginning; there was -no great danger, for the Kestrel would hardly be looking for you among -these stones; but do that as you did it then whenever I make that call -to you; drop exactly where you may be, and shut your eyes. All together -and side by side, if you are together when I call; and when I fly round -above you, still calling, creep into any holes you see, or under a stone -or a tuft of grass, and wait there till I come again. Now the hawk has -gone, so we may go on to the water.” - -There was no need to bid them go; had not the noise of that water been -in their ears ever since they broke their shells, telling them all the -secrets of their life? And had not their mother told them wonderful -things of it—of the food about its banks, and on its stones, and in its -shallows, the cool refreshing air that breathes from it, the lights and -shadows that play on it, and above all, the endless music without which -a Sandpiper could hardly live? - -“You cannot fly yet,” she told them, “but we will go to the water’s -edge, and then your father and I will show you how to enjoy it.” And as -just then it came in sight, she opened her wings and flew out on it -piping, while the little ones opened their wings too in vain, and -hurried on to the edge, and watched her as she alit on a stone, and -bowed gracefully to the dancing water. And they too bowed their tiny -bodies and felt the deliciousness of living. - -All that livelong day, a day no one of them ever forgot, they spent by -the river side, dabbling their little dark-green legs in the water when -an eddy sent it gently up to them, learning to find the sweetest and -wholesomest insects lurking among the pebbles, with now and then a -little worm, or caterpillar that had fallen from the bushes above: -watching the trout turning up their golden sides in the dark water of -the pool as they rose to the flies: practising their voices in a feeble -piping, and always moving bodies and tails as they saw their parents do -it. - -They had very few alarms, but quite enough for practice in hiding. Once -as they were following their mother by the very edge of the deep pool, a -huge silver creature, flashing in the sunlight, leapt clean out of the -water and fell in again with a splash. The little ones all dropped to -ground and lay silent, but their mother never uttered a note, and they -soon got up again. She told them it was only a salmon, who could not -possibly do them any harm, and would not if he could; that she and their -father were good friends with the salmon, and often sat on the big -boulder under which he loved to lie; but that it was only a bowing -acquaintance, because the salmon could not talk their language. - -Once or twice an angler came along slowly, and then they had to drop -while their parents flew up and down stream loudly calling; but there -was always plenty of time for them to get into holes and corners safely, -and the anglers passed on again without noticing either young or old. At -last the light began to fade, the young ones were tired and sleepy—even -the eldest, who had distinguished himself by trying to fly, and actually -getting out on a stone half a foot from the shore, where he stood bowing -with great pride till his father came and shoved him into the water to -scramble ashore in a fright—and so this delightful day came to an end, -and they all went back to the shelter where the nest was placed. - -The next day was a Sunday, and they spent half the morning in great -happiness without seeing a single fisherman. But after all they were to -learn this day that life has its troubles: for a huge heron took it into -his head to fish while human beings could not, and alighted at the -water’s edge within a dozen yards of the spot where they were already -motionless in obedience to their mother’s signal pipe. And there the -great bird kept standing on one leg for a full hour, and would not move -a muscle, except when now and then he darted his long bill into the -water, and then heaved it up into the air with a trout struggling at the -end of it. At last, as his back was turned to them, their parents -whistled them away, and they crept back to the nest in deep -disappointment. - -“Why should we be afraid of that creature?” asked the eldest: “he eats -fish, not Sandpipers.” - -“Let him see you, my child,” said the father, “and he’ll snap you up -with that long bill of his as quick as a trout can snap a fly. There was -a wild duck up the stream which had a nice little family just learning -to swim, when down came a heron before they could hide themselves—and -indeed they can’t hide themselves so well, poor things, as you have -learnt to—and he just took those ducklings one after another, and made -such a good meal of them that he went away without stopping to fish, and -the poor parents had to make another nest and go through their work all -over again.” - -So they had to stop at home while the heron was there, and it was past -midday when at last he flew away. Then out they came again, and were -making their way with glad hearts down to the water, when the warning -“wheet-whee-et” was heard very loud indeed. Down they all went, in a row -together, on the bit of shaly bank where they were running at the -moment. And now they knew that there was indeed danger; for the old -birds flew piping wildly up and down as they had never yet heard them, -and close by they could hear some great creature trampling about all -around, and searching every bit of stone and grass and bush. Once they -felt its shadow come over them, and could hear it breathing within a -yard or two of them. Then it went away, letting the sun come on them -again; but their parents kept up their wild piping, and they knew that -the danger was still there. Then more searching and shuffling and -routing, and once more the shadow came upon them, and the footsteps -crunched the shale on which they lay. And now, as ill-luck would have -it, the eldest opened one black eye and looked out of the corner of it. -In another moment he felt himself seized in a mighty grasp, but not -ungently, and lifted high into the air, while in wildest consternation -the old birds flew close around him. - -It was a terrible moment, but the little bird was plucky, and something -in the way he was held told him that he was not going to be eaten. He -opened both eyes, and saw one of those human anglers, without his rod. -The great animal handled him gently, stroked his plumage, and looked him -all over, and then put him softly down beside his brothers and sisters, -who were still motionless but palpitating. He stood there for a minute -or two gazing at them, no doubt in wonder and admiration, and then -hastened away towards the farmhouse under the hill. The little birds -began to move again. - -“Whisht, wheet, wheet,” cried their mother; “it’s not all over yet. He -wouldn’t have gone so fast if he hadn’t meant to come back again. Get -into holes and corners, quick!” - -“I don’t mind if he does come back again,” said the eldest. “He didn’t -hurt me. His great claw was warm and comfortable, and he stroked my down -the right way. I looked up and saw his great eye: it was like the -salmon’s, only pleasanter.” - -“Holes and corners, quick, quick, quick, wheet, whee-et,” cried both -parents again in dismay at the folly of their eldest; and all four crept -up the shaly ledge and hid themselves under tufts of grass and bits of -stick. It was none too soon, for the footsteps were now heard again, and -the creaking of a gate as the angler got over it. And this time he was -not alone; another human creature was with him. They came up to the -spot, glanced at the frightened parents with admiration, and then looked -for the young ones. - -“Well, this is provoking,” said the one who had been there before; “if -they haven’t gone and hid themselves away! Here have I dragged you from -your comfortable pipe for nothing at all! They’re not far off, though, -or the old birds would not be here.” And stooping down, he examined the -ground carefully. - -At that moment that perverse eldest chick, conscious that his right leg -was sticking out into the sunshine, instinctively drew it in under him, -and doing so, he again caught the angler’s eye. And he had to be pulled -out of his hiding-place with rather more force than he liked. The angler -put him into his friend’s hands, and for a moment the audacious chick -was frightened. But he was soon down in his cover again safe and sound; -and then the rest were found and admired, and the big creatures turned -to go away. - -“Wait a minute, though,” said the angler, pausing; “let us sit down a -bit and see what they will do. My dears,” (addressing the old birds,) -“you must put up with a little more anxiety, and then you shall be happy -for ever afterwards, if you can.” So the two human beings sat down on -the stones and watched, while the old birds flew round piping, perching -here and there and bowing, and giving them such pictures of grace and -beauty as they were not likely soon to see again. And neither of them -can ever forget the charm of that quarter of an hour; the music of the -river, the fragrance of the scented fern, the outlines of the rocky -hills against the sky, and the gentle grace of the pair of little grey -fairies that flew around them piping, less timid now that they saw no -chance of harm to their brood. - -At last, urged by some signal from the parents, the little birds all -came out of their holes and corners, and trotted along one after -another, the eldest leading, right under the very eyes of the two men. -Piping faintly as if to call attention to their beauty, and moving tails -and bodies like their parents, they passed along the shaly bank till -they reached the roots of an old battered thorn-bush, where they -disappeared into a hole and were seen no more by the human eyes. - -After this adventure the old Sandpipers had a long talk. All had gone -well so far; but it would not do to run these risks any longer if they -could help it. And not without some misgivings as to the difficulty of -the task, they determined to get the young ones across the river without -delay; for on the further side some jutting rocks made it impossible for -anglers to pass, and they were seldom seen there. - -So next morning at break of day the little family was called down to the -water’s edge, and told that they must do exactly as they were bid, and -not be frightened. The father crouched down among the pebbles, and the -mother bade the eldest chick mount upon his back, and stick his three -long toes, whose claws were already beginning to get strong, fast into -the soft and yielding plumage. This he did in a moment, and the next one -found him shooting across the narrow head of the pool, with its rush of -tumbled water, and landed safely at the foot of the rock. It was a -delightful sensation, and as the father opened his wings and sped back -again to fetch the others, the little one opened his too, and felt -almost as if he could do it by himself. Then one after another the three -younger ones were carried over, piping faintly from fear, and clinging -for their lives to their perilous perch. And lastly came the mother with -kind words of praise for all, and they set out to enjoy themselves for a -whole long day of peace and plenty. - -And indeed in peace and plenty they passed many days without further -troubles or adventures, while the little wings began to put out their -quill feathers, and the little voices to gain in strength and tone. And -all this time the sun shone and the river sang a quiet song, as it -slowly sank for want of rain, leaving new and varied margins of sand and -pebbles for the Sandpipers to search for food. - -But one morning the sun did not greet them as usual with his warmth; the -sky was grey and streaky, and seemed to hang lower over the hills than -when it was all clear blue. At first all was still and silent, but -presently a gust of wind came up the river, and then another as suddenly -came down, worrying the early angler on the opposite bank, and teasing -the little Sandpipers as it blew their soft plumage the wrong way. And -then a large white bird sailed gracefully up the valley, balancing -itself against the wind, to the great admiration of the chicks. - -“That is a Seagull, children,” said the mother, “and you will see plenty -of them when you cross the sea to the warm southern lands for the -winter. And he is telling us that there is a storm coming—listen!” - -And they listened to the melancholy wail of the great bird, but felt no -fear of him, for the parent birds showed none. But the old ones knew the -meaning of that sad music, and thought of the weary waste of sea over -which they would soon have to pass, and the sudden squall at night, and -the loss of old friends and comrades. - -Before the morning was out the storm began in earnest, and the chicks, -after enjoying the first soothing rain for a while, were hustled under -the shelter of the big rock, and crept into a hole to leeward. The -eldest of course was the last to go in; for as a sudden strong gust -swept past him, he opened his growing wings, and to his great delight -found himself carried off his legs and almost flying. But the watchful -father had seen him, and in a moment was ahead of him, just as he was -being carried out upon the stream. - -“Back into the hole!” he called with real anger; “look at the river! -Even if you could use those wings as you think you can, it would be -unsafe for you in wind and flood.” And the little bird looked at the -water, and saw that it was coming much faster than he had ever seen it, -and its voice was deeper and hoarser; for far away up on the hills the -great storm was already travelling round and round, and the growling of -its thunder mixed ominously with the deepening tone of the river. So he -crept into the hole and lay down by the others; and they all listened to -the fearful splashing of the rain, and the scream of the tearing gusts, -and the sighing of the trees on the hill above them. From time to time -the old birds went out to get food for themselves and the young, and -perhaps, too, to enjoy the freshening moisture, and the towzling worry -of the wind, as old birds can and may after a long calm and drought. It -might have been wiser if one of them had stayed at home; but the young -ones were quiet and overawed, and, what was more, they were hungry. - -During one of these absences the violence of the storm seemed to abate a -little, and the flashes of sudden fire which had been making them shut -their eyes came now but very faintly. It was getting towards evening, -and the restless eldest chick wanted badly to be out again, and all the -more because he heard the roar of the river below him, and could hear -its waves leaping and splashing on the rocky promontory in the side of -which they were sheltered. So, without saying a word to the rest, he got -up and went out of the hole on to a little ledge of rock which overhung -the water. - -What a sight it was! Dark-brown water rushing madly down into the pool, -carrying with it logs and branches of trees with all the glory of fresh -foliage wasted, and then the pool itself no longer golden-brown and -clear, but black as ink, and flecked with creamy patches of surf. But -the wind seemed lighter, and there were the Sandmartins, who had their -nests in the cliff, flitting up and down just over the water as if -nothing had happened, and there too was the friendly Grey Wagtail, with -his long tail going up and down just the same as ever. Feeling that he -might safely see more still, that adventurous young bird trotted round -the corner of the ledge. - -In a twinkling the wind had carried him off his feet, and he was -flying—really flying for the first time in his life. He needed no -teaching in the art—whether he would or no, fly he must. Those growing -quills were big enough to carry him along with the wind, and he had only -to guide himself as well as he could. It was glorious, and he felt no -terror, for there was no time to feel it. Over the black pool, past the -foot-bridge, over which he shot like one of the Sandmartins which he had -so often watched with envy and admiration; over the ford, now -impassable, and then, as the river made a sharp curve, over field and -hedge to the roaring flood again where it turned once more in the wind’s -direction. But those weak wings were getting tired, and piping loudly -for help, he looked for some safe place to drop upon. - -Suddenly the wind fell for an instant, and a puff from the opposite -direction brought him to. He was over the very middle of the river: a -great boulder, water-splashed, lay just under him. How he managed it I -cannot tell, but he dropped exhausted on the rough damp surface of the -stone, and felt himself safe at last. - -Safe! for the moment perhaps, but what was to become of him? The water -was surging and roaring against his boulder: was it going to rise upon -him and carry him away helpless? The wind was so strong that to fly up -stream was hopeless, and as he sat there exhausted, he felt that he -could not even use his wings to get to shore. Uttering from time to time -a plaintive “wheet,” he clung to the stone with all his might, balancing -himself with body and tail against the gusts: not reflecting, nor -despairing, but just wondering what would happen. - -The Sandmartins shot by overhead, but not one of them seemed to notice -him, or to be the least inclined to perch on his stone. A Dipper came -slowly up stream against the wind, perched on another stone not far off, -bowed repeatedly and went on again. A Grey Wagtail coming down stream in -graceful waves of flight, poised himself over the stone, and for a -moment actually alighted on it: then, seeing his mate pass down after -him, opened his wings and was gone. The Sandpiper opened his too, but -his heart sank within him, and he clung still more passionately to his -stone. - -Two figures came rapidly up the river-bank,—two drenched human -creatures, fighting against the wind, but enjoying it. Just as they came -level with the boulder they caught the sound of a faint “whee-et.” The -angler turned sharp round, and after some search with a fieldglass, -discovered the little brown object on the boulder. - -“It’s a young one,” he said to his companion: “it’s a veritable infant! -And see, it can’t fly,—it’s clutching at the stone like grim death! By -all that’s feathered, it must be one of our young friends blown away, -for there’s no brood between them and this, and the wind’s been down -stream pretty well all day. I say, we must have him off that somehow.” -They looked at each other and at the swollen river. - -“I’ll go,” said the friend the next moment: “I’m taller and stronger. I -should rather like a towzle, but it won’t be easy. I can’t try it from -above, or I shall come with a bang on the stone: but there are the -stepping-stones just below. I can get out there if I can see them -through the flood, and then I sha’n’t have above twenty yards to swim.” - -While he said this he was pulling off his clothes, and then he leapt -exuberantly down the bank to the water. Suddenly he stopped. “How am I -to bring him back?” he shouted. - -The angler was puzzled. To swim in a current like that with a bird in -your hand was impossible without crushing it; and a naked man has no -pockets. But necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as thought he -whipped a casting-line off his hat, taking two flies off it and sticking -them into his coat: this he wound round his friend’s wrist, and making -the end fast, told him to tie it round the bird’s leg if he reached him. - -Carefully into the water his companion descended, feeling with his hand -for the first stepping-stone; then balancing himself between this and -the rushing water, he went on to the second. It was teasing work, but he -managed the third, the fourth, the fifth, and then it was high time to -swim, for the water was up to his middle and higher, and swayed him to -and fro in a way that made the angler watch him eagerly. Then came a -splash and a plunge, and his head was seen working up against the -current, zigzagging to diminish the force of it. Twenty yards is a long -way in such a stream, but if he could once get under the lee of that -great boulder he would do. And in something like five minutes he was -under the stone, and then on it. - -A strange sight it was to see a naked human creature sitting -cross-legged on a boulder in such a flood! But he has caught the truant, -and now he is tying that handy gut line round his leg. And then, -standing up on the boulder, he flings the bird shorewards, one end of -the line being still fast round his wrist. - -The bird sank on the water, and the man plunged in; fighting with the -current that was sweeping him down, he made for the shore, and reached -it breathless far below the stepping-stones, where the angler pulled him -out of the water as joyfully as he ever pulled a trout. Then they wound -up the line, and sure enough there came ashore at the end of it, a -draggled, exhausted, and almost lifeless Sandpiper. - -To be carried in a human pocket is not pleasant for a bird, but our -young scapegrace was too far gone to trouble himself about it. At his -birthplace he was taken out, and there the angler stayed with him, -sending his companion home to change. It was getting dark fast, but the -old birds were still flying wildly up and down the river, piping loudly -in a forlorn hope of finding their young one ere night should wrap the -river in darkness. The angler put him down near the water and waited at -a little distance. - -Ere long his wits came back to him, as the well-known notes told him -that he was indeed again near home. And weak as he was, he found -strength to send out over the river his own little feeble pipe. In a -moment his mother was by his side. - -The angler watched them for a moment, and then left them to tell his -friend of the good result of a kindly deed. The next day they had to -leave the river and all its delights, and to return to work and duty: -but they cannot forget the Sandpipers, nor, when the birds return after -their winter sojourn in the far south, will they fail to look out -without misgiving for their human friends. - - - - - THE LAST OF THE BARONS - - - I - -The Baron sat perched on an old gnarled oak, gazing across the deep -ravine below him, where the noisy river leapt from pool to pool. He had -been far over the moorland that day with his wife, searching for a safe -nesting-place, and had given up the search in despair and returned to -his old home; but the Baroness had dallied and been left behind, and now -he was expecting her as the sun began to sink in the west. He sat there -silent and sad, the last, so he thought, of an ancient race; his head, -almost white with age, slightly bent downwards, and his long forked tail -sadly weather-worn and drooping. - -It was a fresh evening in early April, and one sweet