CHAPTER III
SAMMY-SAM AND LUCY-LOO
I WAS very glad I had been warned, for there was a terrible noise out in the street that I afterward learned was caused by young creatures called children, shouting and calling to each other. Then the front door slammed and there was quiet.
Presently two very calm young beings—for Mrs. Martin would allow no shouting in her dining-room—came in, a boy and a girl.
“Lucy-Loo and Sammy-Sam,” said Mrs. Martin, with a merry twinkle in her eye, for she was a great joker, “here is a new baby bird come downstairs for the first time.”
The boy was a straight, well set-up young thing, eight years old, I heard afterward. The girl was a year younger, and she had light hair and big, staring eyes—very bright, intelligent eyes.
Our Mary was much older than her young cousins, and she was pretty strict with them about her birds, for they were never allowed to come into her bird-room.
The boy sat down at the table, and to my surprise said as he stared at me, “Not much of a bird, that—haven’t you got anything better looking to show off?”
He was taking his soup quite sulkily.
His little sister was pouting. “I think Cousin Mary is very mean,” she said to her aunt. “She might let us go in her old bird-room. We wouldn’t hurt anything.”
Our Mary said nothing, but Mrs. Martin spoke. “You remember, Lucy, that one day when Mary was out, a certain little girl and a certain little boy took a troop of young friends into the bird-room, and some baby birds died of fright, and some old ones got out, and were restored to their home with difficulty.”
Our Mary raised her head. “I have forgiven them, mother, and some day soon I am going to let them see my birds, but they must promise never to go into the bird-room without me.”
The boy and girl both spoke up eagerly. “We promise. Will you take us in to-day?”
“No, not to-day,” said our Mary. “To-morrow.”
Their young faces fell, and they went on taking their soup.
“Canaries are very gentle, timid creatures,” said Mrs. Martin. “You know, it is possible to kill them, without in the least intending to do so. This one we have down here to-day seems an exception. He gets frightened, but soon overcomes it. I think he is going to be an explorer.”
“It is his unpleasant life in the bird-room that makes him wish to come out,” said our Mary. “His little brother teases him most shamefully.”
“Just the way Sammy-Sam teases me,” said Lucy poutingly.
“I don’t tease you,” said Sammy. “You are a cry-baby.”
“I’m not a cry-baby,” she said.
Mrs. Martin interposed in her cheerful way. “Would you rather take your lunch, my darlings, or go out in the hall and continue your discussion?”
“Lunch first,” said the boy promptly, “but I’ll argue the head off Lucy afterward.”
“Take an arm or a leg,” said his aunt. “The head is such an important member to lose.”
I thought this a good time for a little song, so in a broken way I told of my troubles with Green-Top, and how he beat me and pulled out my feathers.
The boy and girl were delighted. “Sure he’s some bird,” said Sammy, and Lucy cried out, “Little sweet thing—I love you.”
After lunch Mr. Martin said he would take our Mary for a drive. The children hurried back to school, and Mrs. Martin said she would go and lie down, for she was tired. “Come with me, little boy,” she said to me, “or would you rather go to the bird-room?”
I flew to the ribbon shoulder knot on her dress. I admired her very much and wished to stay with her.
“Mary,” she said delightedly, “I love to have this little Dicky with me. I wish you would bring one of your small cages downstairs. Put seeds and water in it and hang it on the wall of the sitting-room. Leave the door open, so he can go in and out. Of course he must spend some time each day with the old birds to perfect his song, but I would like him to have the run of the house. I think I see in him an unusual sympathy and understanding of human beings.”
“He is a pet,” said our Mary. “I will be glad to have him downstairs a good deal.”
So it came about that I had a little home of my own in the room of one of the best friends of birds in the city. Our Mary was darling, but she was young. Her mother had known trouble, and she had known great joy, and she could look deep into the hearts of men and beasts and birds. I had a very happy time with her, and got to know many interesting animals and other birds. At the same time I was free to go into the bird-room whenever I wished to do so, but I found after I had become accustomed to human beings that many of the birds there seemed narrow and very taken up with their own nests, not seeing much into, nor caring much about, the great bird world outside our little room.
