CHAPTER X
ANOTHER CALL FROM CHUMMY
AFTER this first day of our meeting, Chummy called on me very often. In fact, he would fly in whenever he saw the window open, for he knew Billie was an honest dog and would not chase him.
The lovely thaw did not last long, and we had some more very cold weather. I did not go out-of-doors very often, and was quite glad to get the outside news from my sparrow friend.
Billie grumbled a little bit about him. “That fellow is throwing dust in your eyes,” she said to me one day during the last of February.
I smiled at her. “And do you think that I think that Chummy comes here merely for the pleasure of looking into my bright eyes?”
Billie began to mumble something under her breath about greedy birds, and emptying my seed dish.
“Dear Billie,” I went on, “don’t plunge that little white muzzle of yours too deeply into bird affairs. You would find them as strangely mixed as are dog matters. When you fawn on Mrs. Martin as she comes from town, is the fawning pure love or just a little bit of hope that in her muff is hidden some dainty for Billie?”
“I love Mrs. Martin,” said Billie stubbornly. “You know I do. I would live with her if she fed me on crusts.”
“Of course you would,” I said soothingly, “but do you know, it seems to me a strange thing that you, a dog bred in poverty and having to toil painfully in looking for your food, should be harder on another toiler than I am, I a bird that was bred in the lap of luxury.”
Billie looked rather sheepish, and I said, “You have a kind heart, and I wish you would not be so stiff with the sparrow. Won’t you do something to amuse him some time when he comes?”
“Yes, I will,” she said. “I think perhaps I have not been very polite to him. Indeed, I do know how hard it is for birds and beasts to get a living out of this cold world.”
“Hush,” I said; “here he comes,” and sure enough there was Chummy sitting on the window sill, twitching his tail, and saying, “How are you, Dicky-Dick? It’s a bitterly cold day—sharpens one’s appetite like a knife.”
I flew to meet him and said, “Come right over to my cage and help yourself to seeds. Missie filled my dish before she went out.”
Chummy looked pleased, but he said, “I hope your Missie doesn’t mind feeding me as well as you.”
“Oh, no, she doesn’t care,” I said, “even though bird seed is dear now. She has a heart as big as a cabbage and she is sorry for all suffering things. She says she has been hungry once or twice in her own life, and she knows the dreadful feeling of an empty stomach.”
“Well, I’ll eat to her health,” said Chummy, and he stepped right into my cage and poked his dusky beak into a tiny dish of bread and milk.
“What’s the news of the neighborhood?” I asked.
“Squirrie came out for five minutes this morning,” he said, “just to let us know he wasn’t dead. He ate a few nuts and threw the shells down at Black Thomas.”
“I know Thomas,” I said; “jet black, white spot on breast, yellow eyes, fierce, proud temper.”
“He’s a case,” said Chummy, “and he vows he’ll have Squirrie’s life yet.”
“Anything else happened?” I asked.
“Oh, yes—two strange pigeons, dusky brown, have been in the neighborhood all the morning, looking for a nesting place, and Susan and Slow-Boy have worn themselves out driving them away.”
Billie rarely opened her mouth when Chummy called. She lay dozing, or pretending to doze, by the fire; but to-day she spoke up and said, “Who are Susan and Slow-Boy?”
I waited politely for Chummy to speak, but his beak was too full, so I answered for him.
“They are the two oldest neighborhood pigeons, and they live in the old barn back of our yard. They are very particular about any pigeon that settles near here; still, if the strangers are agreeable they might let them have that ledge outside the barn.”
“They’re not agreeable,” said Chummy. “Their feathers are in miserable condition. They haven’t taken good care of them, and Slow-Boy says he knows by the look of them they have vermin.”
“Lice!” exclaimed Billie suddenly. “That is dreadful. Some of the Italians where I used to live had pigeons that scratched themselves all the time. It was sad to hear them at night. They could not sleep. They would all rise up together on their perches and shake themselves.”