shower after -another had begun to entice the ferns to uncurl themselves, and the oaks -on the rocky slopes of the Kite’s fortress to put on their first ruddy -hue; and now the showers had passed, and the setting sun was shining -full in the old Baron’s face as he sat on his bough above the -precipices. But neither sun nor shower could rouse him from his reverie. - -Suddenly he raised his head and uttered a cry; and at the same moment -you might have seen the Baroness gliding slowly over the opposite hill. -As she neared him, she stopped in mid-air over the roaring torrent and -answered his call; and then he slipped off his bough, like a ship -launched into the yielding water, and silently joined her. They flew -round and round each other once or twice, and the fisherman on the rocks -below looked up and gazed at them with admiration. You could tell them -apart without difficulty: the Baroness was the larger bird of the two, -and her feathers were in better order—she was still young, not more than -twenty or so; while the old Baron looked worn and battered, though the -red of his back was brighter, and his fine tail was more deeply forked -than that of his lady. - - [Illustration: The Last of the Barons.] - -They began to circle round each other slowly, hardly moving their wings, -but steering with their long tails, and soon they were far above the -isolated hill which was known as the Kite’s fortress. Sweeping in great -circles higher and higher, they seemed to be ascending for ever into the -blue, never to come down again; now and again a white cloud would pass -above them, against which their forms looked black and clear-cut, and -then it would drift away, and you had to look keenly to see them still -sailing slowly round and round, tiny specks in the pure ether. - -All this time they were talking about a very important matter; not -chattering and fussing, as common birds do—starlings, sparrows, and such -low-born creatures—but saying a few words gravely as they neared each -other in their great circles of flight, and thinking of the next -question or answer as they parted for another sweep. - -“Well,” said the Baron after a while, “have you found a better place -than this, where our persecutors cannot reach us without risking their -miserable lives?” - -“No,” she answered, “none as good as this, and I have been far over the -moors toward the setting sun. There are the crags looking down on the -flat country and the sea, but they are not so well wooded, and they are -too near that seaside town where we have enemies. I have looked at many -other places too, but there were none to please me much.” - -“I thought so,” said the Baron. “I have known all this country, every -tree and every crag, since I first learnt to fly on the hill down below; -and there is no such place as this. I and my old Baroness brought up -many broods here, and now that I have a young wife again, she wanders -about and wants to find a new home.” - -“But men found you out and shot her here,” said the Baroness. The Baron -sailed away from her in a wide sweep, but soon returned and spoke -gravely again. - -“Don’t talk of that, dear,” he said. “I have found another wife, and -that was more than I could expect. I searched far and wide, over land -and over sea; I reached the ugly country to the south, where the smoke -made my eyes water, and the fields were no longer green, and no mice or -beetles were to be found; I turned again for fresher air, and came to a -wild and treeless sea-coast, where the Gulls mobbed me and a gun was -fired at me: but not one of our kind did I see—only the stupid Buzzards, -and a Kestrel or two. I gave it up, and thought I was indeed the last of -the Barons.” - -“And then you found me after all near your old home,” said the Baroness, -tenderly. “And we have brought up two broods, though what has become of -them I know not. And last year we should have done the same, but for the -creatures that came up the valley when we were just ready to hatch.” - -“Ah,” sighed the Baron, and swept away again in a grand ascending curve. - -“Why should they wish to ruin us?” asked she, as with motionless wings -he came near her again. “Do we do them any harm, like the Ravens who dig -out the young lambs’ eyes, or the vulgar Jays and Magpies—poachers and -egg-stealers?” - -“Do them harm?” said the Baron, with anger in his voice. “Look at the -white farmhouse down yonder! They are good people that live there, and -know us well. For generations my family has been on friendly terms with -them; they know we do not steal, or pick the lambs’ eyes, and in hard -winters they do not grudge us a duckling or two, for if we were to die -out it would be bad luck for them. We have our own estate, which seldom -fails us; we have the wide moorland and are content with it, and can -live on it without meddling with old friends’ property, like the -Buzzards and the Ravens.” - -“Then why are those other men so mad against us?” asked the Baroness -again. “Is not this our own fortress, our old estate, entailed from -father to son as you have so often told me, and called by our name? Why -do they come and trouble us?” - -“Perhaps the old Raven was right,” said the Baron, after a wide sweep; -“he told me he had spent years among them as a captive, and had learnt -their language and their notions. A great change, he told me, had come -over them in the course of his long life. They are now too much -interested in us, he said. Once they did not care at all about us, and -then we flourished. Now they are poking and prying everywhere; they run -about on all sorts of machines, find us out, and won’t let us alone. -They go to the ends of the earth to worry us birds, wear our feathers in -their hats, and put our skins and our eggs in their museums. It isn’t -that they hate us, he said: it’s much worse than that. No, they pretend -to love us, and they show their love by coming and spying after us and -watching all we do. They are so fond of us that they can’t keep their -hands off us; and the harder it is to find us the more trouble they -take. Yes, I believe that old Raven was right! Man takes such an -interest in us that there will be none of us left soon!” - -“Let us try once more,” said the Baroness, with all the hopefulness of -youth. “Come down and find a tree on the steepest face of the old -fortress. It is quite time we were beginning; the oaks are reddening. -Let us do what we can, and hope they will not take an interest in us -this year.” - -The Baron silently assented, glad that the ancestral rock should not be -deserted; and descending rapidly, still in circles, they reached it as -the sun set. Next morning at daybreak the tree was chosen—an oak, high -up on a rocky shelf, looking to the west across the ravine and the -tumbling river. And before the sun was high the foundation of the nest -was laid. - - - II - -In a close little room, in a narrow little street of a large town, poor -Mrs. Lee, pale and worn, and rather acid, was scraping bread and butter -for her children’s breakfast, and doling out cups of watery tea. Five -young ones, of various ages, hungry and untidy, sat expectant round the -table. Two places were still vacant; one, the father’s, as you might -guess from the two letters awaiting him there, and the other for the -eldest son, who helped his father in the workshop. In that shop father -and son had been already hard at work for a couple of hours, stuffing an -otter which had been brought in the day before. - -Now the two came in; the father keen-eyed but sad-looking, the son a big -bold lad, the hope of an unlucky family. - -Mr. Lee sat down and opened one of the two letters. As he read it, his -face grew dark, and his wife watched him anxiously. - -“Not an order, Stephen?” she asked. - -“O yes, it’s an order,” he said bitterly; “a very nice order. It’s an -order to pay up the rent, or quit these premises. Twenty pounds, and -arrears five pounds ten. Where am I to get twenty-five pounds just now, -I should like to know? Look at the jobs we’ve had all this last winter, -barely enough to feed these little beggars, let alone their clothes. A -few miserable kingfishers, and a white stoat or two, and such-like -vermin. This otter was a godsend, and I shall only get a guinea for it. -There’s Lord —— gone round the world, and no orders from him: and young -Rathbone killed by the Boers, and no one with any money to spare, or -this fellow wouldn’t be pressing so. I tell you, Susan, I don’t know how -to pay it.” - -“Well, don’t pay it,” she said; “it’s not worth paying for. Take a house -in Foregate Street, where people can see you, if you want to get on; -I’ve told you so again and again. You’ll never get new customers in this -slum.” - -“I like to pay my debts,” he answered slowly, “and the workshop here is -good. But there’s one advantage in Foregate Street, Susan: it’s nearer -the workhouse!” - -“Don’t talk nonsense before the children, Stephen. What’s the other -letter?” - -“I don’t know the hand,” he said, fingering it as he drank his tea. “I -daresay it’s an offer to make me chief stuffer to the British Museum, -or—Hallo!” - -All eyes were fixed upon him; his teacup descended with a rattle into -the saucer. The mother got up and came to look over his shoulder. And -this was the letter:— - - - London, _April 15, 1901_. - -Sir,—I learn from my friend Mr. Scotton of Eaton Place that you supplied -him a year ago with a full clutch of British Kite’s eggs. I hope you -will be able to do the same for me this year, as you know where they are -to be obtained. I have in my cabinet full clutches of nearly all the -British-breeding birds of prey, but the Kite is now so rare that I had -despaired of adding its eggs to my collection till my friend gave me -your address. I am ready to offer you twenty-five guineas for a clutch -properly authenticated as British, and if you should be able to get me a -bird as well I will give you ten guineas more, and employ you to set it -up. I trust this offer will be satisfactory to you. - - Yours truly, - - William Gatherum. - - -“Satisfactory! I should think so,” cried the eldest son. - -“Satisfactory! Why, you’ll get fifty guineas, if you ask for them, -Stephen,” said the excited mother. - -“Well, we could pay the rent anyhow with what he offers,” said Stephen, -as he put the letter in his pocket. “But to tell you the truth, Susan, I -don’t much like the job. I’ve a tender feeling about those eggs.” - -“Don’t like the job!” she cried, looking at him almost fiercely. “Why, -what’s the matter with it? Look at these children—haven’t they as much -right to be fed as young Kites?” And Stephen, looking on his young -birds, felt a twinge at his heart, while the fledglings opened all their -young mouths at once in a chorus of protest. - -“It’s a bad trade,” he said at last: “I wish I had never taken it up. So -long as I collected in foreign parts, it was all very well, and I was -young and independent; but now I’m getting old, Susan, and the -travellers won’t take me with them; and here in England there’s no price -for anything but what’s a rarity—and rarities do me as much harm as -good. I tell you, Susan, those Kite’s eggs last year were the very -mischief: it got about that I had taken them, and my name’s in bad odour -with the best naturalists. It’s those private collectors, with their -clutches and their British-killed specimens that I have to live by now; -and a precious set they are! What’ll they do with all their cabinets, I -should like to know! Sell them to be scattered all over the place! Stow -them away in a garret and forget all about them! Die some day, and have -the public-house people picking ’em up cheap at your sale, to put in a -glass case in the parlour! It’s infernal; I don’t like this job, Susan.” - -Susan’s tears were beginning to run down. The sun had shone upon her for -a moment, and then suddenly gone behind a cloud again. Two or three of -the children, seeing their mother troubled, began to roar. Poor Stephen -swallowed his tea, and fled from the confusion to his workshop, followed -by his son. - -“We must do this job, dad,” said Tom, when they were alone. - -“I tell you I don’t like it, my lad,” said his father: “’tis bad for us -in the long run, and bad for the Kites too. Your mother will say I am a -fool; but there are not half a dozen pairs left in the kingdom, and I -can’t go and persecute them for these private collectors. There’s a lot -of nonsense talked about these things—extinction of birds, and all the -rest of it: but the Kites are going sure enough, and I won’t have a hand -in it.” - -“We must do this job all the same, this year,” said Tom, “for the sake -of the rent, and then let ’em alone. We must pay that rent, Kites or no -Kites: and see what’s to be done next.” - -“Well then,” said his father, “you must go without me. You know where to -go. There’s no County Council order there against taking the eggs, but -all the same, I hope you won’t find ’em. Don’t take a gun: I won’t have -the old birds killed, for any collection, public or private.” - -Great was the rejoicing in the family when Tom was found to be packing -up. His mother gave him a few shillings from her scanty stock, and urged -him to bring a bird as well as the eggs; but this Tom steadily refused -to do. “Dad’s tender about it,” he said. “We only want the rent, and -when that’s paid, I shall look out for another start in life.” - -Stephen Lee sat down and wrote this letter to Mr. Gatherum, which next -morning greatly astonished that young gentleman in London. - - -Sir,—It is true that I robbed a Kite’s nest a year ago for your friend -Mr. Scotton, and I am sorry I did it, for it was a mean and cruel act in -this country, where Kites are almost extinct. Please excuse my freedom. - -As I have a wife and six children to feed, and my rent to pay after a -bad season, I must accept your offer, and do another mean and cruel act. -My wife says that my children have as much right to live as the Kites, -and that as I was brought up to this business I must take it as it -comes. Women are mostly right when there are children to be thought of, -and I must pay my rent. I am sending my son, as I don’t relish the job -myself. - - Your humble servant, - - Stephen Lee. - - -By return of post there came a letter for Stephen, containing a cheque -for twenty-five guineas, which he handed to his astonished wife. The -letter ran thus: - - -Dear Sir,—I send you a cheque for present needs. Your feelings do you -credit. I showed your letter to a famous ornithologist, who said that -you are a fine fellow, and I am a pestilent one. All I ask of you in -return for the cheque is to save the eggs before your son takes them. I -am going to Spain, and will send you my skins to set up, and mention -your name to others. Let me know as soon as you can whether the eggs are -saved. - - Yours faithfully, - - W. Gatherum. - - -Mr. Lee rushed to the nearest telegraph office, and wired after his son, -“Hold your hand till I come.” Then he put up travelling bag, and went -off by the next train for Wales. - - - III - -April was drawing to an end, and the oaks on the Kite’s fortress were -growing ever ruddier; on the steep mossy slopes among the rocks the -ferns were really beginning to uncurl. All was very quiet and peaceful; -over the opposite hill a pair of Buzzards soared about unmolested; the -Woodwrens had arrived, to spend the summer among the oaks; the -Sandpipers were whistling along the river below, and the trout were -lazily rising in the pools among the rocks. - -The Baroness was happy and cheerful; the Baron, looking back on the -experience of half a century, knew well that a tranquil April does not -always lead to a happy May; but he said nothing of his doubts, and -encouraged his wife. She had presented him, one after another, with -three beautiful eggs; they lay in the nest, which had been built of -sticks, and ornamented, according to the ancestral custom of the race, -with such pleasing odds and ends as could be found at hand, to occupy -her attention during the weary days of her sitting. A long shred of -sheep’s wool: a fragment of an old bonnet that had been a scarecrow, -blown by winter winds from a cottage garden: a damp piece of the _Times_ -newspaper, in which a fisherman’s lunch had been wrapped, containing an -account of Lord Roberts’ entry into Bloemfontein; such were the innocent -spoils collected to amuse the Baroness. She had been greatly tempted by -some small linen put out to dry at the farmhouse; but the Baron kept her -away from these treasures, as a needy Peer might keep his Peeress from -the jewellers’ shops. Such objects, he told her, were dangerous, and -might betray them. - -So she sat on her beautiful eggs, greenish white with dark red blotches, -and contented herself with the _Times_ and the scrap of old bonnet, -while the Baron sailed slowly round the hill looking out for enemies, or -made longer excursions, if all seemed safe, in search of food for his -wife. And so far he had seen nothing to alarm him. A fisherman would -come up the river now and again, and look up at him with interest as he -rested to eat his lunch; but the Baron knew well that fishermen are too -busy to be dangerous. Nor was there any other human being to be seen but -a farmer on his rough-coated pony, or the parson striding over the hills -to visit a distant parishioner. - -But one morning in May—a lovely morning, too fresh and clear to last—as -the Baron was gliding round and round far above the hill, his keen eye -caught a slight movement among the rocky ridges on its summit. Poised on -even wings, his tail deftly balancing him against the breeze, he -watched: and soon he knew that he was being watched himself. For a human -figure was there, lying on its back in a cleft of the grey rock, and -looking up at him with a field-glass. For a long time they watched each -other, motionless and in silence; but at last the human creature seemed -to weary of it, and rose. A cry escaped the Baron—he could not help it; -and from over the craggy side of the fortress came the answering cry of -the Baroness as she sat on her treasures. - -“Fool that I am,” thought the Baron, “I have betrayed her, and she has -betrayed the nest.” One hope remained; the nest was in a stronger -position than last year. On the top of the cliff towards the river no -trees could grow; but some fifty feet below there was a mossy ledge on -which three oaks had rooted themselves. Then came another ledge with -more trees: then a steep space covered with large boulders: and then -another cliff falling sheer into a deep pool of the river. In the middle -oak on the highest ledge the nest had been placed; once on the ledge, a -clever climber might mount the tree, but to get there was no easy -matter, and a fall from the tree or ledge would be almost certain death. - -The human creature began to move along the top of the fortress towards -its rocky face above the river; he had heard the Baroness’s answering -cry, and had attained his object. He knew now where the nest must be; -and peeping over the edge, he soon made it out in the still almost -leafless oak. He surveyed his ground carefully and then vanished for an -hour or two; and the Baron, who had not yet told his wife, felt a faint -gleam of hope, which increased as the rain began to sweep down the -lonely valley, hiding the fortress in swirls of mist, while now and then -a cold blast rushed up from below, shaking the oak to its very roots. - -But late in the afternoon, wrapped in a macintosh, and carrying a bag, -the minister of evil again appeared upon the hill-top; and now the Baron -gave full vent to his anger and distress, calling loudly to his wife. -She left the nest and joined him, wailing bitterly as she saw that -ominous black figure standing but fifty feet above her treasures. Round -and round they flew, anger and despair in their hearts. - -Tom Lee had not been overtaken by his father’s telegram; it was he who -stood there, half sorry for the Kites, but with a youngster’s love of -climbing, and a keen desire to see the eggs. Now he fixed a short iron -bar into the ground at the top of the cliff, and to this he fastened a -stout rope. There would be just light enough to do the deed that day, -and to-morrow he would travel home with the rent of one house and the -spoil of another in his bag. Taking off his waterproof, and slinging on -his shoulder a small basket full of cotton-wool, he seized the rope and -let himself down it. As he hung in mid-air he thought he heard a call on -the hill, and arriving safely on the ledge, he stood for a moment and -listened. There it was again, not the Baron’s angry cry, nor yet the -Baroness’s wail. But there was no time to lose, and with firm grasp of -hand and foot he began to climb the oak. The boughs were sound and -strong; all that was needed was a nimble frame and a steady head, and of -both these Tom had been possessed from his earliest boyhood. In three -minutes the eggs were within his reach, and in another they were within -the basket, safely covered up in the cotton-wool. At this moment the -call caught his ear again, and ere he descended he paused to listen once -more, and began to fear that some other human being was on that lonely -hill. The Baron and the Baroness, who had been flying about him, though -not daring to attack so formidable a foe, flew further and further away -with heart-piercing cries as Tom descended the tree safely, gripped his -rope again, and swarmed up it to the cliff-top. - -No sooner was he safe and sound on terra firma, than a figure emerged -from the drizzling mist and advanced towards him. Tom’s heart quaked -within him; was it the angry spirit of the mountains, or a constable -come to carry out a new County Council order? But in another moment he -saw that it was his father, wet through and with an excited glow in his -eyes. - -“Why, dad,” he said, “I thought you were the Old Man of the Mountain. -Was it you that called? Well, I’m blest,—you’ll catch your death of -cold!” - -“I’ve been calling ever so long,” said his father, out of breath. “I -couldn’t have found you but for the Kites. Didn’t you get my telegram?” - -“Not I,” answered Tom; “we don’t get telegrams up to time in these -parts. But here’s the rent all safe, dad.” And he opened the basket. - -The father looked with eager eyes at those beautiful eggs, and handled -one gently with the deepest professional admiration. - -“Well,” he said, quietly, “now you’ve been down there once, you may as -well go again. You just go and put ’em straight back, my lad.” - -Tom stared at his father, and thought the old man had gone clean daft. -At that moment the Kites returned, and came wheeling overhead with loud -melancholy cries. - -“I’ve no time to explain, Tom; it’s getting dark, and there’s not a -moment to be lost. You do as I tell you, and put ’em straight back, all -of them, as they were. We’ve got the rent.” - -At these last words, Tom seized the rope again, and in a minute was