Therefore, to help canaries and to help friends of canaries to understand them, I am giving this little account of my life—an insignificant little life, perhaps, and yet an important little life, for even a canary is a link in the great chain of life that binds the world together.
CHAPTER IV
A SAD TIME FOR A CANARY FAMILY
TIME went by, and autumn came and then winter. I had been hatched in the early summer, and by winter time it seemed to me that I was a very old bird and knew a great deal.
I had become quite a member of the Martin family, and sometimes I did not go in the bird-room for days together.
My sleeping place was a cage in the family sitting-room upstairs. The door was never closed, and I flew in and out at will. Oh, how interested I was in the world of the house! I used to fly from room to room and sometimes I even went in the kitchen and watched Hester doing the cooking. She had a little shelf near a window filled with plants, and I always lighted there, for she did not like me to fly about and get on her ironing board or pastry table. I became so interested in the family that I thought I would never get tired of exploring the house, but when winter came I found myself staring out in the street. I wanted to get out and see what the great out-of-doors was like.
Early in the winter we had much excitement in the bird-room. A very happy time called Christmas was coming. Everybody gave presents, and Mr. Martin’s gift to his daughter was money to build a fine large flying place on the roof for her birds. We would not be able to use it until spring, but he said the work had better be done in the winter because it was easier to get carpenters than it would be later on, and there were some poor men he wished to employ during the cold weather.
What chirping and chattering and gossip there were among the birds! There was no nesting going on now, and not much to talk about. Soon two men came, and from the big window we birds watched them putting up a good-sized framework out on the roof and nailing netting to it. What a fine large place we should have right out in the sunshine.
There were no fir trees put out there on account of fire. Mr. Martin said sparks from chimneys might start a blaze, but the men made things like trees of metal, with nice spreading branches. A part of this flying cage was covered over—and up under the roof, where no rain could wet them, the men put tiny nesting boxes.
“Why, we shall be just like wild birds,” said my mother joyfully, “with nests outside in the fresh air. What lovely, strong young ones we shall have! It has been a trifle hot in the bird-room in summer.”
My poor little mother had felt the heat terribly through the latter part of the summer, but that had not prevented her from doing her duty by her second family of young ones. They were very interesting little fledglings—three male birds, and three hen-birds, and strange to say my naughty brother Green-Top was as kind to them as he had been unkind to me.
It is no easy matter to feed six hearty young canaries, and it was the prettiest sight in the world to see him fly to the dish of egg food, stuff his beak and hurry to the nestlings with it. He was a great help to my parents. He was the only young canary in the bird-room that helped his parents feed new babies, and the old birds gave him great credit for it.
He would not let me go near the nest. I had politely offered to help him, but he told me in an angry way that I was a rover and despised my home, and if I did not get out, he would pick at my eyes and blind me for life.
“Don’t mind him, darling, darling,” sang my dear mother, who never forgot me. Norfolk, my father, paid no attention to me now. A steely look came into his eyes whenever I went near him, and one day he sang coldly at me, “Who are you, who are you?” though he knew quite well I was his son.
Green-Top was his favorite now. My brother just loved our father and perched near him at night, and was so attentive to him that the old birds said, “That young one will never mate. He loves his parents too well. He will always live with them.”
I never dared sing in the bird-room now, for if I did Green-Top always pulled my tail or looked down my throat. These are great tricks with canaries, to take the conceit out of a bird they think vain. Often when in the gladness, of my heart at getting back into the bird-room I would burst into song, Green-Top would steal behind me and tweak my tail severely, and if he was busy about something, he would wink at one of my cousins to do it for him.