Chummy took a drink from my water dish in which was a rusty nail to give me a little iron for my blood, then he said, “We’re clean birds in this neighborhood. Varsity birds hate lice, so I think Slow-Boy and Susan were quite right to drive these strangers away—what do you think, Dicky-Dick?”
I sighed quite heavily, for such a small bird as I am. Then I said, “It is true, though it oughtn’t to be, that clean birds instead of taking dirty birds in hand and trying to do them good, usually drive them away. It seems the easiest way.”
Chummy was wiping his beak hard on one of my perches. “Your Missie certainly knows where to buy her seeds. These are remarkably fresh and crisp.”
“She always goes to wholesale houses,” I said, “and watches the man to see that he takes the seeds out of a bag or big box. Some women buy their seeds in packages which perhaps have been standing on the grocer’s shelf for months.”
“You look a well-nourished bird,” said Chummy. “My Jennie is very particular with our young ones, and we have the finest-looking ones in the neighborhood. If she is giving a brown-tail moth larva, for example, she hammers it well before she puts it in the baby beaks. Some sparrows are so careless, and thrust food to their young ones that is only partly prepared.”
I said nothing, for I had not yet seen any of Chummy’s young ones, and he came out of the cage and, settling down on the top of it, began to clean his feathers and pick little bits of dead flesh off his skin.
“Billie,” I said, “it’s early in the afternoon and you’ve had your first nap; can’t you amuse our caller by telling him about your early life? He said the other day he’d like to hear it.”
Billie rose and stretched herself. She knew that I knew she would like to do something for Chummy because she had spoken harshly about him.
Chummy spoke up, “I like you, Billie, for I notice you never chase birds as some of the neighborhood dogs do.”
Billie hung her head. “I know too well what it feels like to be chased,” she said.
“You can’t see us up here on the wall very well, Billie,” I said. “You would have to stretch your neck to look up at us. Suppose we fly down, Chummy.”
“All right,” he said agreeably, so we flew to a pot of hyacinths on the table and crouched down with our feet on the nice warm earth and our breasts against the rim of the pot.
Billie jumped up in a big chair by the table to be near us, and began, “First of all, you mustn’t interrupt. It puts me out.”
“All right,” said the sparrow, “but what a spoiled dog you are! I don’t know another one in the neighborhood that is allowed to sit in any chair he or she chooses.”
Billie hung her head again, and I gave the sparrow a nudge. “Do be quiet. She’s sensitive on that subject.”
“It’s on account of my early training,” said Billie at last. “There was nothing sacred to the poor people I was with. A bed or a chair was no better than the floor and I can’t get over that feeling. I have been whipped and whipped and reasoned with, but it’s of no use. I can’t remember.”
“It’s just like birds,” said the sparrow cheerfully. “What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. If I indulge a youngster and let him take the best place in the nest, I can’t get him out of it when he’s older.”
“Begin, Billie,” I said, “we’re waiting, and, Chummy, don’t interrupt again. It’s quite a long story, and the afternoon is going, and Missie will soon be home.”
CHAPTER XI
BILLIE SUNDAE BEGINS THE STORY OF HER LIFE
WELL,” said Billie, “my name used to be Tina when I was a puppy, and the first thing I can remember is a kick that landed me in the middle of the floor.
“I must have had many kicks before, and I had many after, but I remember that one because I was too small and short-legged to climb back into bed. I had to spend the night on the floor, and as it was winter the occurrence was stamped on my puppy brain.
“I slept with some Italian children who belonged to a man called Antonio and his wife, Angelina. They lived in a tiny house in the Bronx neighborhood in New York. They were rather kind people in their way, except when they flew in a rage. Then the woman would chase me with her broom and the man would kick me. I am rather a stupid little dog, and timid too, and I used to get in their way.
“The children mauled me, but I liked them, for whenever they tumbled down to sleep anywhere, whether it was on the floor or on their queer, rickety bed heaped high with old clothes and torn blankets, I was allowed to snuggle up to them and keep warm.