once -more on the ledge below. His father watched him from the top, pretty -confident in his son’s powers of climbing. There was no need for -anxiety: the good deed was done even quicker than the bad one; and Tom, -puzzled but obedient, stood safe and sound once more by his father’s -side. - -As they went back to the little inn down the valley in the drizzling -rain, the story of the cheque was told; and nothing remained but to make -sure that the Kites returned to their nest. Armed with a field-glass -they climbed next day another hill, and lying there on the top, they -watched the fortress long and anxiously. When they left the inn that -afternoon on their homeward journey, the old dealer’s heart was light. -The Baron and the Baroness had not forsaken their treasures; and it may -be that after all they will not be the last of their race. - -Late that evening there arrived in London this telegram for the -expectant collector from Stephen Lee: - -“Your great kindness has saved two broods, mine and the Kites’.” - - - - - DOWNS AND DUNGEONS - - -Two small cages hung side by side just above the open door of a dingy -house in a dingy London street. It was a street in the region of Soho, -gloomy and forlorn; dirty bits of paper, fragments of old apples, -treacherous pieces of orange-peel, lay sticking in its grimy mud, and a -smutty drizzle was falling which could do no honest washing away of -grime, but only make it stickier. It was not a cheerful place to live -in, nor did the creatures living in it seem to rejoice in their -life,—all except the Canary in one of the two cages, who sang a -rattling, trilling, piercing song incessantly, with all the vigour of a -London street-boy whistling in the dark mist of a November evening. Cats -slunk about disconsolate; carmen sat on their vans and smoked -resignedly, with old sacks on their shoulders; women slipped sadly with -draggled feet into the public-house and out again for such comfort as -they could get there; but that Canary sang away as if it were living in -a Paradise. The street rang with the shrill voice, and a cobbler in the -shop opposite shook his fist at the bird and used bad language. - - [Illustration: Downs and Dungeons.] - -At last the Canary suddenly stopped singing, dropped to the floor of its -cage, pecked up a few seeds, and drank water; then flew up again to its -perch, and addressed the occupant of the other cage, a little -insignificant-looking brown Linnet. - -“What ever is the matter with you? Here you’ve been two nights and a -day, and you don’t say a word, nor sing a note! You don’t even eat,—and -of course you can’t sing if you can’t eat.” - -The Linnet opened its bill as if to speak, and shut it again with a gasp -as of a dying bird. - -“Come now,” said the Canary, not unkindly, but with a certain -comfortable Cockney patronising way, “you _must_ eat and drink. We all -eat and drink here, and get fat and happy, and then we sing—Listen!” And -from the neighbouring tavern there came a chorus of coarse voices. - -“This is a jolly street,” the Canary went on. “I was brought up in a -dealer’s shop in the East End, in very low society, in a gas-lit garret -among dirty children. Here we can be out of doors in summer, and see a -bit of blue overhead now and then; and in the winter I am warm inside, -with plenty of seed and water, two perches in my cage, and both of them -all to myself. It’s a life of real luxury, and makes one sing. I could -go on at it all day, trying to convince those miserable black Sparrows -that they do not know what happiness means. But really it chills one’s -spirits a little to have another bird close by one who mopes and won’t -sing. Perhaps you can’t? I have heard the dealer say that there are -birds that can’t: but I didn’t believe it. One can’t help one’s -self,—out it comes like a hemp-seed out of its shell.” - -The Canary rattled off again for full five minutes, and then said -abruptly, - -“Do you really mean you can’t sing at all?” - -“I used to sing on the Downs,” said the Linnet at last, “but not like -that.” - -“No, no,” said the Canary; “that’s not to be expected from such as -you—one must have advantages, of course, to sing well. A natural gift, -to begin with; and that only comes when you are well born. You see I -come of a good stock of singers. My father sang at the Crystal Palace -Show, and won a prize. I have heard the dealer say that we have a -pedigree going up for generations, and of course we improve as we go on, -because each of us gets the benefit of the education of all our -ancestors. Just let me show you what birth and education can do.” And he -set off once more with such terrific energy that the cobbler over the -way seized an unfinished boot, and looked as if he meant to hurl it at -the cage. - -Fortunately the Canary ceased at that moment, and turned again to the -Linnet. - -“You said you used to sing on the Downs. Pray, what are the Downs, and -why can’t you sing here? With plenty to eat and nothing to do and a -whole street of men and women to sing to, what more can you want? I fear -you have a selfish and discontented disposition,—want of education, no -doubt. But we must make allowance for every one, as Griggs the dealer -used to say when he got in new birds that couldn’t sing properly.” - -“I don’t know why I can’t sing here,” the Linnet answered, rousing -itself a little, “but I can’t. You see we used to sing on the Downs as -we flew about in the sun and the breeze and the sweet-scented air; and -here I am shut up in foul air, with my wings tingling all day, and the -song sticks in my throat. There was a little brook where we lived, that -came out of the hill-side and sang gently all day and night as it ran -down among the daisies and the gorse. We couldn’t have gone on singing -if it had had to stop running. We drank of it, and bathed in it, and -listened to it; and then we danced away over the hills, singing, or -perched on a gorse-spray, singing. And we knew what our singing meant; -but I don’t know what yours means. It’s just a little like the song of -the Tree-pipit who lived at the foot of the Downs, but it’s far louder.” - -“Naturally,” said the Canary. “I have no acquaintance with Tree-pipits, -but I presume they have not birth and education. But go on about the -Downs; perhaps if you were to talk about them you might find your voice. -I should like to hear you sing; I might give you some hints; and if we -are to be neighbours, I should wish you to acquit yourself properly -here—you really are not fit to be seen in such a street as this, but if -you could sing our people might think better of you. Now go on, and when -I want to sing I’ll tell you to stop for a bit.” - -This was really very kind and condescending of the high-born Canary, and -so the Linnet felt it: and sitting a little more upright on his perch, -he began. “I was born on those Downs nearly three years ago. The first -thing I can remember is the lining of our nest, which was so soft that I -have never felt anything like it since, except the thistledown from -which we used to get the seed when we were on our rambles in the autumn. -And the next thing I recollect is the prickles of the gorse-bush in -which our nest was hidden, and the splendid yellow bloom, and the strong -sweet scent it gave to the air. We were always being fed by our parents, -but I needn’t trouble you with that.” - -“No,” said the Canary, “but I’m glad you were fed well, all the same: -it’s the main thing for song and satisfaction. Well, go on; this is all -dreadfully provincial, but one must make allowance, as the dealer said.” - -“When we grew big enough we all five got up to the edge of the nest one -by one, and our mother teased us to come out through the green prickles -the same way that she came in and out to feed us. One by one we -fluttered out, and perched on a bare hawthorn twig close by. Never shall -I forget that moment! The world was all open to us,—a world of rolling -green Downs, flecked here and there with yellow gorse like that of our -home, and ending in a sparkling blue that I afterwards found was the -sea. Skylarks were singing overhead: a Stonechat was perched on a -gorse-twig close by, balancing himself in the breeze,—a fine bird, with -black head and russet breast. Swallows darted about catching the flies -that haunted the gorse-bloom; and our own people, the Linnets, were -dancing about in the air and twittering their song, or sitting bolt -upright on the gorse over their nests, singing a few sweet notes as the -fancy took them. We could tell them from all the others by the way they -perched, and we tried to do it ourselves. I would show you myself how a -Linnet perches when it’s free, but I hardly have the strength, and I -might knock my head against these wires.” - -“Don’t trouble about it,” said the Canary; “it’s no doubt a vulgar -pastime, which would not be appreciated in educated society. Go on; I’m -not much bored yet—anything will do that will make you sing.” - -“I’ll get on,” said the Linnet; “but I have never felt such pain as in -telling you of those happy times. We grew up, and in the later summer we -joined a great gathering of our people from other Downs, and went down -to the sea-side. There were thousands of us together, and yet there was -always food for us. Thistles, charlock, all sorts of tall plants grew -there, on which we perched and hung, and pecked the delicious seeds. We -could all twitter by that time, though we did not know how to sing -properly; and the noise we made as we all rose together from a meal in -the fresh sea air made all our hearts cheerful. And here, moving along -the coast, and always finding food, we passed the winter. In the -bitterest cold the seeds were always there; and at night we crept into -hollows under shelter of the cliffs and slept soundly. Very few of us -died, and those were nearly all old birds who were not strong enough to -bear the force of the fierce winds that now and then swept along the -coast and hurled the spray into the hollows where we roosted.” - -“Ah,” said the Canary, “think what a privilege it is to be safe here in -your own house, with food and water given you gratis, no rough winds, -and a warm room in winter, that makes you sing, sing!” And off he went -into one of his gay, meaningless songs, and the cobbler looked fierce -and red in the face (he had been to the public-house while the Linnet -was talking), and laid his hand again upon a hob-nailed boot. But the -Canary again stopped in time, and when the din ceased, the Linnet went -on. - -“When the days grew longer, and the sun gained strength, we broke up our -great company. New thoughts and hopes broke in upon our hearts,—hopes -that for me were never to be realised,—and a new beauty seemed to come -upon all of us. My forehead and breast took a crimson hue, and my back -became a beautiful chestnut; I know I was a handsome bird, for one -little darling told me so, and said she would unite her lot with mine. -With her I left the sea, and followed the Downs inland till we came to -the place where I was born; and there, in a gorse-bush near our old -home, we decided to build our nest. Do you know how to build a nest?” - -“No,” said the Canary. “We have those things done for us if we want -them, while we sit and sing, in polite society. I can’t imagine how you -could stoop to do such work yourself, as you seem to have the making of -good breeding in you. But we must make allowance!” - -“Well, we did it,” the Linnet continued, “and I never enjoyed anything -so much. My darling and I had a great stir in our hearts, you see, and -we could not stop to think whether it was genteel or not. There was stir -and force and great love in our hearts, which taught us how to do it, -and carried us through the work. And then the eggs were laid,—six of -them; I knew them all from each other, and every one of the spots on -each of them. While she sat on them, steadily, faithfully, wearing away -her best feathers with the duty, I danced in the air, and brought her -food, and sang my love to her from the twigs of the gorse; for I loved -her, how I loved her! My heart went out to her in song, and she knew -every note I sang.” - -“Then sing now,” said the Canary. “Show me how you did it, and we shall -get on better.” - -“I can’t, I can’t,” said the Linnet, “and I am going to tell you why. -One day I was looking for food for my sitting mate, when I saw another -cock Linnet on the ground, hopping about and picking up seed. How the -seed came to be there I did not stay to ask, nor notice anything unusual -about the manner of the bird; it was high time that my wife should be -fed. The traitor called me to share the seed; it was our well-known -call, and I answered it as I flew down. For a moment I noticed nothing, -and was about to fly off when I saw that that bird had a string round -his leg, which came from behind a little thorn-bush in front of the -hedge close by. I started, suspicious, and at that same moment down came -on the top of me a heavy net, half stunning me, and a man came from -behind the bush and seized me. I struggled, but it was no use. With a -grimy hand he held me fast and put me into a cage like this, and in a -cage I have existed ever since, without hope or liberty or the power to -sing as I used to.” - -“What became of your mate and the eggs?” asked the Canary, interested -for the first time in his life in some one besides himself. - -“How should I know?” answered the Linnet. “She could not well feed -herself and hatch the eggs. I don’t wish to think about it, for she is -lost to me, and the Downs are lost to me, and all is lost to me that -made life worth living. The bitterness of that first moment in the cage -I won’t and can’t describe to you. If you were turned out of your cage -into the street to keep company with the Sparrows, you might feel a -little, a very little, like it. At first it was furious anger that -seized me, then utter blank stupefying despair. - -“The man flung something over the cage, and I was in darkness. I suppose -he went on with his wicked work, for after a while the cage door was -opened, and another Linnet was put in, struggling and furious: and this -happened several times. Each time the door was opened I made a frantic -effort to get out, and the others too, and the little cage was full of -loose feathers and struggling birds. One of us did get away, with the -loss of his tail, and most gladly would I have given my tail for liberty -and one more sight of my mate and the eggs. - -“At last the cage was taken up: we all fluttered and scrambled over each -other, thinking something better was going to happen now. But nothing -happened for a long time, and then nothing but misery. Half dead with -jolting, shaking, and swaying, we found ourselves at last in a small -close room, where we were taken out and examined one by one, and put -into separate small cages, so small that we could hardly turn round in -them. The room was full of these cages, and there was a continual noise -of hysterical fluttering and sorrowful twittering. None of us cared to -talk, and there was nothing but misery to talk about. Seed and water -were given us, and we ate and drank a little after a while, but there -was no delight in that lukewarm water and that stale seed. - -“But I had better stop: I’m sure you want to sing again. And there is -nothing more to tell; one by one my fellow-captives were taken away, and -I suppose what happened to me happened to them too. Caged we all are, -and expected to sing, and to forget the Downs and the gorse and the -brook and the fresh air! But we don’t and we can’t,—it is the little -life left within us, to hope against hope for the Downs again.” - -“Don’t you think it may be all a dream?” said the Canary, kindly; “are -you sure there are such things as you talk of? You can’t see the Downs -from here, can you? Then how do you know there are such things? It’s all -a dream, I tell you: I had such a dream once, of rocky hills and curious -trees, and fierce sun, and a vast expanse of blue waves, and all sorts -of strange things that I have heard men talk of; but it was only because -my grandmother had been telling us of the old island home of our family, -that belongs to us by right if we could only get there. I never was -there myself, you see, yet I dreamed of it, and you have been dreaming -of the Downs, which no doubt belong to your family by right.” - -“I can’t see the Downs,” said the Linnet, “but I can feel them still, -and I know that my feeling is true.” - -After this there was silence for a few minutes. Suddenly the Canary -burst into song, as if to drive away the Linnet’s sad thoughts. And so -indeed he meant it, and also to ease his own mind, after it had been -bottled up so long. Little did he know what was to come of that -outburst, as he poured forth rattle and reel, reel and rattle, every -feather quivering, the cage vibrating, the air resounding, the street -echoing! Children playing in the gutter stopped to look up at the cages, -at the triumphant yellow bird in all the glow of effort, and at the ugly -brown one that seemed trying to hide away from this hurricane of song. -Even the costermonger’s placid donkey in the cart two doors away shook -its long ears and rattled its harness. A policeman at the end of the -street turned his head slowly round to listen, but recollected himself -and turned it slowly back again. The red-faced cobbler, who had been -more than once to the drink-shop while the birds were talking, once more -seized the hob-nailed boot he was mending, and as the Canary burst -afresh, and after a second’s pause, into a still shriller outpouring, he -glanced out of the open window up the street, saw the policeman’s back -vanishing round the corner, and then took wicked aim and flung the boot -with all his force at the unconscious singer. - -The song suddenly ceased; there was the crash of wood and wirework -tumbling to the ground, and the gutter children scrambled up and made -for the fallen cage. The cobbler rushed out of the opposite house, -snatched up the boot and vanished. A woman with dishevelled hair came -tearing into the street and picked up the cage. It was empty, and the -door was open. She glanced up, and with a sigh of relief saw the Canary -still safe in his cage. - -The cobbler’s arm had swerved ever so little, and the boot had hit the -wrong cage. The door had come open as it reached the ground, and the -Linnet had escaped. The woman thanked her stars that it was “the ugly -bird” that was gone, and so too did the cobbler, now repentant, as he -peered from behind the door of his back-kitchen. The Canary sat still -and frightened on his perch, and for a full hour neither sang a note nor -pecked a seed. - -When the cage fell and the door had come unlatched, the Linnet was out -of it in a moment, but, dizzy and bruised with the fall, and feeling his -wings stiff and feeble, he looked for something to rest on. The first -object that met his eyes was the donkey in the coster’s cart,—and indeed -there was nothing else in the street that looked the least bit -comfortable. Donkeys had been familiar to Lintie on the Downs, and among -the thistles they both loved. So he perched on the donkey’s back, his -claws convulsively grasping the tough grey hair. - -The sharp eyes of a small muddy boy in the gutter instantly caught sight -of him, and with a shrill yell he seized an old tin sardine-box with -which he had been scraping up the mud for a pie, and aimed it at the -bird. But that yell saved Lintie; the donkey shook his ears as it -pierced their hairy recesses, and the bird at the same instance relaxed -his hold of the hair and flew up above the house-roofs. - -The air up there was even worse than down in the street. It was still -drizzling, and the fine rain, clogged with the smoke from countless -crooked chimney-pots, seemed to thicken and congeal upon every object -that it met. It clung to the Linnet’s feathers, it made his eyes smart, -and his heart palpitate fiercely; he must rest again somewhere, and then -try his wings once more. - -Fluttering over those horrible chimney-pots, he spied at last a roof -where there was an attempt at a little garden: a box of sallow-looking -mignonette, and two or three pots of old scarlet geraniums. Lintie -dropped upon the mignonette, which refreshed him even with its sickly -sweetness, and for a moment was almost happy. But only for a moment; -suddenly, from behind one of the geranium-pots there came a swift soft -rush of grey fur, a lightning-stroke of a velvet paw, a struggle in the -mignonette, and Lintie emerged with the loss of three white-edged -tail-feathers, while a pair of angry yellow eyes followed his scared -flight into the grimy air. - -The very fright seemed to give his wings a sudden convulsive power. -Where they were carrying him he could not tell, and the loss of three of -his steering feathers mattered little. Over the crooked chimneys, over -dismal streets and foul back-yards he flew, till the air seemed to clear -a little as a large open space came in sight. There were tall fine -houses round this space, but all the middle part of it was full of trees -and shrubs, and even flower-beds. The stems of the trees were dead-black -with smoke, and the shrubs looked heavy and sodden; but yet this was the -best thing that Lintie had seen for many long and weary days. Even the -sounds as well as sights revived him, for surely, heard through the roar -of the great street hard by, there came the cooing of Woodpigeons,—the -very same soothing sound that used to come up to the Downs from the -beech-woods, that hung on their steep sides. - -He flew down into one of the thick shrubs, found a way in, and hid -himself. He seemed as secure as in his native gorse-bush; and as it was -dark in there and he was tired, and evening was not far distant, he put -his head under his wing and went to sleep. - -He had not slept very long when he was waked up by a sparrow coming into -the bush and beginning to chatter loudly. The next minute there came -another, then a third, a fourth, half-a-dozen together, all chattering -and quarrelling so noisily that for the moment they did not notice the -stranger. But more and more came bustling in, and the din and the hubbub -were so overwhelming that Lintie felt he must go at all risks. He moved, -was detected, and instantly pounced upon. - -“Who are you? What’s your name? What are you doing in our roosting-bush? -What do you want here? No vulgar vagrants here! Take that, and that, and -that!” - -So they all shouted in chorus, pecking at him the while, and the noise -was so unusual that two young men of the law, looking out of a -first-floor window in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, took their pipes out of -their mouths and listened. - -“It’s all over with me at last,” thought Lintie; but he made one brave -effort to escape, found his way out of the bush, and flew into the open -roadway, pursued by half a hundred