A terrible trouble, a most unspeakable and dreadful trouble, came upon us as a family and poisoned our happiness that winter. My beautiful mother Dixie, who had been allowed to have too many nests and raise too many nestlings in her short life, sickened and died. I shall never forget seeing her fail from day to day. First she had asthma and sat gasping for breath, with her beak wide open. Our Mary did everything for her. She gave her iron tonic and different medicines, but nothing did any good. Day by day her poor little body looked like a puff-ball, and her quick, short gasps for breath were most painful to hear. Her voice failed, and she had to take castor oil and paregoric and glycerine and had rock-candy in her drinking water.
“It is no use,” said our Mary one day. “My dear Dixie, you will have to go, but I think there is a little bird heaven somewhere where you will be happy, and will not suffer any more, and some day all your little family will go to it, and fly about gaily with you ever after.”
My little mother opened her eyes, her very beautiful eyes, though all the rest of her body was drooping and disfigured now. They opened so wide that I thought perhaps she was going to get better. Many times since I have seen that strange look in the eyes of a dying bird—a look of great astonishment, as if they had suddenly caught sight of something they had not seen before. Then the lovely eyes closed, her tiny head fell over, and our Mary said softly, “Her little bird spirit has flown away.”
She held her out in the palm of her hand for all the birds to see, then she took her away, and though it was winter and deep snow was on the ground, she had the gardener dig a little grave and she buried her in a tin box, quite deep in the ground, where no roaming cats nor dogs would get her.
We watched her from the window, all of us except my father Norfolk. He sang all the rest of the day at the top of his voice, almost a screaming song. He sang because he thought his heart was breaking, but in a few weeks he was flying about with Avis, the canary who ate her eggs. Her mate Spotty had died, and our Mary was pleased to have her take up with Norfolk, for he was a steady bird and always at home, not like poor Spotty, who used to be mostly at the opposite end of the bird-room from his home, gossiping and chattering with canaries when he should have been attending to his mate.
My mother’s death saddened me terribly, and for a long time I spent a large part of every day in the bird-room with my young brothers and sisters, all of whom had nice names. The hen-birds were Pretty Girl, Beauty, and Cantala, and the males were Pretty Boy, Redgold, and Cresto. Such little dear things they were, all gentle and good, no fighters among them.
At first Green-Top let me help him father them. Then when he got over his grief he began to beat me again, and I lost feathers.
When I speak of beating, I must not be taken too seriously. When canaries fight, they fly up into the air and down again, fluttering wings, crying out, and making dashes at each other—a great fuss and flurry, but not much harm done. The hen-birds fight this way a good deal in nesting time, then their mates come and help them, and the whole bird-room is in a commotion.
A more serious way of fighting is chasing. One bird takes a dislike to another bird and pursues him unmercifully, striking him about the head till his beak is sore and bleeding. That is the way Green-Top served me, and soon I made up my mind that I was not needed in the bird-room and I got into the habit of spending about all my time downstairs, only coming up once in a while to see how all the birds were, and find out if they were getting anything to eat that I did not have.
Everybody was so good to me. Hester put little tidbits on my shelf in the kitchen, Mrs. Martin was always handing dainties to me, and even Mr. Martin would bring home a fine apple or some grapes or an orange for me to peck at.
The children were the best of all. Not a bit of candy or cake did they get but what a bit was saved for me, and many a greasy or sticky little morsel that I just pretended to eat was laid before me.
It was curious about those children. They were rather naughty with human beings, but ever since their cousin Mary allowed them to go in the bird-room, once a day with her, they had become nicer to birds and animals.
CHAPTER V
MY NEW FRIEND, CHUMMY HOLE-IN-THE-WALL
AS I have said before, a strange longing to be out of doors came over me as winter passed away and spring approached. I never wearied of sitting on the window ledges and watching the plucky little English sparrows who sometimes came to the bird-room window and talked over the news of the day with us.
Most of the canaries were very haughty with them, and looked down on them as inferior birds. So the sparrows rarely approached us, unless they had important news to communicate, when eagerness to hear what they had to say made the canaries forget to snub them.