“Antonio, the father of the family, used to get his living by digging drains in the new roads they were making about New York, and when he came home at night, he would feel my sides, and if I seemed very hollow, he would say to his wife, ‘A bit of bread for the creature,’ and if I seemed fat, he would say, ‘She needs nothing. Give the food to the little ones.’
“You can imagine that this treatment made me get my own living. I had to spend a great deal of time every day in running from one back yard to another, to see if I could pick up scraps from the old boxes and barrels in which the Italians in the neighborhood used to put their rubbish, for they did not have nice shiny trash cans, like rich people.
“Other dogs got their living in the same way I did, and as I am no fighter, I had to work pretty hard to get enough to eat.
“The way I managed was to rise very early in the morning, before the other dogs were let loose. Nearly all the poor people in the neighborhood had gardens or milk farms, or chickens, or pigeons, and they kept dogs to frighten thieves away. These poor animals were chained all night long to miserable kennels and they made a great noise barking and howling, but the more noise they made, the better pleased were their owners.
“When I heard them on cold winter nights, I used to cuddle down all the closer in bed beside the children, and thank my lucky stars that I was not fastened outside.
“My Italians tried to keep chickens, but they always died. The woman was too ignorant to know that if you wish to have healthy, wholesome fowls, that will lay well, you must feed them good food and keep them clean. I used to bark at her when she stood looking at her sick chickens, but she did not understand my language. ‘Woman,’ I was trying to say, ‘pretend that your chickens are children. Your little ones are fat and healthy because you feed them well, keep them out of doors, and have them fairly clean.’
“As time went on my Italians became poorer. Antonio was out of work for a time, and lounged about the house and became very sulky. Sometimes he would go to a near-by café for a drink, and I usually followed him, for some of the men when they saw me skulking about and looking hungry, would be sure to throw me bits of cheese or salt fish, or ends of sandwiches with salty stuff inside that made me run to the Bronx River to get a drink.
“One unhappy day, when I had had enough to eat and was crouching close to the hot-water pipes in a corner, a rough-looking man who acted very sleepy and was talking very queerly asked Antonio how much he would take for me.
“He said one dollar.
“‘She’s only a cur,’ said the other man. ‘I’ll give you fifty cents.’
“To my great dismay, my master held out his hand for the money, a rope was tied round my neck, and I was led away in an opposite direction from my home.
“In vain I pulled back and squealed. The man only laughed and dragged me along more quickly.
“He could not walk very straight, but after a while we arrived in front of a nice, neat-looking house, and a kind-faced woman opened the door for us.
“She was a dressmaker, and she had the sleeve of a woman’s dress in her hand. She gave me a quick, pleasant look, but she became very sad when she saw the mud on her husband’s clothes where he had splashed through puddles of dirty water.
“It seems she had long wanted a dog to bear her company while her husband was away from home. So she was very pleased to see me, and threw an old coat in a corner of the kitchen for me to lie on, and gave me a beef bone to gnaw.
“I was delighted to get a good meal, and a quiet bed, for as I told you the children used to kick me a good deal in their sleep. However, I was not happy in this new place.
“I was surprised at myself. This was a much nicer house than the Italian’s, but I didn’t care for that. I wanted my own home.
“There was a sleek, gray cat with dark eyes in the house, and the next day I had a talk with her.
“‘You are uneasy,’ she said, ‘because this isn’t your very own home. Dogs are very faithful. You miss the children and that man and his wife, though by the look of you they were not very good to you.’
“Of course I had not said anything to this cat against my family. I knew they were not perfect, but something told me it would not be right to discuss my own family with strangers.
“‘Your coat is very grimy and dirty,’ she said. ‘You look as if you had not been washed for a long time. Have you?’
“I hesitated, for to tell the truth I remembered no washings except the ones my poor little spotted mother had given me with her tongue when I was a puppy. Only the rain and the snow had cleansed me since then. At last I said, ‘Water was scarce with us. It had to be carried from a pump.’
“‘Missis is very clean,’ she said; ‘she will likely give you a bath first thing.’