sparrows. - -“What in the world is up?” said one of the men up in the window. “By -George, it’s murder they’re at,” he cried, as he saw a whirling, -screaming cloud of sparrows on the ground below him, and their victim -resigning himself to inevitable death. In a moment his pipe was on the -floor, and he himself was in the street. The sparrows flew away -swearing; Lintie crouched on the ground, a heap of dishevelled feathers. - -The student took him gently in his hand and carried him into the house. - -“They’d all but done for him, the beggars,” he said to his friend. “I -fancy he might come round if we only knew what to do with him. I say, I -wish you’d see whether M—— has gone home; it’s only just round in New -Square,—you know the staircase. He’ll like to see the bird anyhow, and -he can doctor it if he thinks it worth while.” - -The friend went out, grumbling but compliant, and in five minutes -returned with the Ornithologist, keen-faced and serious. He took the -bird in his hand. - -“It’s only a damaged cock linnet,” he said at once and decisively: “an -escaped one, of course, for his crimson has turned a dirty yellow, you -see, as it always does in confinement. I think he may live if he’s cared -for. If he does, I’ll take him on my cycle into Sussex on Saturday, and -I’ll let him go there. Can you find a cage?” - -An old cage was found somewhere, and Lintie was a prisoner once more; -but he was past caring about that, and simply sat huddled up at the -bottom of it with his head under his wing. The Ornithologist called a -cab,—a very unusual step for him,—put his great-coat over the cage, and -drove off to the West End. - -Two days later the Ornithologist was wheeling swiftly southwards, with a -little cage fixed to the saddle in front of him. The motion was not -unpleasant to Lintie when once they were free of streets and crowds, and -out of suburbs, even to the last new house of dreary Croydon. He was in -a cage still; but birds, even more than other animals, have a subtle -inward sense of sympathy that tells them surely in whose hands they are. -Lintie was in the strong hands of one who loves all birds, and whose -happiness is bound up in theirs. - -When they came to the North Downs between Croydon and Reigate, he -stopped and looked about him. The fringe of London still seemed there; -he saw villas building, men playing golf, advertisements in the fields. -“Better go on,” he said to himself; “this is too near London for a -damaged linnet.” And they slipped rapidly down into a verdant vale of -wood and pasture. - -At last they began to mount again. The Ornithologist had avoided the -main route, and was ascending the South Downs at a point little known to -Londoners. Near the top the hollow road began to be fringed by the -burning yellow of the gorse-bloom; the air grew lighter, and the scent -of clean, sweet herbage put new life into man and bird. The Linnet -fluttered in his cage with wild uncertain hopes; but that determined -Ornithologist went on wheeling his machine up the hill. - -In a few minutes they came out of the hollow road on to the bare summit -of the Down. It was an April day; the drizzle had given way to bright -sunshine and a bracing east wind. Far off to the south they could see -the glitter of the sea fretted into a million little dancing waves. -Nearer at hand were the long sweeping curves of chalk down, the most -beautiful of all British hills, for those who know and love them; with -here and there a red-tiled farmhouse lurking in a cool recess, or a -little watercourse springing from the point where down and cultivation -meet, and marking its onward course by the bushes and withy-beds beside -it. - -A Wheatear, newly arrived in the glory of slaty-blue plumage, stood -bowing at them on a big stone hard by. A Stonechat, on the top twig of a -gorse-bush, bade a sturdy defiance to all bird-catchers. The Cuckoo -could be faintly heard from the vale behind them; still the -Ornithologist held his hand. - -Suddenly there came dancing overhead, here, there, and everywhere, gone -in a moment and back again, half a dozen little twittering fairies; and -then one of them, alighting no one knows how or when, sat bolt upright -on a gorse-bush, and turned a crimson breast and forehead towards the -Ornithologist. His hand was already on the cage-door; in a moment it was -open, and Lintie was gone. - -I cannot tell you whether those linnets were his own friends and -relations; but I think that, thanks to the Ornithologist’s true -instinct, he was not far from his old home. And as the summer was all -before him, and the hearts of linnets are kind, and Nature in sweet air -repairs all damage quickly, I cannot doubt that his sky soon cleared, -and that the heavy London thundercloud rolled far away out of his -horizon. - - - - - DOCTOR AND MRS. JACKSON - - -Doctor and Mrs. Jackson were, for all we knew, the oldest pair in the -parish: their heads were very grey, and they had an old-world look about -them, and an air of wisdom and experience in life, that gave them a -place of importance in our society and claimed the respect of us all. -Yet I cannot remember that any of us noticed them until they became the -intimate friends of the old Scholar. Then we all came to know them, and -to feel as though we had known them all our lives. - - [Illustration: Doctor and Mrs. Jackson.] - -Their heads were grey, and their dress was black, and as they lived in -the old grey tower of the church they seemed to have something ancient -and ecclesiastical about them; no one inquired into their history or -descent; we took it all for granted, as we did the Established Church -itself. They were there as the church was there, looking out over -meadows and ploughed fields as it had looked out since good souls built -it in the reign of Henry III., and over these same fields Dr. and Mrs. -Jackson looked out with knowing eyes as they sat on their gurgoyles of a -sunshiny morning. The water that collected on the tower roof was -discharged by large projecting gurgoyles ending in the semblance of two -fierce animal heads, one a griffin, and the other a wolf; and on these -the Doctor and his wife loved to sit and talk, full in view of the old -Scholar’s study room. - -The church was not only old, but mouldy and ill cared for. It had -escaped the ruthless hand of the restorer, the ivy clung around it, the -lights and shadows still made its quaint stone fretwork restful to the -eye, but I fear it cannot be denied that it needed the kindly hand of a -skilful architect to keep it from decay. Half of a stringcourse below -the gurgoyles had fallen and never been replaced: and below that again -the effigy of the patron saint looked as if it had been damaged by -stone-throwing. The churchyard was overgrown and untidy, and the porch -unswept, and the old oaken doors were crazy on their hinges. Inside you -saw ancient and beautiful woodwork crumbling away, old tiles cracking -under the wear and tear of iron-heeled boots and old dames’ pattens, and -cobwebs and spiders descending from the groined roof upon your -prayer-book. If you went up the spiral staircase into the ringers’ -chamber, you would see names written on the wall, two or three empty -bottles, and traces of banquets enjoyed after the clock had struck and -the peal ceased,—banquets of which the Doctor and his wife occasionally -partook, coming in through that unglazed lancet window when all was -still. - -The church indeed was mouldy enough, and the air within it was close and -sleep-giving: and as the old parson murmured his sermon twice a Sunday -from the high old pulpit, his hearers gradually dropped into a tranquil -doze or a pleasant day-dream,—all except the old Scholar, who sat just -below, holding his hand to his ear, and eagerly looking for one of those -subtle allusions, those reminiscences of old reading, or even now and -then three words of Latin from Virgil or the “Imitatio,” with which his -lifelong friend would strain a point to please him. They had been at -school together, and at college together, and now they were spending -their last years together, for the old Scholar had come, none of us knew -whence, and settled down in the manor-house by the churchyard, hard by -the Rectory of his old companion. And so they walked together through -the still and shady avenues of life’s evening, wishing for no change, -reading much and talking little, lovers of old times and old books, -seeking the truth, not indeed in the world around them, but in the -choice words of the wise man of old: “Pia et humilis inquisitio -veritatis, per sanas patrum sententias studens ambulare.” - -And Dr. and Mrs. Jackson looked down on them from their gurgoyles, and -approved. I suppose that old grey-headed bird did not know that he had -been honoured with a doctorate, though he looked wise enough to be -doctor of divinity, law and medicine, all in one; it had been conferred -upon him by the old Scholar one day as he walked up and down his garden -path, glancing now and then at the friendly pair on the tower. And in -one way or another we had all come to know of it; and even visitors to -the village soon made acquaintance with the Doctor and his wife. - -No one, as I said, unless it were his old friend the Vicar, knew whence -or why the old Scholar had come to take up his abode among us. We -thought he must have had some great sorrow in his life which was still a -burden to him: but if it was the old old story, he never told his love. -Yet the burden he carried, if there were one, did not make him a less -cheerful neighbour to the folk around him. He knew all the old people in -the village, if not all the young ones: he would sit chatting in their -cottages on a wet day, and on a fine one he would stroll around with -some old fellow past his work, and glean old words and sayings, and pick -up odds and ends of treasure for the history of the parish which he was -going to write some day. - -“I am like Dr. and Mrs. Jackson,” he would say: “I poke and pry into all -the corners of the old place, and when I find anything that catches my -eye I carry it home and hide it away. And really I don’t know that my -treasures will ever come to light, any more than the Doctor’s up there -in the tower.” - -Those who were ever admitted to his study, as I sometimes was in my -college vacations, knew that there was great store of hidden treasure -there; and now and again he would talk to me of the church and its -monuments, of the manor and its copyholds, of furlongs and virgates and -courts leet and courts baron, and many other things for which I cared -little, though I listened to please him, and left him well pleased -myself. - -But at other times, and chiefly on those dim still days of autumn when a -mist is apt to hang over men’s hearts as over field and woodland, he -would walk up and down his garden path ‘talking to hisself in furrin -tongues’ as our old sexton expressed it, who heard him as he dug a grave -in the adjoining churchyard. Once or twice I heard him myself, when I -happened to be within range of his gentle voice. Sometimes it was Greek, -and then I could not easily follow it. Once I heard “Sed neque Medorum -silvæ,” and could just catch sight of him pausing to look round at the -grey fields as he slowly added line to line of that immortal song. And -there were single lines which he would repeat again and again, -cherishing them with tenderness like old jewels, and doubtless seeing -many a sparkle in them that I could not, as he turned them over and -over. And there were bits of Latin from some author unknown to me then, -known to me later as the unknown author of the “De Imitatione”: “Unde -coronabitur patientia tua, si nihil adversi occurrerit;” or, “Nimis -avide consolationem quæris.” - -At one time he took long walks or rides, and coming in after dark to -dinner, would spend the evening in “logging” (as he called it) all that -he had seen or heard. But when I knew him he was getting old, and the -rambles were growing shorter: it was not often that he was seen beyond -the village. He would go up to the village shop of afternoons, where a -chair was always set for him, and talk to the people as they came in on -various errands. But his old friends died off one by one: he followed -them to the churchyard, and would stand with bare head there, listening -to the Vicar reading the prayers, while Dr. and Mrs. Jackson looked down -on the scene from the tower as usual. And really it seemed as if they -would soon be the only old friends left to him. - -For the greater part of the year they were his companions most of the -day: they became a part of his life, and we called them his familiar -spirits. When he woke in the morning he could see them as he lay in bed, -and sometimes they would come to his window if he had put out a -breakfast for them overnight. But as a rule they took their own -breakfast in the fields with the rooks and starlings and peewits, while -he was dressing; and when, after his own breakfast, he took his walk up -and down the garden path, they were to be seen perched on their -gurgoyles, preening their feathers, chatting, and turning their wise old -heads round and round in great ease of body and contentment of mind. In -the early spring, after a bath in the large flat earthenware pan, which -was daily filled for them by the housekeeper, they would turn their -attention to a heap of odds and ends laid out for them in a corner of -the garden: bits of string, old shoe-laces, shreds of all -sorts,—everything that was wanted for nothing else went into the -Doctor’s “library,” as the old Scholar called it, in which he and his -wife conducted their researches. Nor could our dear old friend always -refrain from adding some special treasure to the heap: he is known to -have cut off one button after another from his coat, because they had a -gleam upon them that he thought would please, and fragments of his old -neckties were found in the tower when the long companionship had at last -come to an end. It was only after the nesting season that for a time he -missed them, when they took their young family out into the world, and -introduced them to the society of which we may hope they have since -become ornaments; and this absence the old Scholar took in very good -part, being confident that he should see them again in August at latest. -Besides, at the end of June I myself came home to the village: and -though I could not hope to rival them in his esteem or respect, I might -make shift to fill the gap till they returned. When I went to see him he -would take my hand with all kindness, and invariably point to the vacant -church tower. “I am glad to see you, my lad: Dr. and Mrs. Jackson have -gone for a few days into the country with the children, but they will be -home again long before you leave us.” - -It is sad to me even now to think that such an old friendship, which I -am sure was felt in equal strength by both men and birds, should ever -have come to an end. It had to be, but it gives me pain to tell the -story. - -The old Vicar fell into a drowsy decay, and the murmur of his sermons -was heard no more in the church. A Curate took the work for him, and the -old Scholar came and listened as before; but the sweet old memories of a -long friendship were not to be found in those discourses, nor the -flashes of light from the world’s great poets and thinkers that had been -wont to keep him awake and cheer him. And at last the old shepherd died, -and slept among the sheep to whose needs he had been ministering so -quietly for half a century. The old Scholar, bent and withered, was -there to see the last of his friend, and the Doctor and his wife looked -sadly down from the tower. They never saw him again outside his own -garden. - -A new Vicar came, a kindly, shrewd, and active man, whose sense of the -right order of things was sadly wounded as he examined the church from -end to end in company with his churchwardens. “You have let the fabric -fall into ruin, Mr. Harding,” he said, “into ruin: I can’t use a milder -word. We must scrape together what we can, and make it fit for divine -worship. Let us come up into the tower and see how things are there.” - -The crestfallen churchwardens followed him up the well-worn stairs, but -were left far behind, and his active youthful figure disappeared in -front of them into the darkness. When they found him at last in the -ringers’ chamber, he was kicking at a great heap of refuse accumulated -on the floor in a corner. - -“What on earth is this, Mr. Harding?” asked the Vicar. “Who makes a -kitchen-midden of the church tower?” - -“That there belongs to Dr. and Mrs. Jackson,” said poor Harding. - -“Then Dr. and Mrs. Jackson had better come and fetch it away at once!” -cried the Vicar, forgetting in his indignation to ask who they were. -“See about it directly, please: it is your duty as churchwarden, and if -your duties have so far been neglected, you cannot do better than begin -to make up for the past. I do not mean to speak harshly,” he added, -seeing Mr. Harding’s grave face grow graver, “but the state of this -tower is dreadful, and we must see to it at once.” - -Mr. Harding said nothing, but made for the staircase, disappeared from -view, and went home very sad at heart. “I doubt the old Doctor and his -missus will have to go,” said he. Mrs. Harding let her work drop to the -floor and stared at him. “Then the old gentleman’ll have to go too,” she -said. And there was consternation among all the old folks that evening. - -Next day I happened to be sitting with the old Scholar when the new -Vicar called. He was received with all the gentle grace and cordiality -which our old friend showed to strangers, and we sat for a few minutes -talking of the weather and the village. Then the Vicar came to the point -of his mission, and I am bound to say that he performed his operation -with tenderness and skill, considering how little he could have guessed -what pain he was inflicting. - -“You love the old church, I am sure,” he began. “And I daresay you like -it better as it is, and would not care to see it restored. I don’t want -to spoil it, but I must at least begin by cleaning it thoroughly: and -even that alone will cost a good deal. It is inches deep in dust and -mess in places, and up in the tower they eat and drink and smoke and -write their names,—and what they do it for I don’t know, but they have -made it the common rubbish-heap of the parish. By the way, can you tell -me anything of a Dr. and Mrs. Jackson, who seem to have goings on up -there,—some eccentric old people are they? or——” At this point he caught -sight of my face, which was getting as red as fire. - -“Dear me,” he said, turning suddenly upon me, and losing his balance as -he saw that something was wrong, “I hope they are not—not—” and he -stopped in some perplexity. - -“No, Sir,” said I. “My name is Johnson.” And I broke out into an -irresistible peal of laughter, in which even the old Scholar joined -me,—but it was the last time I ever saw him laugh. - -We cleared up the mystery for the discomfited Vicar; and the old Scholar -went quietly to his desk and wrote a cheque with a trembling Hand. - -“I will give you fifty pounds,” he said, “to help to put the old church -in good repair, and I will trust you not to ‘restore’ it. We have -neglected it too long. Dr. and Mrs. Jackson must take their treasures -elsewhere: but I trust that they will long remain your parishioners.” -And so they parted, each with a pleasing sense of duty done: but the -Vicar had high hopes before him, while our dear old Scholar began to -nurse sad misgivings. I cheered him up and bade him goodbye, and meant -to tell the Vicar all about him. But one thing and another prevented me, -and the next day I left the village. - -This happened at the end of June, and it was September before I was home -again from the Continent. The man who drove me from the station told me -that the old Scholar was dying. I went to his gate through the -churchyard, and found it neat and well-trimmed: the church was looking -brighter and tidier, and the door was open; and the tower seemed to have -found a fresh youth, with its stringcourse and effigy repaired, and its -abundant crop of ivy lopped away from the lancet windows. But no Doctor -or his wife were sitting on the gurgoyles, or taking the air on the -battlements. I knocked sadly at the old Scholar’s door, fearing that he -had spent his last days in utter friendlessness. - -His old housekeeper let me in, and took me at once upstairs. He was -lying on his bed, facing an open window that looked towards the tower; -there was another to the right with a view of distant cornfields full of -autumn sheaves. For once, she told me, that he looked at the cornfields, -he looked a dozen times at the tower: “and if the Doctor and his wife -would but come back,” she said, “he would surely die happy. They should -be here by now, if ’twere like it was in the old times: but they went -off without their young ones when the men began to rummage in the tower, -and I doubt they’ll never come back again now.” - -The old Scholar was only half conscious, but he seemed to know me and -kept my hand in his. I made up my mind not to leave him, and sat there -till the shadow of the tower grew long enough to reach us, and then till -the great harvest moon arose over the distant corn-sheaves. Sometimes he -would murmur a few words, and once or twice I caught the favourite old -treasures,—“Unde coronabitur patientia tua,” and “Nimis avide -consolationem quæris.” And so we passed the night, till the moon sank -again, and ‘the high lawns appeared, Under the opening eyelids of the -Morn.’ - -Then I left him for a few minutes, and descending to the garden filled -the earthenware pan with fresh water, and scattered food on the dewy -grass in the dim hope that the Doctor and his wife might have come back -to see the last of their old friend. - -And I had no sooner returned and drawn up the blinds of the sick-room -than I saw them once more on the gurgoyles. I could hardly believe my -eyes: I threw up the window and let the sweet air into the room. The -light roused the old Scholar; he opened his eyes, and at that moment the -Doctor and his wife flew past the window to their morning bath. I am -sure he saw them; a smile of great happiness came over his wasted -features, and he lay back and closed his eyes again. I read him the -Lord’s Prayer: and after a while I heard him whisper, “Nunc -coronabitur—,” as he sank into sleep. - -Each day, until he was laid by his old friend the Vicar, we put out the -morning bath and breakfast for his last old friends; then the house was -shut up, and finding that they were not expected, the Doctor and his -wife departed, and were seen no more by any of us. They had done their -kindly work well, and they took our thanks with them. - - - - - A LUCKY MAGPIE - - -“So you’ve kept old Mag safe all this time,” I called out, as I came -through the little croft under the apple-trees, and caught sight of the -farmer sitting at his door and smoking his evening pipe; and not -forgetting my duty as became a midshipman in Her Majesty’s Service, I -took off my cap and made three bows to the magpie, whose wicker cage was -hanging just over the farmer’s head. - -Farmer Reynardson and his magpie and I had always been great friends. -Ever since I was a little fellow I had had a great liking for the -farmer’s friendly face, and a still greater reverence for his bird, for -he never would let me come within sight of it without making my -obeisance in due form. - -“It’s a lucky magpie,” he always said, “and I don’t know what mightn’t -happen if you didn’t treat him with proper respect. Honour where honour -is due, my boy!” - -So I always made my three bows, which seemed to please both the bird and -his master. I say “master” now, but in those days I never thought of him -as the magpie’s master, nor of the bird as his property. I considered -Mag as a member of the family, about whom there was something rather -mysterious. It was only when I grew older that I began to think of -asking questions about him, and it was not till the very last evening -before I left to join the training-ship that I ventured to ask the -history of my revered friend. But the farmer would not tell me then. -“When you’re ready to fight for the Queen, then I’ll tell you the -story,” he said. - -So I had to wait a pretty long time; and whenever I came home from the -_Britannia_ and called at Slade Croft, I felt my curiosity increasing. -The story must be worth hearing, or I should not have been kept waiting -for it so long. And when I was gazetted midshipman, and ran home to my -grandfather’s for a week before joining my ship, I slipped off to the -farm the very first evening after dinner. - - [Illustration: A Lucky Magpie.] - -Farmer Reynardson rose, shook hands warmly, and slapped me on the back. -Then he turned me round and inspected my jacket and Her Majesty’s -buttons carefully. - -“Now for the story,” I cried. “It’s all right, you needn’t look at my -boots too, you know,” as his eye travelled down my uniform trousers. -“Now for the yarn of the lucky magpie.” - -“George,” said the farmer gravely, putting his hand on my shoulder, “you -shall have it, my lad, this very evening. But I must show you something -first.” He walked me through the orchard to a shady corner by the hedge, -and showed me a little stone set upright in the ground, on which I read -this inscription— - - Here lies the body of - a lucky Magpie - and an - attached - Friend. - (J. R.) - -“It’s a new one, he in the cage,” he said, quite sadly. “Neither I nor -the missis could get along without one. Old Mag died quite easy, of -nothing but old age, and old he was, to be sure. He’d have died years -ago, if he’d been any one else’s bird. He’d have been shot years ago if -he’d lived his own natural life. They say it’s cruel keeping birds in -cages; but if ever a bird was happy, that one was. And what’s more,” he -said, with a touch of pathos in his voice which I have often remembered -since then, when I have been telling his story to others, “he had his -share in making others happy, and that’s more than can be said for some -of us, my boy. However, come along, and I’ll spin you the yarn (as you -seafaring folks say); and, indeed, I’ll be glad to tell it to some one, -for poor old Mag’s sake. Honour where honour is due.” - -We sat down on the bench by the front door, and Mrs. Reynardson, bonny -and bright-eyed, came and gave me her hand and sat down with us. The -farmer paused a bit to collect his thoughts, while he pensively tickled -the newly-installed genius of the house with the sealing-waxed end of -his long pipe. The genius seemed not unworthy of his venerable -predecessor, for he showed no resentment, and settled himself down -comfortably to hear the tale—or to roost. - -“Now then. Once upon a time,” said I, to jog his memory. - -But that dear old fellow never did things quite like other people; -perhaps that was why I was so fond of him. He withdrew his pipe-stem -from the cage, and patting the back of his wife’s hand with it in -passing (an action I did not then understand), he pointed it in the -direction of the hills which bounded our view. - -“If you were to go up there,” he said, “just where you see the gap in -the long line of trees, you would see below you, on the other side, a -small village, and on beyond the village you’d see a bit of a hillock, -with three big elms on it. And if you got near enough, I’ll be bound -you’d see a magpie’s nest in the tallest tree to the right. There always -was one, when I was a boy there, and there has always been one whenever -I’ve happened to be over there since; and it was in that nest that my -old Mag was born, and I was born within sight of it. - -“Of course, we knew of it, we boys of the village, and we’d have been up -there often, only that tree was a bad one to climb, as the magpie knew -very well. Easy work when you got to the branches, but, unlike most -elms, this one had fifteen feet of big broad stem before you reached -them. None of us could get up that fifteen feet, though the bark was -rough and we could get some hold with fingers and toes; sooner or later -we were sure to come slipping down, and it was lucky for us that the -grass was long and soft below. - -“Well, when it’s a matter of fingers and toes, a girl is as good as a -boy, if she has some strength and pluck, and it was a girl that showed -me how to climb that tree. Nelly Green was her name; we were fast -friends, she and I, and it was between us two that the solemn treaty and -alliance—as the newspapers say—was concluded, by which we were to get -possession of a young magpie. First it was agreed that when we had got -our bird (we began at the wrong end, you see), I was to keep it, because -Nelly’s mother would have no pets in the house. Secondly, she was to go -no higher than the first branch, because girls were not fit to go -worming themselves up to the tops of trees in petticoats. And then—let -me see—she was to climb the bark first, because of her small hands and -feet, and was to carry a rope round her waist, which she was to tie to a -branch to help me in coming up after her. Fourthly, we were only to take -one nestling, and to leave the others in peace. - -“Nelly said that this treaty was to be written out and signed with -hedgehog’s blood. Where she got the notion from I can’t tell, but no -hedgehog turned up in time, and we were neither of us too fond of -writing, so we let that plan drop.” - -“What a dreadful tomboy she must have been, John!” said Mrs. Reynardson. - -“Well, I won’t say she wasn’t a bit of one,” said the farmer, with a -twinkle in his eye; “but she turned out none so badly—none so badly, as -you shall hear, my dear.” - -“We knew very well, of course, how the magpies were getting on, and when -the eggs were hatched; and a few days after that, we got our rope and -reached the hillock by a roundabout way, not to attract notice. Nelly -had been studying the bark of that tree for many a day, though I never -would let her go up lest she should come to grief coming down again. Up -she went just like a creep-mouse, got a good seat on the branch and tied -the rope round it. Then up I went too, hand over hand, and in five -minutes more I was at the nest; a huge bit of building it was, roofed -all over with sticks. The old birds flew round screaming, but I put one -young bird in my pocket, and came down safely to where Nelly was -sitting. Then the bird was put into _her_ pocket, and she let herself -down by the rope; and lastly I untied the rope (for it would never have -done to have left it there), and wondered how _I_ was to come down. - -“At last I resolved on climbing out on my stomach to the very end of the -branch, where I could bear it down with my weight, and then dropping. -But my weight was too little to pull the big branch down far, and as I -came to the ground, I sprained my ankle badly. - -“However, there was the bird all safe, and that was the great thing. -Nelly helped me home, and Mag was put into a wicker cage we had ready -for him. Of course we got scolded, but I was in too great pain to mind, -and Nelly was used to it from her mother, so we got off pretty well. - -“Of course, too, I couldn’t go to school, and Mag was my companion all -day long. He had a tremendous appetite, and it was as much as I could do -to find food for him. If I let him out of his cage he would follow me -about, opening his bill and crying for food; and at night he slept -outside my bedroom window. I had never had a pet before, and I got to -love that bird better than anything in the world, except Nelly; and, -indeed, I’m not sure that Nelly was not a bit jealous of him those few -weeks.” - -“_I_ should have been,” said Mrs. Reynardson. - -“Of course you would, my dear,” said her husband. “Men were deceivers -ever, as they say; and boys too. But Mag was to be Nelly’s property as -much as mine, by that treaty of alliance, for ever and ever; and that -treaty was _never_ broken. But I must go on. - -“When my ankle was getting well, there came a neat maidservant to the -cottage one day, and said that Miss Pringle wished to see me at six -o’clock precisely; and wondering what she could want with me, I made -myself uncomfortable in my best clothes and limped up the village to her -back door. I was shown into a very neat parlour, where Miss Pringle sat -in a stiff chair knitting. - -“She was the old maid of our village, and when I’ve told you that, you -know a good bit about her. She was a tightish sort of an old maid—tight -in the lips, and tight in her dress, and tight, so they said, in her -purse-strings too; but you shall form your own opinion of that -presently. She had neat curls on each side of her head, and a neat thin -nose, rather large, and she sat a bit forward and looked at you as if -she’d found a speck of dirt on you somewhere. I always felt as if I had -a smut on my nose when Miss Pringle was speaking to me. - -“‘Come in, John Reynardson,’ says she. ‘You may stand on that bit of -matting by the door. What is the matter with your foot?’ - -“‘Sprained my ankle, ma’am, climbing a tree with Nelly Green.’ - -“‘With Nelly Green?’ says Miss Pringle. ‘Then Nelly Green ought to be -ashamed of herself! Boys may be monkeys if they like, but not girls. -Tell Nelly Green I’m ashamed of her!’” - -“Did she say that?” asked Mrs. Reynardson. - -“She did, and she never liked Nelly Green too much after that. She asked -me several times afterwards if that monkey-girl was ashamed of herself.” -Here the farmer stopped a minute to laugh. “And I always told her she -wasn’t. No more she was—not a bit! - -“Well, she told me frankly that she didn’t like boys—and that was very -kind of her!—but I could have told her so myself as soon as ever I was -put on the matting and had my face looked at for smuts. Miss Pringle was -not one of that soft kind of single ladies who think all boys angels—not -she! But, bless her old soul! the Jackdaw, as Nelly and I used to call -her, because of her grey head and her black dress and her pecking -way—the Jackdaw was nearly as lucky a bird for me as the magpie—in the -long run, that is. - -“She told me she wanted a boy to look after her pony and carriage, and -as I was recommended by the Vicar, and was strong and active, she would -offer me the place. But I wasn’t to climb trees, and I wasn’t to spin -halfpence, and I wasn’t to do this, and I wasn’t to do that, and lastly, -I wasn’t to keep animals about the house. ‘Mind,’ she said, shaking her -nose and her forefinger at the same time, ‘I allow no pet animals about -this house, so if you take my offer you must give up your rabbits.’ - -“‘Yes, ma’am,’ says I, though I hadn’t any; but her nose was so tight -when she said that, that I knew I had better hold my tongue. - -“Then she took me through her garden, making me pull up some weeds by -the way, and lay them neatly in a heap in a corner, with a spadeful of -ashes on them to keep the seeds from flying; and so to her little -stable, where she showed me the pony and harness, and a little -whitewashed room upstairs where I was to sleep. It was as neat as -herself, and over the bed was a large piece of cardboard with three -words on it—‘Tidiness, Punctuality, Obedience.’ Very good words for a -lad just beginning to serve the Queen,” added the farmer, “and very good -they were for me too; but if I’d stuck hard to them all three I -shouldn’t be here now, as you shall hear. - -“So I said very humbly that I was very thankful to take the place, if my -parents agreed; and when I got home they were very thankful too. And -then I went off to find Nelly, and hold a council of war about poor Mag. - -“We went up to the hillock and the three elms to be out of the way. -Nelly cried a bit when she heard that our climbing days were over, and -that I was to be what she called slave to a Jackdaw; but she dried her -eyes on her frock on my telling her that she should come and see the -pony when the Jackdaw was off her perch; and then we had our council of -war. I told her exactly what Miss Pringle had said—that she allowed no -pets about the house. Nelly’s mother was just as bad, and no one at my -home could be trusted to feed a young bird regularly; so we were rather -beaten, and I was for giving Mag his liberty. - -“Nelly gave her hair a toss over her face, and sat down on the wet grass -to think for a minute. Then she tossed it back again, looked up, and -said, ‘Johnny, you old noodle, the stable isn’t the house, is it now?’ - -“She was a sharp one, you see—always was, and always has been. Men are a -bit half-hearted and shy-like; but it’s the women that know how to find -a hole in your hedge, and make a good broad gap for us to jump through.” - -“Do you know Nelly Green still, Mr. Reynardson?” I asked. - -“Yes, yes, my boy, I know her,” he answered; “and she’s not grown blunt -yet. Well, she it was that decided that, after waiting a week to see if -the Jackdaw would come poking about the stable or not, she should bring -Mag to me there, if all went well, and see the pony too; and in the -meantime she was to go twice a day to our cottage and feed him. And when -she had made the hole in the hedge, I jumped through, and never minded a -prick or two I got—meaning in my conscience, you know—from the brambles. - -“All did go well; Miss Pringle—I really don’t like calling her the -Jackdaw now she’s dead and gone—soon found I was handy, and as she -disliked the smell of stables, she gave up pecking round there after the -first day or two. So Nelly brought round Mag by the back way through the -fields, and I hung up his cage in the hayloft, by the window looking -away from the house and garden. - -“And now my story really begins,” he went on; “and I’d be glad if you’d -give me a flick with the whip now and again, for I’m as bad as my old -mare at a jog-trot. - -“I settled down into my place with a good heart, and soon got fond of -the pony. Mag, up in the hayloft, escaped Miss Pringle’s notice, and -though the cook found him out, she was a good-natured body and held her -tongue. Nelly paid me many visits, stealing round to my stable by the -fields; and she made the gap in our hedge so much bigger that once, in -the Jackdaw’s absence, both she and Mag had a ride on the pony in the -paddock. - -“Mag grew to be nearly a year old, and the cleverest bird you ever saw; -I had hard work to keep him in his wicker cage, for he was always -pulling away at the door-fastening with his bill. One warm morning in -spring I was sent for to take Miss Pringle’s orders, and found her -sitting at her desk in her parlour, with the window open, and the garden -scents coming into the room. I stood on the matting as usual while she -wrote a note. She then gave it to me, and told me to take it to a -village three miles away, but first to get the carriage ready, as she -was going for a drive, and should be away all the morning. She was very -gracious, and less tight about the lips than usual, I fancied. - -“‘If I am not back after your dinner, John,’ she said, ‘come and tidy up -this bed under the window, for I shall have to sow my annuals soon.’ - -“I got the pony ready, and off she went, holding the reins and whip as -if ponies were almost as unruly animals as boys. Then I started for my -walk, delivered the note, and turned homewards by a field-path to try -for a look at the hounds, for they had met that day near our village. I -missed them, however; but on getting over a stile I saw a gentleman in -scarlet trying to catch his horse. He had been thrown, and his horse was -having a fine time of it; grazing quietly till his master was within a -yard or two of him, and then throwing up his heels and scampering off. -Of course I joined in the chase, for I was pretty well used to these -tricks from our pony; and the gentleman, who was out of breath, sat down -and watched me. It was a long job, but at last I pinned him in a corner, -and brought him, well pleased, to his master, who praised me kindly, and -put his hand in his pocket as he mounted. - -“He had only a sovereign, which seemed to puzzle him. First he put it -back again, and was beginning to tell me to ‘come over to his place and -I should have half-a-crown.’ - -“‘But it’s far,’ he said, ‘and I’m off to London to-night. I can trust -you, can’t I?’ he added, turning a pair of very pleasant blue eyes on -me. ‘Whom do you work for?’ - -“‘Miss Pringle at Cotteswell,’ I answered, touching my hat. - -“‘Very well,’ he said; ‘you take the sovereign and get it changed, and -I’ll send my groom over for the change to-morrow.’ - -“I thought he might have sent the groom over with the half-crown; but I -fancy he liked trusting me, and thought he might forget to send the -groom, as in fact he did. - -“He was off before I could get any words out; so home I went, thinking I -should like to be his groom, such a pleasant way he had about him. On my -way I passed the village shop, where I got the change, which I put -safely away in a drawer with my ties and collars. Miss Pringle had not -come back, nor did she come till the afternoon. I had my dinner, and -saved a bit as usual to give Mag when my day’s work should be over. Then -I worked in the garden, and tidied up the bed under the window. When she -returned I had a good long job with the pony and carriage; and before it -was over I was sent for suddenly into the house. The maid who fetched me -was crying. - -“In the parlour Miss Pringle was again at her desk, with her bonnet on, -looking very tight and stiff indeed; the cook was wiping her eyes with -her apron, and on my matting was standing a policeman, who moved me on -to the front of Miss Pringle by the window, and then retired to the -door. - -“‘John,’ she said, very distinctly and slowly, ‘I have missed a -sovereign, which I accidentally left on this desk this morning. Do you -know anything of it? You have been at work outside. The other servants -know nothing of it, and they and their rooms have been searched.’ - -“I was dreadfully taken aback, but I denied all knowledge. - -“‘Policeman, search him,’ said Miss Pringle, shaking her curls sadly. - -“The policeman turned my pockets out, but only found a small -curtain-ring, with which I had been betrothed to Nelly a day or two -before. (She had another like it; we couldn’t wear them on our fingers, -so we kept them always in our pockets.) - -“‘Cook, take the policeman to search his room,’ said Miss Pringle, with -another shake. - -“Cook and policeman went down the garden. Miss Pringle locked the door -and pocketed the key. ‘I don’t accuse you,’ she said, ‘but I must take -precautions.’ - -“It was now that I first thought of the money in my drawer. I turned hot -all over, and felt my head swimming. - -“‘Please, ma’am,’ I stammered, ‘there’s money in my room, but I was -given it by a——’ - -“‘Don’t incriminate yourself,’ said she, coldly and precisely; ‘there -are no witnesses present. Silence.’ - -“The cook and policeman came up the garden; I can hear their footsteps -on the gravel now, and the ticking of Miss Pringle’s neat-faced clock. -It was half-past four by that clock, I remember—my tea-time, and the -time when I usually fed Mag. The thought rushed into my head, if I am -taken up what will Mag do? How am I to tell Nelly? - -“They knocked at the door, which Miss Pringle unlocked. The policeman -put the money he had found on the desk in front of her, and put his hand -on my shoulder. The cook sobbed, the clock ticked; no one said anything; -Miss Pringle looked away from me, and I really think she was sorry. - -“At last she looked up and opened her tight lips, but what she was going -to say I never knew, for at that moment I made a bolt through the -window, upsetting the neat geraniums in their pots, and tumbling -headlong into the flower-bed which I had tidied in the morning, I -scudded down the garden into the yard, over the gate into the paddock, -through the hedge, and away at full speed in the direction of Nelly’s -cottage. - -“I can recollect all quite clearly now, up to the moment when I saw the -policeman running after me and gaining ground while I struggled through -a hedge. Then I got wild and heated, I suppose, and I remember nothing -more distinctly. But Nelly says that I came rushing into their garden, -shouting to her, ‘Look after Mag,’ for the police were after me for -stealing. She thought at first I was at one of my games, and told me to -run off and climb up a tree, and she would bring me food; and I was just -going off towards the three elms when the policeman ran in and collared -me, and then she fought him and called him names till her mother came -out and dragged her away. This is what she told me months afterwards. - -“That was the last I saw of Nelly for a long, long time. I was locked -up, and the magistrates made short work of me. Of course they laughed at -my story of the sovereign and the gentleman, for I neither knew his name -nor where he lived. All went against me; the shopkeeper proved that I -had changed a sovereign, Miss Pringle proved she had left one on her -desk, the housemaid proved that I had been gardening at the window, the -cook that the money was found in my drawer, and the policeman that I had -run away; and that groom never came for the change. The parson gave me a -good character, and Miss Pringle asked them to be merciful. How could -she help it, poor soul? She really had begun to like me, I believe, but -I spoilt it all by telling her that I wanted no mercy from her, as she -believed I was a liar. So they sentenced me to be imprisoned for a -fortnight, and then to be sent for three years to the Reformatory School -which had lately been opened in the county. - -“The gaol I didn’t mind so much, though it was bad enough, but that -school took all the spirit out of me. There’s no need for me to tell you -what I went through there, the washings and scrubbings, the school -dress—a badge of disgrace; the having to obey orders sharp, or get sharp -punishment; the feeling that all the boys thought me a thief like -themselves, and up to all their low ways and talk; and then the bad -things I heard, the sense of injustice rankling in my heart, and making -me hate every one. I think I should have soon become as bad as any young -thief in the place, but for the thought of Nelly and Mag, and even they -were beginning to be less in my thoughts, and I was beginning to get -hammered down by hard work and punishment into an ordinary dogged young -sinner, when something happened which brought the old life into me -again, like a shower of rain on a crop in August. - -“One day, when I was working at the bottom of the big school field, with -a squad of young criminals, under the eye of a task-master, I heard from -the other side of the thick hedge the note of a yellow-hammer. Yes, it -_was_ the yellow-hammer’s song, ‘a little bit of bread and no che-e-se;’ -but I knew in an instant that it was not the voice of a bird, and I knew -of only one human creature who could whistle the song so exactly. It was -the signal by which Nelly used to make me aware of her arrival, when she -came over the fields to see me and Mag at Miss Pringle’s. - -“My heart, as they say, nearly jumped into my mouth. I can’t describe to -you how it was; I only know that I went on digging with my eyes full of -tears—for of course the first fancy that Nelly was really there, fled -away almost at once, and left me feeling as if I had had a dream. But -then it came again, twice over, and louder, not twenty yards away from -me. - -“The dream was gone now, and I edged myself down as near as I could to -the hedge, keeping my eye on the master. Luckily for me at this moment -one young rascal contrived to dig his spade into another’s heel, and got -a blow in the face for his pains; and the master was down on the boy -that hit him, and marched him off to the house for punishment. I seized -the chance, and was at the hedge in a moment, carrying an armful of -weeds to throw away in the ditch, so as not to attract the notice of the -others. Sure enough there was my own dear old Nelly’s face peering up -through a tiny opening which some rabbit had made in coming to feed on -our cabbages. - -“‘Johnny,’ she whispered, ‘give me a kiss.’ - -“I scrambled into the hedge and gave her half-a-dozen; but I couldn’t -speak; I was far away in a dream again. Nelly, however, was wide awake -and knew the value of her time. - -“‘I’m staying with Uncle Jonas, in the white cottage next to the -turnpike. It’s not a mile away. And look here, Johnny, Mag’s there too. -He’s all safe; I’ve put a bit of wire on his door-fastening ever since -you were taken up. Do you know, it was open when I took him away that -day, but there he was all safe, and I’ve taken such care of him for your -sake. We talk about you a great deal, Mag and I do. And, Johnny, you -come down and see him. Uncle Jonas says you’re to run away. You’re -innocent, you know, so it doesn’t matter. I’ve arranged it all, clothes -and everything. We’ll go to America till it’s all blown over, and -then——’ - -“‘Reynardson, down there, what are you doing?’ calls out the master, as -he came back to look after his charges. And Nelly’s head slipped away in -an instant, leaving, in the hurry, as I noticed, a wisp of her brown -hair sticking on a thorn; which, by the way, I managed to secure later -in the day, and put away in my trousers pocket for want of a safer -place. - -“I suppose it was from her Uncle Jonas that Nelly got this notion of -America, and waiting there ‘till it’s all blown over.’ Anyhow, Uncle -Jonas, like many of the neighbours of the new Reformatory, were on the -side of us boys, and aided and abetted Nelly in her scheme for getting -me away. He never thought, poor man, he was laying himself open to the -law. And that good uncle would have got himself into a serious scrape if -things had turned out as they ought to have done, for I contrived to -slip away from the school the very next day, and was hidden in the white -cottage all that night. - -“I had got quite reckless; for, as Nelly said, when one is innocent, -what does it matter? And she was so exactly her old self, and took such -care of me—burying my school dress in the garden, and rigging me out in -some old things of her uncle’s, and laughing at me in my big coat that I -soon felt my pluck coming back again, though I cried a good deal at -first, from fright as much as joy. And Mag, too, was exactly his old -self, and was not a bit ashamed of me; it was some one else he ought to -be ashamed of, as you shall soon hear. - -“Our good time was soon over. It was the turnpike-keeper who did the -mischief. He had seen me come down to the cottage, and he couldn’t -resist the reward they offered early next morning to any one who caught -me. He sent up a message to the school, and at nine o’clock the master -and two policemen walked into the house. Nelly didn’t try to fight this -time, but she spoke up and told them it was all her doing and neither -mine nor Uncle Jonas’s. She told them that she had brought Mag to see me -all the way from home, and that she was sure I wouldn’t run away any -more if I might have Mag with me there. - -“It was well for me that my wonderful Nelly kept her senses and could -use her tongue, for my luck began to turn from that time forwards. The -sergeant of police patted her on the head, and took Mag’s cage himself; -and the other policeman put into his pocket the handcuffs he had begun -to fasten on my wrists, saying they were ‘too big for such a kid;’ and -even the master said that though I was in a bad scrape, he would speak -for me to the magistrates. - -“So we went back in procession to the school after I had kissed Nelly, -and my clothes had been dug up in the garden, brushed, and put on me -again; and when they locked me up in the whitewashed cell, where -refractory boys were confined, the sergeant winked at the master, and -put Mag’s cage in with me. When the labour-master unlocked the door to -give me my dinner of bread and water, he brought something for Mag, and -said a kind word to both of us. - -“I was quite happy in Mag’s company all that day and night. Nelly’s -pluck had made a man of me, in spite of all her fine schemes being -upset. And I had a sort of dim hope that the magistrate, who was coming -to see the runaway boy, might bring me some kind of good luck. - -“Next morning I heard a carriage drive up, and in a few minutes I heard -the key put into the lock. I stood up, and put my hands behind me, as we -were always made to do when visitors arrived. Mag’s cage was on the -floor at my feet. - -“The door opened, and there stood the long-lost gentleman who had given -me the sovereign, looking down on me with the same pleasant face and the -same lively blue eyes! He recognised me at once; to him it was but the -other day that I had caught his horse for him; but it had been long -years of misery and disgrace to me. But he had been in London and in -foreign parts, and had never thought of me since then—so he told me -afterwards. - -“‘Why, who’s this, and where’s my change?’ he said at once. ‘Didn’t I -ask you if I could trust you? And how did you come _here_, I wonder, -with that honest face?’ - -“It was too much for me, and for all the pluck I had got from Mag and -Nelly, I burst into a fit of crying, and leant against the wall, heaving -and sobbing. ‘The groom never came,’ was all I could get out at last. - -“‘Bring me a chair here, Mr. Reynolds,’ said he, ‘and leave me alone -with him. I know this boy.’ - -“The master went away, and my kind gentleman and I were left alone. I -won’t tell you all that passed,” said the farmer tenderly, “it was only -the first of a long string of kindnesses he has done me, and made me the -happy old fellow I am. He got it all out of me by degrees. He heard all -about Mag and Nelly, and all about Miss Pringle and the robbery. He took -particular notice of Mag, and seemed very curious to know all about his -ways. And when he went away he told the master to treat me as usual till -he came back the next day. - -“And now I’ve nearly done my yarn,” said the farmer; “she must be tired -of Nelly and me by this time,” he added, looking at his wife, but it was -getting too dark for me to see the twinkle that I know now was in his -eyes as he said it. - -“My gentleman came early, and to my astonishment, both I and Mag were -put into his carriage, and he drove us away. Still more taken back was I -when we stopped at Uncle Jonas’s, and out came Miss Nelly and climbed -into the seat next me. We were too shy to kiss each other or talk, but -after a bit I pulled out the wisp of hair from my trousers pocket and -showed it her. Nelly couldn’t make it out, then, but she knows now how I -got it. She knows—she knows,” said the farmer; “and here it is now,” and -he showed me a locket, attached to his watch-chain, with some brown hair -in it. - -I looked, and was going to ask a question, when he held up his hand to -hush me, and went on. - -“We drove many miles, the gentleman asking questions now and then, -especially about Mag, but for the most part we were silent. At last I -saw the three elms and the spire come in sight, and I had hard work to -keep the tears in. I sat with Nelly’s hand in mine, but we said never a -word. - -“We dropped Nelly at her mother’s cottage, and she was told that she -would probably be sent for presently. Then we drove on to Miss -Pringle’s, and went straight to the stable-yard; there was no pony, and -the grass was growing in the yard. Miss Pringle, I found afterwards, -would have no more boys about the place. - -“‘Which was your room?’ said the gentleman, and I showed him upstairs. - -“‘Stay here till I come for you,’ said he. ‘Can I trust you?’ - -“He did not wait for an answer, but went away, taking Mag with him. I -sat down and looked out at the garden, and at the window where I had -jumped out that terrible day, and wondered what was going to happen; and -what happened is the last thing I am going to tell you. - -“He went round to the front door, and presently came out into the -garden, still carrying Mag’s cage. Then he put down the cage on the -lawn, leaving its door open. Then he went back into the house, and I -could see him and Miss Pringle come and sit at the open window of the -parlour. He kept his eye on the cage, and seemed to say little; Miss -Pringle looked rather puzzled, I thought, and shook her curls pretty -often in a fidgety sort of way. - -“Mag sat there in his cage for some time, though the door was wide open, -as if he didn’t quite see what it all meant; and I sat at my window, -too, as much puzzled as the bird or Miss Pringle. - -“At last Mag began to stir a bit; then he came out and looked carefully -all round, hopped about a bit, and at last got upon the garden chair, -and seemed to be thinking of something, with his head on one side. All -of a sudden he gave his long tail a jerk, and uttered a kind of a -knowing croak; then he came down from the seat and hopped away towards -the flower-bed under the window. The gentleman pulled Miss Pringle -behind the curtain when he saw Mag coming, and I couldn’t see her any -more; but I should think she must have been more puzzled than ever, poor -lady. - -“From my window I could see Mag digging away in the earth with his bill -just in the corner of the flower-border by the house; and it wasn’t long -before he got hold of something, and went off with it in his bill down -the garden, as pleased as Punch, and talking about it to himself. And -well he might be pleased, for it was the saving of me, and I believe he -knew it; bless his old bones down yonder by the hedge! - -“As soon as Mag began to hop down the garden I saw my gentleman do just -what I had done before him; he jumped straight out of the window, and -down came the flowerpots after him. I saw Miss Pringle give a jump from -behind the curtain and try to save them; but it was too late, and there -she stood in the window wringing her hands, while Mag and the gentleman -raced round the garden, over the neat beds and through the rose-bushes, -until everything was in such a mess that I can tell you it took me a -good long time to tidy it all up early next morning. - -“At last he got Mag into a corner by the toolhouse, and a minute later -he was in my room, with Mag in one hand, pecking at him till the blood -came, and in the other a sovereign! - -“‘Here’s the thief,’ he said; ‘shall we send for a policeman?’ But Miss -Pringle had already done that, for she thought that every one was going -mad, and that somebody ought to be taken up; and when I had been taken -over to the house, feeling rather queer and faint, and had been put on -the sofa in the drawing-room, in came the neat maidservant and said that -the constable was at the door. And when I heard that, I went straight -off into a downright faint. - -“When I woke up I was still on the sofa, the neat-faced clock was -ticking, there were steps on the gravel path in the garden, Miss Pringle -was sitting there looking very sad, and there were tears in her eyes, -and I thought for a moment that that dreadful hour had never come to an -end after all. - -“But there was no policeman; and who was this sitting by my side? Why, -it was dear old Nelly! And as she laid her head against mine, with all -that hair of hers tumbling over my face, that kind gentleman came into -the room from the garden, where he had been trying to quiet himself down -a bit, I think, and patted both our heads, without saying ever a word. - -“After a bit, however, he made us sit up, and gave us a good talking to. -It was not Mag’s fault, he said, that we had got into such a terrible -scrape, but mine for disobeying Miss Pringle and keeping the bird in the -stable; and Nelly’s, too, for leading me on to it. And we must take -great care of Mag now that he had got us out of the scrape, and keep -him, to remind us not to get into any more. - -“And we kept him to the last day of his life; and as for scrapes, I -don’t think we ever got into any more, at least, not such bad ones as -that was—eh, Nelly?” - -And seeing me open my eyes wide, he laughed, and asked me whether I -hadn’t found it out long before the story came to an end, and then, -putting his arm round his bonny wife, he added, “Yes, lad, here’s my old -Nelly, and she’ll climb a tree for you to-morrow, if you ask her.” - -I gave my old friend Nelly a good kiss (with the entire approval of her -husband), made my bow to the magpie, and ran home to my grandfather’s. -And as we sat together that night, I got him to tell me the Story over -again, from the moment when he took a fancy to the boy who caught his -horse, to the time when he gave him his best farm, and saw him safely -married to Nelly. - -“I gave her away myself,” said he, “and I gave her to one of the best -fellows and truest friends I have ever known. Miss Pringle gave him £50, -and left him £500 more. But he always will have it that the magpie was -at the bottom of all his luck, and I never would contradict him.” - - - - - SELINA’S STARLING - - -There was no such plucky and untiring little woman as Selina in all our -village. I say _was_, for I am thinking of years ago, at the time when -her Starling came to her; but she is with us still, plucky and -indefatigable as ever, but now a bent and bowed figure of a tiny little -old woman, left alone in the world, but for her one faithful friend. - -Untiring she has ever been, but never, so far as we can recollect, a -tidy woman in her own cottage; perhaps it was natural to her, or more -likely she fell in with the odd ways of her husband, a man whom no wife -could ever have made tidy himself. They never had any children, and they -did not see much of their neighbours; their society was that of pigs and -fowls and cats, and such society, inside a cottage, is not compatible -with neatness. These animals increased and multiplied, and man and wife -were their devoted slaves. Their earnings were eaten up by the -creatures, and nothing ever came of it so far as we could see; for it -was seldom any good to ask Selina to sell you a fowl or a duck—she never -had one ready to kill. We believed that they grew to a comfortable old -age, and then died a natural death; and however that may be, it is true -enough that neither Selina nor her husband could ever bear to part with -them. - -But the member of the household dearest to Selina’s heart was an old -pony that lived in a little tumble-down hovel adjoining the cottage. Fan -was perfectly well known to all the village, for she was always being -taken out to graze on odd bits of grass which were the property of no -one in particular, where, if kindly accosted, and in a good humour, she -would give you her off fore foot to shake. Like Selina, she was of very -small make; she had once been a pretty roan, but now wore a coat of many -faded colours, not unlike an old carpet, well worn and ragged. Some -people in the village declared that she was getting on for forty years -old, and I am inclined to think they were not far wrong; but she was -still full of life, and as plucky and hard-working as Selina. - - [Illustration: Selina’s Starling.] - -Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Fan went up to Northstow with -her master (I use the word by courtesy rather than as expressing their -real relation to each other); she waited patiently at shops and market, -had a dinner of hay at an inn, and returned with her little cart laden -with parcels, which she had to distribute about the village before she -turned in for the night. For many a year she performed these duties, and -she was as well known in Northstow as she was in our village. But one -day, some ten years ago, Selina’s husband fell down suddenly and died; -and then for a short time there was a break in Fan’s visits to the -market-town. - -When the funeral was over, Selina returned to her solitary home, and -busied herself as best she could. The fowls and ducks came trooping -around her, anxious to be fed, and anxious for nothing else; they did -not seem in the least to miss any one from the house. Selina turned them -out of the kitchen, and quietly made up her mind that she could not now -afford to keep them; they must go, with all their mess and litter, and -she would begin to tidy up a bit at last. Then she went out to the -hovel, for she heard a subdued whinnying there. Fan was the one creature -in the place that had felt as she had; Fan had been wanting to know -where the old man was, and had lost her spirits and her appetite. So she -went and spent a full half hour with Fan, talked to her, made her -comfortable, and cried a little on her rough old neck. At last she went -once more into her kitchen, and thence into her tiny parlour, and after -a little tidying up, she took the big family Bible from under the -photograph book and the glass case with the stuffed kitten, and, laying -it on the table, sat down and put on her spectacles. - -She opened the book at haphazard, and began to read in the Old -Testament, but she could not fix her attention. Her thoughts wandered -far away, until she was suddenly roused by something falling down the -chimney into the grate. It was a warm April day, and she was sitting -without a fire; only in the kitchen was there a little bit of coal -smouldering, to be woke up into life presently when it should be -tea-time. She went and examined the grate; a few fragments of half-burnt -stone had come down, and, as she looked, another bit and another fell -with a rattle into the fender. Then there was a scuffle and a beating of -wings; and a young starling suddenly shot down into the room, made -straight for the window, banged himself against it, and fell to the -ground. - -Selina picked it up; it was only stunned, and soon revived in her hands. -She took it gently, and put it into an old cage which lay among the -lumber of the yard, brought the cage in again, set it on the table, and -resumed her reading. It was the book of Ruth; and the first name she -came to was Elimelech—and Elimelech, she thought, would make a good name -for her visitor. All the rest of the day she tended her starling, which -had come to her in this strange way just when she needed something -better in the house to keep her company than those unfeeling fowls and -ducks; and Elimelech, who was stupid from his fall, made no attempt to -escape, but took her advances in a grateful spirit. - -This was how Selina came by her Starling, and with the natural instinct -she possessed of attracting all living creatures to her, she very soon -made a friend of it. It was young enough to feel no shyness for the -quiet little old woman: it was hardly out of its nursery, and had only -just begun to learn to scramble up to the top of the chimney from the -ledge on which the nest was placed, when it took a sudden panic, failed -to reach the top, and came scrambling down into a new world. - -For some time she kept Elimelech in his cage, but gradually she -accustomed him to shift for himself. He would sit on her shoulder as she -went about her household work, and when she went into the hovel he would -perch on Fan’s back. Fan did not seem to mind, and very soon Elimelech -took to roosting there, and a strangely devoted friendship was -established between them. - -While Elimelech was thus growing up as a member of the household, Selina -was beginning to wonder how she was to keep that household together. How -was she to keep herself and pay her rent without the little incomings -that had found their way into her husband’s pocket when he took a fancy -now and then to ask his customers to pay their debts? She parted with -her fowls and ducks, but most of these were ancient skinny creatures, -whose lives had been prolonged beyond the usual limit by careless -kindness, and they brought her but little profit. It was some time -before it dawned on her that she must part with Fan too, but when at -last it did, she felt a terrible pang. It would be like parting with a -sister. And who indeed would buy poor old Fan, and if a purchaser were -found, what would he give for such an ancient little animal? - -She banished the notion from her mind: she and Fan must stick together -for what years of lonely life still remained to them. - -One Tuesday morning, she was grazing the pony on the strip of turf that -ran through the middle of the village allotments; Elimelech was perched -on Fan’s back as usual, for he now insisted upon occupying his favourite -station during all these little excursions, amusing himself by -occasional flights into the air, or sometimes walking at the pony’s -heels and picking up the insects that were disturbed as she grazed. -There in the dewy summer morning the three had a consultation together, -and it was decided that the next day, Wednesday, being market day at -Northstow, Selina and Fan should journey thither, show themselves once -more, and try and start the carrying business afresh before it