That clever woman, Mrs. Martin, knew that I wished to get out in the street, and one day when there was a sudden thaw after very cold weather, she said to me, as I sat on her bedroom window sill, “I believe my little boy would like a fly out of doors.”
“Dear Missie, Missie, Missie,” I sang, “how sweet you are to me, how sweet!”
“Fly away, then,” she said, throwing up the window. “I don’t think the air is cold enough to hurt you.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I sang, as I flew by her and out into the fresh air.
How can I ever describe my feelings on my first flight into the great big out-of-doors. I had, in my callow innocence, thought the Martin house very large and grand. Why, this big, out-door house had a ceiling so far away that only a very strong bird could ever fly to the top of it.
I felt breathless and confused, and flying straight to a big tree in front of the window, flattened myself against a dark limb, and crouched there half frightened, half enchanted with myself.
Suddenly a sharp little voice twittered, “Oho! little golden bird, and who are you?”
I knew that a street sparrow’s eyes are everywhere, so I was not surprised on looking up to see a male bird, with quite a pretty black throat patch, sitting on a limb above me.
“I am a canary,” I said.
“I know that,” he replied, rather impatiently, “but how is it that you are so strong of wing? You fly like a wild bird.”
“I have not always been in the bird-room,” I said; “I have flown all over the house and exercise has strengthened my wings.”
“Oh, you are the little youngster I have noticed looking from between the window curtains. How is it that you were allowed to leave the bird-room?”
“The canaries call me Dicky-Dick the Rover. At an early age I found the bird-room small,” I said, not wishing to tell him about my troubles with my brother.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Nearly a year.”
“What is your name?”
“Richard the Lion-Hearted,” I said, thinking to impress him by its length, “but my mistress says that is too heavy a name for such a tiny bird, so she shortens it to Dicky-Dick and sometimes Dicky-Duck.”
“The Lion-Hearted,” repeated the sparrow. “That name doesn’t suit you. You seem to be a very gentle bird.”
“I am gentle till I am roused,” I said meekly; “then I am a fair fighter. Now, will you tell me what your name is?”
“Chummy Hole-in-the-Wall.”
This beat my name, and I said, “That’s a double, double surname.”
“Yes,” he said proudly. “It’s a good name, given to me by all the sparrows of the neighborhood.”
“And may I ask how old you are?”
“Six years.”
“You must be very wise,” I said. “I feel as if I knew a great deal, and I am not one year yet.”
“I know everything about this neighborhood,” he said grandly. “If you wish the life history or habits of any bird here, I can inform you of them.”
“I shall be sure to come to you for information,” I said. Then I asked anxiously, “What are the birds like in this street?”
“Pretty decent, on the whole. There were some bad sparrows and two ugly old pigeons, but we had a midwinter drive, and chased them all down in St. John’s ward, where the common birds live. You know we sparrows have our own quarters all over this city.”
“Have you?” I said. “Like big bird-rooms?”
“Yes, my little sir, we in this district near the gray old university are known as the Varsity sparrows. We are bounded on the north by Bloor Street, on the south by College Street, on the east by Yonge Street, and on the west by Spadina Avenue, and this is the worst street of all for food.”
“I have heard that this has been a very hard winter for all birds,” I said.
“It has been perfectly terrible. It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed. Every scrap of food was under a white blanket. If it hadn’t been for covers left off trash cans, and a few kind people who threw out crumbs, the sparrows would all have died.”
“The snow is going now,” I said, with a smile.
He laughed a queer, hard little sparrow laugh, and looked up and down the street. The high rounded snow banks were no longer white and beautiful, but grimy and soot-laden, and they were weeping rivers of dusky tears. The icy sidewalks were so slippery with standing water that ladies and children went into the street, but it was not much better there, and often they lost their rubbers, which went sailing down the streams like little black boats.
However, up in the blue heaven, the sun was shining, and there was warmth in it, for this was February and spring would soon be with us.
I looked up and down the street. It seemed very quaint to me, and I stretched out my neck to find out whether I could see the end of it. I could not. It went away up, up toward a hill with trees on it, and, as I found out later, away down south to a big lake where the wharves are, and the ships and the railroads, and the noise and the traffic, and also a lovely island that I had heard the Martins say was a fine place for a summer outing.
The sparrow was watching me, and at last he said, “How do you like it out here?”
“Very much,” I said. “It is so big and wonderful, and there are so many houses standing away back from the street. I thought there were no houses in the world but just the Martins’, and those I could see from their windows.”
He smiled at me, but said nothing, and I went on, “And the trees are so enormous and so friendly. I love to see them reaching their gaunt arms across the street to shake hands. Our fir trees in the bird-room will seem very small to me now.”
He shook his little dull-colored head. “Alas! the neighborhood is not what it used to be. A few years ago all these were private houses. Now boarding houses and lodging houses and even shops are creeping up from town.”
I didn’t know much about this, but I said timidly, “Isn’t that better for you sparrows? Aren’t there more scraps?”
“No, not so many. When the rich people lived here, we knew what we had to depend on. Either they would feed us, or they would not. Several kind-hearted ladies used to have their servants throw out food for neighborhood birds at a certain hour every day, and your Mrs. Martin has always kept a little dish full of water on her lawn beside the feeding-table. I suppose you have seen that from your bird-room window.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “We canaries used to sit on the window sill on cold mornings and watch Mr. Martin wading through the snow with the nice warm food that his wife was sending out for the birds.”
“These boarding-house and lodging-house people come and go,” the sparrow went on. “Some feed us, and some don’t. Usually we are stuffed in summer, and starved in winter.”
“I have heard Mrs. Martin say,” I observed, “that wild birds should be assisted over bad seasons and fed whenever their natural supply gives out.”
“Sparrows don’t need food in summer,” said Chummy, “because then we expect to do our duty to human beings by eating all the insects we can, and the bad weed seeds.”
I said nothing. I thought I had not known my new friend long enough to find fault with him, but I wanted very much to ask him if he really thought English sparrows did do their duty by human beings.
“Would you like to see my little house?” he asked.
“Very much,” I replied, and I followed him as he flew to another tree. We were now further up the street where we could look back at our red brick house which is a double one, and quite wide. Now we were in front of one that stood a little way from its neighbors. It was tall and narrow, and in the middle of its high north wall was a small hole where a brick had fallen out.
Chummy pointed to it proudly. “There’s not a snugger sparrow bedroom in the city than that,” he said, “for right behind the open place is a hole in the brick work next the furnace chimney. No matter how cold and hungry I am when I go to bed, I’m kept warm till breakfast time, when I can look for scraps. Many a feeble old sparrow and many a weak one has died in the bitter cold this winter. They went to bed with empty crops and never woke up. We’ve had twelve weeks of frost, instead of our usual six, and this is only the fifth day of thawing weather that we’ve had all winter.”
“Everything seems topsy-turvy this winter,” I said. “Human beings are short of coal and food, and they’re worried and anxious. I am very sorry for them.
“But times will improve, Chummy. The old birds say that black hours come, but no darkness can keep the sun from breaking through. He is the king of the world.”
Chummy raised his little dark head up to the sunlight. “I’m not complaining, Dicky. I wish every little bird in the world had such a snug home as mine.”
“How did the hole come in the wall?” I asked.
“Some workmen had a scaffold up there to repair the top of the chimney. When they took it down, they knocked a brick out.”
“Is it large enough for you in nesting time?”
“Oh, yes; don’t you want to come and see it? You’re not afraid?”
“Oh, no,” I said warmly. “I know whenever I get a good look into a bird’s eye whether I can trust him or not.”
“Come along, then,” said Chummy, deeply gratified, and I flew beside him to his little house.