was too -late. There was no time to be lost; already one villager more -enterprising than his fellows had purchased a donkey, and threatened to -step into the place left vacant by Selina’s husband. The day was spent -in going round to the old customers, and by nightfall Selina had a fair -number of commissions. A heavy cloud had suddenly lifted from the little -old woman’s heart; she saw her way before her and went to bed happy. - -Next morning early she went into her hovel, where Elimelech had passed -the night on his usual perch. She fed the pony, and then, gently -removing the bird, began to put on the harness. Elimelech flew up to a -rafter, and began to utter dolorous crooning whistles; and no sooner was -the harnessing finished, than down he flew again with a persistence that -somewhat perplexed his mistress. - -“No, my dear,” she said to him, “you just stay at home and keep house -till we come back.” And laying hold of him tenderly, she began to carry -him across the garden to the cottage, meaning to shut him up safe in his -cage till evening. But Elimelech seemed to divine what was coming, and -objected strongly; he struggled in her hand, and making his escape, flew -up and perched on the cottage chimney. She shook her finger at him. -“Don’t you get into mischief,” she said, “or you’ll make us both -unhappy.” Elimelech looked very wise up there, bowing and whistling. -“I’ll take care of myself,” he seemed to say, and she thought he might -be trusted to do so. Anyhow, go she must, and without him. - -She mounted into the seat of the little pony-cart, and turned out into -the village street; but she had hardly done so, when a whirring of wings -was heard, and down came Elimelech to his perch again. There was no time -to stop now; and Selina was obliged to let him have his own way, though -she was not without misgivings for what might happen at Northstow, if -they ever reached it all three still together. In the village there was -no fear; Fan and Elimelech were now as well known as Selina herself, but -at Northstow what might happen if the children were coming out of school -just as she got there? - -She tried to time herself so as to escape such a catastrophe, but as -usually happens in such cases, she did after all run right into the -middle of the school as it broke up at twelve o’clock. Elimelech, who -had been perfectly well behaved all the way, only taking a little flight -now and then as a relief, now thought he saw an opportunity to display -himself; and no sooner did the children begin to gather round than he -fluttered his wings and saluted them with a cheery whistle. Instantly -the pony and cart were surrounded with a crowd of imps shouting and -dancing; Fan was hustled and began to kick, and one or two boys made a -dash for the starling. But Elimelech was a match for them; he quietly -flew up to a neighbouring roof and waited there till the hubbub had -subsided. Before Selina had reached her inn, he was on the pony’s back -again. - -Once in the stable, both Fan and Elimelech were safe; but Selina had to -do a good deal of extra carrying that day, for she could not venture to -drive the cart about the town, and had to drag every parcel separately -from shop or market to the inn. At last she got away, escaping by a back -lane which joined the main road outside the town, and reached home -without further adventures. - -On the Saturday following she started again, and again Elimelech -insisted on being of the party. She had no great fear for his safety -this time, for unless it came to throwing stones, which was unlikely on -a market-day with policemen about, she knew that he could save himself -by flight. And so it happened; whenever anything occurred to disturb -him, Elimelech would fly up to some lofty point of vantage, and as -regularly rejoin his company at the inn. But as time went on, he had -less and less need for these sallies; Northstow grew accustomed to the -strange trio, and though a boy would sometimes howl, or a passer-by stop -and stare, no one seriously troubled them. - -So the autumn and winter passed, and Selina began to thrive. Cheerfully -and untiringly she went about her business; she was always to be relied -on, and apart from her own virtues her pony and her starling attracted -attention to her, and got her many new customers. Indeed Selina began to -think Elimelech so important a partner in the concern, that when -February came and the wild starlings in the village began to mate, she -took the precaution of cutting one of his wings, lest his natural -instincts should get the better of him. To lose him would be a terrible -thing both for herself and Fan, who showed much discontent if the bird -were not on her back, gently probing her old coat with his bill. - -“Oh, he loves Fan better than me,” Selina would say to her visitors, of -whom she now had plenty; “he loves me, but he loves Fan better.” If we -could have penetrated into Elimelech’s mind, I do not think we should -have found that this was exactly so. I believe that he loved Selina as -well as we all did—I believe that he looked upon her, as Mr. Dick looked -upon Aunt Betsey, as the most wonderful woman in the world. But I think -that Fan’s back was a more comfortable perch than Selina’s shoulder, and -the hovel more suited to his turn of mind than her kitchen—and that was -all. - -So the years went on, Selina throve, Elimelech’s partnership was -unbroken, but Fan began to grow really old at last. She struggled up the -hill with all her old pluck, but her breath came short and quick. Many a -time in those days have I watched the three making their way up the long -hill beyond the village, Fan panting and struggling, Elimelech whistling -encouragingly on her back, and Selina, who had dismounted to ease her -friend, following the cart slowly, her old black bonnet nodding with -each step, and the head inside it bending over till it was almost on a -level with her waist. - -One day in the winter I had given Selina a commission—it was a mere -trifle, but one of those trifles, a packet of tobacco or what not, which -one wishes there should be no delay about. At tea-time it had not -arrived, and it was past the time when Selina might be expected. I put -on my hat and went out to look for her, but no pony and cart was to be -seen. Then I set off strolling along the road to Northstow, asking a -labourer or two whether they had seen Selina, but nothing was to be -heard of her. With half a misgiving in my mind, I determined to go right -on till I met her, and I was soon at the top of the hill, and pacing -along the stretch of high road that lay along the uplands in the -direction of the little town. It grew quite dark, and still no Selina. - -I was within a mile and a half of Northstow, where the road is bordered -by a broad rim of grass, when I thought I saw a dark object a little in -front of me by the roadside. I went up to it, and found it was Selina’s -cart, without Selina or the pony. Then I struck a match, shading it with -my hand from the breeze. I just made out the pony was lying on the grass -under the hedge, and that the little woman was lying there too, with her -head resting against his side. She seemed to be fast asleep. As I -approached Elimelech rose from the pony’s neck, and fluttered around me. - -Hardly knowing what to do, and feeling as if I were breaking in -ruthlessly on a scene so full of tender sadness, I stood there for a -moment silent. Then I put my hand on Selina’s shoulder, saying, “How are -you, Selina? What’s the matter? Has Fan come to grief?” - -Selina opened her eyes and looked at me; at first she did not know where -she was. Then it all came back to her. - -“She’s dead,” she said at last. “She fell down suddenly in the cart and -died. I took her out and dragged her so that no one should run over her, -but it made me so tired that I must have fallen asleep.” - -The poor little woman put her arm round the dead pony’s neck, and began -to caress it. I saw that it was hopeless to get her home without help, -and went on up the road towards the nearest farmhouse, telling her to -stay where she was till I came back. There was no need to tell her: she -neither could nor would have moved. - -I had not gone far when by good luck I met a waggon returning empty to -our village. I stopped the driver, whom I knew, told him what had -happened, and got him to undertake to carry both Selina and her pony -home in his waggon. I felt sure she would not leave her Fan to the mercy -of any one who came by; and indeed I would not have left her there -myself. Fan had so long been one of us that I shuddered to think of what -nocturnal creatures might find her out in the night. There was a -horrible story of a tramp who had passed a night in a barn not half a -mile from this very spot, and had been attacked by rats in his sleep. - -When we reached the cart, Selina was again fast asleep. Gently we raised -her from the pony’s side, and I had to almost use force to unfasten the -grip of her arm on its neck. I whispered to her that we were going to -take Fan and Elimelech too, and she made no more resistance, but lay -down quietly on some straw in a corner of the waggon. It was hard work -to get poor Fan in after her; but she was so small and thin that at last -we managed it. Elimelech perched himself upon his friend’s motionless -body, and so we set off, a strange funeral procession. - -Arrived at the village, I roused the neighbours, and Selina, now almost -unconscious, was put to bed by kindly hands. Fan we deposited in her old -hovel, and Elimelech, subdued and puzzled, was left there too. - -Next morning Selina was unable to get out of her bed, though she -struggled hard to do so; fatigue and exposure on the wet grass had -brought her very low, and the doctor thought she would hardly get over -it. We had to tell her that she would see Fan no more. She only sighed, -and asked for Elimelech. - -I went down to the hovel; the men were come to take the poor old pony -away. Elimelech was there, not upon poor Fan’s body, but upon a rafter; -and when the pony was taken out, he followed, and evaded all my efforts -to catch him. I saw the cart with its burden turn the corner of the -street, with the bird perched on the edge of it, fluttering his wings, -as if he were expostulating with the ruthless driver. - -I returned to Selina. “Elimelech is gone to see the last of poor Fan,” I -said; “but we shall see him back here before long.” - -“He loves me,” answered she; “but he loves Fan better, and I don’t think -he’ll come back.” And Elimelech did not return that day. - -But the next morning I found him sitting on her bed. She told me that he -must have come back to the hovel, and when he found that shut, have come -in by the front door and made his way upstairs. “And now poor Fan is -gone, he loves me better than any one,” she said. - -Selina is still alive, as I said at the beginning of this tale; she -still finds work to do, and does it with all her might. All her animals -are gone now—cats, fowls, ducks, and pony; Elimelech alone remains; he -has never been unfaithful to her. But they are both growing old—too old -to last much longer; and all we can hope is that Elimelech will be the -survivor. - - - - - TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING - - -“Bessie, my lassie,” exclaimed the Poet, as they entered their new -garden for the first time together, “what a time we shall have!” - -When the Poet called his wife “lassie” she knew he was in a happy frame -of mind, and was happy herself. It was long since she had heard the -word; illness, overwork, and the dull surroundings of a London suburban -villa, had taken all the spring out of his body, and all its natural -joyousness from his mind. I call him Poet because it was the name by -which his best friends knew him; I cannot be sure that he ever wrote -poetry, and certainly he never published any; but they called him Poet -because he was dreamy, and hated the fag and the noise of London, and -pined for the country, and loved to talk of his old Yorkshire home and -its plants and animals, and its beck curling under heathery banks on the -edge of the moor. He was indeed only a London clerk, released at last -from long years of drudgery by a happy stroke of good fortune. - -They had just arrived from London to take possession of their cottage -and garden in the country. It was a frosty evening early in March, and -the sun was just setting as they went up the garden together; it lit up -the bare boughs of a tree which stood just in front of the cottage. - -“Look here, Bessie,” said the Poet; “that is a rowan tree, and it was -the sight of that rowan that fixed me. The cottage was snug, the garden -was good, but the rowans—there are three of them—were irresistible. -There were three just outside our garden in Yorkshire, and every August -the berries turned orange-red and made a glory before my window. Next -August you shall see them, and you’ll see nothing quite so good till -then.” - -Bessie, London born and bred, was glad to get into the house, and make -herself snug before the fire, where the kettle was singing an invitation -to tea. She too was ready to welcome the slow and gentle ways of the -country, and to be rid of perpetual bell-ringing, and postmen’s knocks, -and piano-practising next door, and the rattle of carts and cabs; but I -doubt if the rowans would have decided _her_ choice. I think she thought -more of the useful fruits of the garden—of the currants and gooseberries -of which good store of jam should be made in the summer, of the -vegetables they would grow for themselves, and the strawberries they -would invite their London friends to come and share. - -Next morning quite early the Poet threw his window wide open and looked -out into his garden. It was not a trim and commonplace garden; it was an -acre of good ground that had grown by degrees into a garden, as in the -course of ages of village life one owner after another had turned it to -his own purposes. The Poet looked over a bit of lawn, in the corner of -which stood one of his favourite rowans, to an old bulging stone wall, -buttressed up with supports of red brick of various shades, and covered -with ivy. Over the top of it he could see the church tower, also -ivy-clad, the yews of the churchyard, and the elms in the close beyond, -in the tops of which the rooks were already busy and noisy. A thick and -tall yew hedge separated the lawn from the village allotments, where one -or two early labourers were collecting the winter’s rubbish into heaps -and setting them alight; the shadow of the hedge upon the lawn was -sharply marked by a silvery grey border of frost. On these things the -Poet’s eye lingered with wonderful content for a while, and then -wandered across the allotments over meadow and rich red ploughland to -the line of hills that shut in his view to the south. There came into -his mind the name he used to give to the moors above his Yorkshire dale -in his young days when his mother read the Pilgrim’s Progress to her -children—the Delectable Mountains. - -He was suddenly recalled to his garden by a low melodious pipe, as of a -bird practising its voice for better use in warmer days; it came from -one of the rowans. Sometimes the notes were almost whispered; sometimes -they rose for an instant into a full and mellow sweetness, and then died -away again. They were never continuous—only fragments of song; as if the -bird were talking in the sweetest of contralto voices to a friend whose -answers were unheard. No other bird was singing, and the rooks were too -far away in the elms to break harshly with their cawing on the -blackbird’s quiet strain. - -The Poet listened for a while enraptured, watching the dark form of the -singer, and the “orange-tawny” bill from which the notes came so softly, -so hesitatingly; and then drew in his head and began to dress, still -keeping the window open, and repeating to himself— - - “O Blackbird, sing me something well: - Though all the neighbours shoot thee round, - I keep smooth plats of garden ground - Where thou may’st warble, eat, and dwell. - - “The espaliers, and the standards, all - Are thine; the range of lawn and park: - The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, - All thine, against the garden wall.” - -A few minutes later he was in the garden himself, scenting the dew and -the fragrant earth, listening to the blackbird—his own blackbird, that -meant to be his cherished guest all that spring and summer—to the -singing of a skylark high above the allotment field, and to the distant -murmur of the rooks. The garden was in disorder—what delicious work -there would be in it!—fruit-trees to prune, vegetables to plant, a big -strawberry bed to tend, borders to make gay. All this he would fain have -done himself, even though he knew as little of gardening as he did of -Hebrew; why not learn to do it himself, make mistakes and profit by -them? So he had written to the friendly Parson of the village, who had -been looking after his interests for him; but the Parson would not bear -of it, and he was despotic in his own parish. He had decided that old -Joseph Bates was to start the work and direct the Poet’s enthusiasm into -rational channels; and after breakfast Joseph and the Poet were to meet. -“A worthy old man,” the Parson had written; “you can’t do better than -give him a little employment; if he gives you any trouble, send for me -and I’ll settle him.” - -So after breakfast—a delicious one it was, that first breakfast in the -country—the Poet left his wife to her household duties, and went again -into the garden to face Mr. Bates. He made his way towards his yew -hedge, where he could see the old fellow busy clearing the ground -beneath it of a melancholy tangle of decayed weeds. As he reached the -hedge, one blackbird and then another flew out with awkward impetuosity -and harsh chuckles, and the Poet stopped suddenly, sorry to have -disturbed his friends. - -Joseph touched his hat. “Good morning, Sir,” he said, “and welcome to -your garden, if I may make so free. I’ve known it any time these fifty -years and more, and my father he worked in it long afore I were born. -We’d use to say as the Bateses belonged to this here bit of land years -and years ago, when times was good for the poor man; but ’tis all gone -from us, and here be I a working on it for hire. And ’tis powerful -changed since I were a lad, and none for the better either. Look at this -here yew hedge now; ’tis five and twenty year ago since I told Mr. Gale -as ’twouldn’t do no good but to harbour birds, and here they be. And -here they be,” he repeated, as another blackbird came scurrying out of -the hedge a little further down. - -At this point Joseph broke off his discourse, thrust his arm into the -hedge, lifting the thick branches here and there, and pulled out a lump -of fresh green moss, the first preparations for a blackbird’s nest. - -“Ah, ye blackguards,” he cried, “at it already, are ye? I’ll be bound -there are a dozen or two of ye somewhere or another on the premises. You -see, Sir, ’tis their nater, when they’ve had it all their own way so -long, and no one to look after ’em, a year come next June. They take it -as the garden belongs to them; they’re like rats in a stack-yard, and -you won’t have a thing to call your own by summer. But don’t you take -on, Sir,” he went on, seeing the Poet’s visage lengthening; “we’ll nip -’em in the bud in no time. There’s my grandson Dan, a wonderful smart -lad to find nests—you give him a sixpence, Sir, or what you please, and -he’ll have every nest in the garden in an hour or two. Take it in time, -Sir, as the doctor says to my wife when her rheumatics is a coming on.” - -Mr. Bates chucked the unfinished nest on to a heap of weeds, thrust in -his arm again, and began a fresh search. The Poet’s face grew dark: he -could hardly find his voice. - -“Bates,” he said at last, “stop that. You’ve taken one nest already, and -if you or your grandson take another here, I’ll send you straight about -your business. Do you think I took this garden to rob my blackbirds of -their nests?” - -“Lord save us,” cried Joseph, suddenly bewildered by this vehemence, “do -I rightly understand you, Sir?” - -“You needn’t understand me, if you can’t do so,” said the Poet, feeling -a great dislike and dread for this terrible old man and his barbarian -grandson; “but I mean to keep my blackbirds, so if you take another nest -I’ll find another man.” - -Joseph admitted to his wife afterwards that he was “clean took aback by -this queer gentleman from London;” but, recovering himself quickly, he -stuck his spade into the ground to lean upon, and began a further -discourse. - -“Begging your pardon, Sir, if I’ve in any ways offended you; but may be -you ben’t quite accustomed to our country ways. You see, Sir, a garden’s -a garden down our way: we grows fruit and vegetables in it for to eat. -If the birds was to be master here, ’twouldn’t be no mortal manner of -use our growing of ’em. Now I’ve heard tell as there’s gardens in London -with nothing but wild animals in ’em, and maybe folks there understands -the thing different to what we does.” - -The Poet was inclined to think he was being made a fool of: this mild -and worthy old man was quite too much for him. But he swallowed his -temper and made an appeal to Joseph’s better feelings. - -“Bates,” he said, in that gentle pathetic tone that his friends knew so -well, “if you had lived in London for thirty years you would love to -have the birds about you. Don’t people down here like to hear them sing? -Don’t you feel a better man when you listen to a blackbird at dawn, as I -did this morning?” - -“Bless your heart, Sir,” answered Joseph, beginning to understand the -situation, “I loves to hear ’em whistling, _in their proper place_! -There’s a place for everything, as the Scripture says, and the garden’s -no place for thieves; so we thinks down here, Sir, and if ’tis different -where you come from, there’s no call for me to be argufying about it. -We’ll let ’em be, Sir, we’ll let ’em be. I hope I knows my place.” - -“Better than the birds, eh, Joseph,” said the mollified Poet. Joseph -resumed his digging, and, as the newspapers say, the incident was -closed. - -Later in the morning the Parson dropped in to see his new parishioner, -and was told of Mr. Bates’s loquacity. - -“Well, well,” he said, “old Joseph is an oddity, and you must take him -as you find him. But he’s quite right about the birds. They simply swarm -here: the rooks and sparrows take your young peas, the bullfinches nip -off your tender buds, and the blackbirds and thrushes won’t leave you a -currant or a gooseberry to make your jam of.” Bessie looked up from her -work with a face of alarm. - -“You ask my wife,” continued the Parson. “One year when we were abroad -in June, and there was no one to keep watch, she hadn’t a chance with -anything except the plums. Next spring we took all the nests we could -find, and even then we came off second-best. Of course we like to hear -them singing, as you do, but when it comes to June, you know, you can -thin them off with a gun, and that frightens the rest. I always shoot a -few, and stick them up on the gooseberry bushes as scarecrows. I suppose -you’re not much of a hand at a gun? I or my boys will do it for you with -pleasure.” - -“Oh, thank you,” cried Bessie, “I should be so sorry to have them -killed, but we _must_ have our jam now we’ve come to live in the -country. When the time comes, I’m sure Gilbert will be most grateful to -you.” - -“No he won’t,” said the Poet: - - “Though all the neighbours shoot thee round, - I keep smooth plats of garden ground - Where thou may’st warble, eat, and dwell.” - -“Well, well,” said the Parson, rather puzzled, “there’s time enough, -there’s time enough. Tackle your weeds first, and plant your borders, -and if you want the policeman in June, here he is.” And the hearty -Parson took his leave, the Poet escorting him down the garden, where a -blackbird was still singing. They stopped and listened. - -“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said the Parson. “It’s a pity they’re such -rascals. I’m an enthusiastic gardener, and I have to choose between my -garden and the birds, and I think you’ll have to choose too.” - -“Is there no compromise?” asked the Poet mildly. - -“Not for an enthusiast,” said the Parson, decidedly. - -“Then my choice is made already,” said the Poet. And so they parted. - -So the birds built where and when they pleased, and brought up crowds of -hungry young ones; the old gardener kept his word and his place. They -throve upon a juicy diet of grubs and caterpillars, and the garden -throve in getting rid of these; so that by May it was such an Eden as -even the Poet’s fancy had never dreamed of. His ear was daily soothed -with a chorus of mellow song: he began to make a list of all the birds -that visited his garden, to take notes of the food they seemed to love, -and to record the dates of their nest-building, egg-laying, and -hatching. His eyes were daily feasting on the apple-blossoms and lilacs, -and there was promise of a full harvest of fruit on espaliers, -standards, and garden-walls. The rowans were gay with heavy bunches of -white flowers, which promised a glorious show of orange-red berries for -August. - -Joseph Bates had long ago given up engaging his master in conversation, -and maintained in the garden an air of silent wisdom which quite baffled -the Poet’s advances; but in the village, when asked by his friends about -his employer, he would touch his forehead significantly, as implying -that the good man was “weak in the upper storey.” - -Bessie’s careful mind was already providing for the fruit-harvest; a -huge cooking-vessel was procured, and scores of clean white jam-pots -graced the larder shelves. The Poet wrote to a congenial friend, an -ardent member of the Society for the Prevention of the Extinction of -Birds, who, living in a London suburb, had come to believe that in the -course of a few years the whole race of birds would be exterminated in -this country through the greed and cruelty of that inferior animal Man. -This enthusiast was now bidden to come in a month’s time, eat his fill -of fruit, and bask in one garden where birds still built and sang and -fed in unmolested freedom. Nor did the blackbirds watch the ripening -treasure unmindful of the future; they, and the thrushes, and the -starlings, while they did their duty towards the grubs and caterpillars, -looked forward to a plentiful reward, and told their young of new treats -and wonders that were yet in store for them. - -And now a spell of fine sunny weather began to bring out a blush on the -cherries and gooseberries and red currants; the roses burst into bloom; -and the Poet and his wife were busy tending and weeding the garden they -had learnt to love so well. In the warm afternoons he sat out reading, -or walked up and down the path through the allotments listening to the -birds and nursing his thoughts; and the villagers were quite content to -see him doing this, for, as one of them expressed it to Joseph Bates, -“he do make a better scarecrow than all the old hats and bonnets in the -place.” So the Poet, with his white terrier at his heels (he kept no -cat, I need hardly say), was all unknown to himself doing a work of -grace for his neighbours. - -He noticed, in these perambulations, that the birds now sang less -frequently and heartily; but then there were more of them than ever, for -the young ones were now all about the garden, and had grown so bold and -tame that they would hardly get out of the Poet’s way as he moved gently -along his paths. He loved them all, and thought of them almost as his -own children; and no shadow of a foreboding crossed his mind that they, -born in his garden, reared under his protection, could ever vex the even -flow of his happiness. - -One fine evening, just as the strawberries were ripening, the Member of -the S.P.E.B. arrived on his visit. It was agreed that they should open -the strawberry season next morning after breakfast; for that, as the -Poet observed, is the real time to eat strawberries, “and the flavour is -twice as good if you pick them yourself in the beds.” So in the fresh of -the morning they all three went into the garden, and the Poet pointed -out with pride the various places where the birds had built. - -“We’ve had half a dozen blackbirds’ nests that we know of,” he said, -“and probably there are others that we never found. See there—there’s a -nice crop of blackbirds for a single season!” - -Out of the strawberry beds, hustling and chuckling, there arose a whole -school of youthful blackbirds, who had been having their first lessons -in the art of sucking ripe fruit. The elders set off first, and the -young ones followed unwillingly, one or two bolder spirits even yet -dallying in the further corner of the bed. - -The Member hardly seemed enthusiastic; he had been invited from London -to eat strawberries, not to see the birds eat them. The Poet half -divined his thoughts: “Plenty for all,” he cried; “we share and share -alike here.” - -They began to search; but alas! wherever a ripe fruit betrayed itself -among the leaves, its juicy flesh had been cut open by a blackbirds -bill. A few minutes’ hunt had but scanty result, and the Poet became the -more uncomfortable as he caught sight of Joseph Bates’s face, wearing an -expression of taciturn wisdom, which suddenly emerged from behind a row -of peas and disappeared again. - -“Poet,” said the Member, raising himself and straightening an aching -back, “if it’s share and share alike, does that mean that each of us is -only to count as one blackbird? I say, my good fellow, you really must -net this bed if we’re to get anything out of it.” In this suggestion he -was warmly seconded by Bessie, aghast at finding her treasure slipping -from her so fast. - -The Poet was a little disconcerted; but he faced it out bravely, and -with the obstinacy of his northern blood: - - “The _unnetted_ blackhearts ripen dark, - All thine, along the garden wall,” - -he quoted “No; I will net no fruit in this garden.” - -“Then it will be _all theirs_, and no mistake,” said the Member. “Poet, -I shall go back to London and found a Society for the Protection of Man -from the Birds. The plain fact is that you have too many birds here; -they have increased, are increasing, and ought to be diminished.” - -“Such language from you—you,” cried the Poet, half angry and half -amused: “look at all the work they have done for me this spring in -clearing off all manner of pests: think of all the songs they have sung -for me! Are they to have no reward?” - -“But haven’t you worked in your garden too, and are _you_ to have no -reward?” said the perverse Member. “Why can’t they go on with their -grubs and caterpillars, instead of devouring your strawberries, which -are in no way necessary to their existence?” - -“Are they necessary to ours?” retorted the Poet. This brought the -argument to a standstill: it had got twisted up in a knot. The Member -wished to say that he had not been asked into the country to restrict -himself to the necessaries of life; but friendship prevailed, and he -suppressed himself. They returned to the house a trifle dejected, and -trying to keep the tempers which those thoughtless birds had roused. - -The next day the Poet arose very early in the morning, to gather -strawberries for breakfast before the birds should have eaten them all. -But the birds had got up still earlier, and were there before him; and -now for the first time they aroused in his gentle heart a mild feeling -of resentment. He stood there and even expostulated with them aloud; but -they gave him little heed and as soon as his back was turned they were -down on his strawberries again. That day he was persuaded to have a boy -in, who was to come next morning at daybreak, and keep the birds away -till after breakfast; then (so the Poet bargained) they should have -their turn. Joseph Bates, with much satisfaction, but nobly concealing -his triumph, undertook to procure a trusty and humane boy. - -Next day the Poet in the early morning threw open his window and looked -out on his garden. The humane boy was there, faithful to his trust—so -faithful that, even as the Poet looked, he drew from his pocket a -catapult, picked up a stone, and discharged it (luckily without effect) -at a black marauder. The Poet quickly huddled on his clothes, and -hurried down into the garden, only to find the humane boy on his knees -among the dewy plants, eagerly devouring the fruit that the blackbirds -should have had! - -In two minutes he was turned neck and crop out of the garden. The Poet -utterly refused to listen to his plea that a boy had as good a right to -a strawberry as a blackbird. He was beginning to get irritated. For the -moment he loved neither boys, nor strawberries, nor even blackbirds. -Misfortunes never come alone, and as he turned from the garden gate he -began to be aware that it was raining. He looked up, and for the first -time for weeks he saw a dull leaden sky, with here and there a ragged -edge of cloud driven across it from the west. The thirsty soil began to -drink in the moisture, and dull and dusty leafage quickly grew clean and -wholesome; but the strawberries—such few as they could find—had no -flavour that day; and now too the slugs came out refreshed, and finished -the work of the blackbirds. - -The rain went on next day, and when at last it stopped the -strawberry-bed was sodden and uninviting. The Member, tired of staying -in the house, and eager to get back to his London suburb, where certain -fruits should now be ripening on the walls of a small rectangular -garden, happily free from birds, proposed that they should travel -thither, and perhaps take a short tour on the Continent. By August, he -urged, the garden would be delightful again, and the rowan-berries would -be in all their glory; and perchance even the blackbirds would have gone -into the country for a change, willing to leave poor Man a trifle in his -own garden, after six months of stuffing themselves and their young. - -To this plan the Poet was brought to consent for he felt a little tried -by his friends both human and winged. But Bessie would not go; she had -too much to do at home, she said. The fact was that during those rainy -days she and the Member had entered into a conspiracy with Joseph Bates -and the cook—a conspiracy of which indeed, poor soul, she felt a little -ashamed; but the sight of those empty white jam-pots was too much for -her, and a little plotting seemed unavoidable if they were to get -filled. Joseph was instructed to procure a supply of nets, and the cook -a supply of sugar. The conspirators kept their secrets, and for once a -plot went off without detection. The day arrived; the Poet was carried -off, half unwilling, into exile: by nightfall Joseph had netted all the -gooseberries and currants, and within a week a fair fruit-harvest graced -the cupboard shelves. - -The blackbirds and their friends knew not what to make of it. It was bad -enough to be disturbed, just as you were enjoying a juicy gooseberry, by -the Poet mooning up and down the garden path; but to have their sweet -freedom curtailed by grievous netting in the one romantic home of -liberty left them in a malicious and self-seeking village—this was the -unkindest cut of all. Depressed and angry, they determined to withdraw -for a while and moult, and to leave the garden to the mercy of the grubs -and wasps; when August came they might perhaps return to see how far -wilful Man was having his own way. - -Mid-August arrived, with its gentle indications of approaching autumn, -its deepening colours and grey dewy mornings. The rowan-berries were -turning a rich red, and Bessie longed for the Poet’s coming that he -might fill his eyes with this last glory of the garden before the autumn -set in. The nets had been long removed from the bushes, and the birds -were beginning to return to the garden and resume their duties as -grub-eaters—nay, some of them were even breaking out again into song. -The only drawback to their happiness was the arrival of two nephews of -the Poet for their holidays, who prowled about the garden with an -air-gun, letting fly little leaden bullets at the birds with very -uncertain aim. - -These boys, thus employed the Poet found on his return, and strictly -enjoined to restrict their sport to such cornfields as they might find -to be the especial prey of the omnivorous sparrow. He noted the presence -of his birds with joy, and was still more delighted to find his -treasured rowans covered with pendulous bunches of magnificent red -berries, which would be a daily treat to his eyes for weeks to come. -They had home-made jam that evening, and he took it as a matter of -course and asked no questions. - -The next morning broke fresh and fine, and the Poet threw open his -window long before any one in the house was stirring. His mind was -filled with comfortable thoughts of home after the discomforts of -foreign travel; how delicious was a garden in August—one’s own garden, -with one’s own birds and flowers and trees! - -Ah, hapless Poet! Do not look at your beloved rowans; there is a sight -there that will not please you! - -Three blackbirds, a missel-thrush, and half-a-dozen starlings, were hard -at work snipping off the berries, and gaps in the golden bunches already -told the tale of what was to happen; the ground below was strewn with -the relics of the feast, which these careless epicures were leaving to -rot unheeded. The Poet’s face grew dark. - -“Confound it all,” he broke out, with quite unusual vehemence, “they -can’t have everything!” And he looked about the room—the truth must -out—for something to throw at his darlings. But if he threw his boots or -his soap, he might have to go and pick them up again, with Joseph Bates -looking on sardonically; and then another thought, a wicked thought, -came into his head and prevailed over him. He crepe softly downstairs, -found the air-gun and the box of little bullets lying on the hall table, -and carried them guiltily upstairs. The gun was loaded the indignant -Poet leant out of the window and took a trembling aim at one black -robber. His finger was on the trigger, and in another moment he might -have been a conscience-stricken man for life, when a bright metallic -sound suddenly broke upon his ear and held his hand. - -Tac-tac-tac! Tac! Ta-tac! - -What was it that seemed so familiar to his Yorkshire ears, bringing up -mental visions of long rambles over bracing moors? Softly as a cat the -Poet stole downstairs again, replaced the gun on the table, and returned -swiftly with a field-glass, which now showed him, as he expected, the -grey-black plumage and white crescent of a Ring-ousel. Little did that -wandering stranger, so happy in the discovery, here in the far south, of -its beloved northern berries, imagine that its voice had saved the -Poet’s hands from bloodshed, and his mind from a lifelong remorse! - -He knelt long at the window, watching the berries disappear without -demur, dreaming of rushing streams and purple heather, and welcoming in -his heart the stranger to the feast. Then rousing himself he fetched his -wife to share his pleasure, and told her of his boyhood among the moors, -and of the Ring-ousel’s nest found in the gorsebush as he was fishing in -the tumbling beck. And then he told her of the air-gun—and she told him -of the conspiracy. - -From that moment peace returned to the garden and to the Poet’s mind. -All day long they heard and saw the Ring-ousel, who could not find it in -his heart to leave the berries, and delayed his journey southward for a -whole day to enjoy them. Joseph Bates looked at him with indifference -when the Poet pointed him out. “The thieves are welcome to anything they -can get there,” he said, pointing to the tree: “that fruit’s no mortal -use to no one. But they’ve had a lot more than their share this year of -what’s good for us poor men and women,” he added; “and if I may make so -bold, Sir, I would throw it out as that kind of thing should not happen -next year.” - -The Parson came up the garden walk and joined the group: the news of the -Ring-ousel had reached him. - -“There he is,” said the Poet “and there they all are, taking my berries -as they’ve taken my fruit. And as far as I’m concerned they may have it -every bit; but for my wife’s sake I must consent to a compromise, if -there is one.” - -“Well,” said the Parson, “give them a tithe of all you have. Give them -every tenth fruit tree, and a corner of the strawberry bed. As for the -rowan-berries, you must let them go.” - -“And welcome,” said the Poet; and Bessie and old Joseph made no -objection. - -Next year the Parson’s compromise was carried out; and Man successfully -asserted his right to share in the Blackbirds’ feast. - - - THE END - - - RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY. - - - WORKS BY W. WARDE FOWLER, M.A. - - _With Illustrations by_ Bryan Hook - - - TALES OF THE BIRDS - - _Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. Prize Library Editions. Crown - 8vo. Ornamental Cloth, 2s. 6d. Cloth elegant, gilt edges, 3s. - 6d. School Edition. Globe 8vo. 1s. 6d._ - -_SATURDAY REVIEW._—“It is one of the most delightful books about birds -ever written. All the stories are good.... He knows all about their -social habits and their solitary phases of life from close and constant -observation, and makes the most profitable use of his study as -ornithologist by the prettiest alliance of his science with the fancy -and humour of an excellent story teller.... The book finds sympathetic -illustration in Mr. Bryan Hook’s clever drawings.” - -_GLOBE._—“Mr Fowler’s book will be especially appreciated by young -readers. He displays both a knowledge and love of nature and of the -animal creation, and his tales have the merit moreover of conveying in -an unostentatious way the best of morals. The illustrations by Mr. Bryan -Hook are admirably drawn and engraved.” - -_GUARDIAN._—“Mr. Fowler has produced a charming book, which none are too -old and few too young to appreciate. He possesses the rare art of -telling a story simply and unaffectedly; he is pathetic without -laborious effort; he excels in suggesting the effect which he desires to -produce. A quiet vein of humour runs through many of the stories, and -many shrewd strokes of kindly satire are given under the guise of his -pleasant fables.... Apart from the interest of the stories themselves, -the pages are brimful of minute observation of the ways and habits of -bird life. The _Tales of the Birds_ would be an admirable present to any -child, and if the grown-up donor read it first, the present would, in a -peculiar degree, confer the double blessing which proverbially belongs -to a gift.” - -_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“We scarcely know which we like best of these -charming stories ... Every piece gives as some further glimpse into the -ways of birds and makes us feel fonder of them.” - - - _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ - MORE TALES OF THE BIRDS. Illustrated - - - _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ - _Illustrated by_ Bryan Hook - A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS - - - _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._ - SUMMER STUDIES OF BIRDS AND BOOKS - - - _Extra Crown 8vo. 6s._ - THE ROMAN FESTIVALS OF THE PERIOD OF THE REPUBLIC. - An Introduction to the Study of Roman Religion. - - [_Handbooks of Archæology and Antiquities_ - -_SPECTATOR._—“This work is intended as an introduction to the study of -the religion of the Romans, and a very faithful and accurate piece of -work it is, as indeed might be expected by those who know Mr. Fowler’s -previous studies of ancient life.” - -_LITERATURE._—“Mr. Fowler has admirably summed up the results of the -folklore school as far as Rome is concerned; and it is much to have a -scholar’s unprejudiced opinion on them. The book marks a distinct step -in advance.” - -_GUARDIAN._—“A delightful volume which will attract and interest any -educated and thoughtful reader.” - -_SPEAKER._—“This delightful book, which leads us by the plain path of -the calendar, illuminating every step with now a curious parallel from -Samoa, now a pretty tale from Ovid, now an observation made in -Oxfordshire. And it is not of every work that you can say with truth -that it is the work of a scholar, a gentleman, a philosopher, a -naturalist, and an understanding lover of the country.” - -_ACADEMY._—“A book with which every student of Roman religion will have -to make his account.... Alike as a storehouse of critically sifted facts -and as a tentative essay towards the synthetic arrangement of these -facts, Mr. Fowler’s book seems to us to mark a very distinct advance -upon anything that has yet been done.” - - - _Crown 8vo. 5s._ - THE CITY-STATE OF THE GREEKS AND ROMANS - -_ATHENÆUM._—“From cover to cover the book is readable and instructive, -and to the general reader it should prove as attractive as a novel.” - -_SPECTATOR._—“On the ‘city-state’ Mr. Warde Fowler gives us a very -valuable discussion.” - -_WESTMINSTER REVIEW._—“The best recent English work on the subject.” - -_MORNING POST._—“Mr. Fowler’s well-written and excellently arranged -treatise will be valued not only for the information which it contains, -but for the light which it throws on various historical questions.” - - - LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - ---Retained the copyright notice from the printed edition (although this - book is in the public domain.) - ---Silently corrected a few palpable typos. - ---In the text versions only, delimited italicized text in _underscores_. - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's More Tales of the Birds, by W. 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