“Missis did wash me that very day. First she spread a lot of newspapers on the kitchen floor. Then she set a tub on them and filled it half full of warm water. I was ordered to step into the tub, which I did very gingerly, and then the dressmaker sopped me all over with a cloth covered with carbolic acid soapsuds.
“I must confess that although I liked the idea of being clean and getting rid of some of my fleas, the bath was a sad ordeal. I thought I should scream when the dressmaker wrapped an end of the towel round her finger and poked it inside my ears. Persons should be very careful how they wash dogs’ ears. However, she was pretty gentle, and I merely groaned and did not howl or yell, as I wished to do. Finally she poured lukewarm rinsing water over me, and my bath was done. She wrapped me in a blanket and put me under the kitchen stove. I felt terribly for a while. My wet hair was torture to me, but presently I began to get warm, my hair dried, and I became quite happy.
“Was it possible that I, a little neglected dog, was lying clean and dry under a nice hot stove, and with a comfortable feeling inside me, and not my usual ache for good food?
“I licked one of my paws sticking out from under the blanket, a paw that looked so strangely white and clean, and I said to myself, ‘I must always stay with this good woman.’
“Alas! the very next day such a sick, dreadful feeling came over me, that I told the cat I must run away.
“‘You are a simpleton,’ she said crossly. ‘You don’t know when you are well off. Could anything be nicer than this quiet house—the master gone all day and so stupid and staggering when he comes home that he gives no trouble?’
“I said nothing, and she went on, ‘And mistress sewing so quietly and giving us regular meals. Then if you wish to take a walk we have a nice back yard with a fence all round it, and no other yard near us and if you wish to go further than that, we have that fine large field where they dump the ashes from the next town. I tell you, the place is ideal.’
“‘I know all that,’ I said, ‘but I wasn’t brought up here, and I want the neighbors’ dogs and the children, and I’ve never been used to cat society.’
“‘You listen to a word of advice from me,’ she said, ‘and don’t take too much stock in people or animals. They move away, but nice, quiet yards and dump heaps go on forever.’
“‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got to run for it. I’m just wild inside.’
“‘Well, make sure of one good meal before you leave,’ she said scornfully. ‘Mistress is cooking liver and bacon and liver is very good for dogs.’
“‘Thank you for all your kindness to me,’ I said. ‘I suppose you think I am a very stupid dog.’
“‘I’ve not done much for you,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind showing a few favors to a friend, if it doesn’t put me out.’
“I stared at her. I had several times obliged her by barking at strange cats and this had cost me quite an effort, for I was dreadfully afraid they would turn and spit at me, or scratch my eyes out. However, I said nothing. You can’t reason with cats. They’re very pig-headed.
“Presently she asked me how I felt about cheating our good, kind mistress out of fifty cents, ‘for that is what you told me master paid for you,’ she said.
“‘I feel badly about that,’ I replied. ‘Indeed, I may say that it grieves me.’
“‘I’ll tell you where you can get fifty cents,’ she said cunningly.
“‘Where?’ I asked eagerly.
“‘Why, last night when master went out to the road to get a paper, he fumbled in his pocket for a penny and brought out a handful of change. One piece dropped on the ground. I can show you where it lies.’
“‘Why didn’t you pick it up?’ I asked.
“‘Why bother with money, when it’s no good to you?’ she said. ‘It’s dirty stuff, anyway, and covered with germs.’
“‘I’m not afraid of it,’ I said joyfully, and I ran and got the fifty-cent piece and laid it at mistress’ feet. She took it and looked at me, then she patted me and hugged me, a thing she had not done before.
“‘Doggie, you are a comfort to me,’ she said. ‘I hope you will stay with me always.’
“I stood on my hind legs. I pawed the air and squealed. I tried to tell her that I would like to stay, but that I could not resist the thing inside me that was pulling like a string toward my old home.
“I ran away that night—ran sadly and with shame. I was about two miles from my old home, and it was no trouble at all for me to find it.
“When I got there, I scratched at the door and the Italian woman opened it and gave a squeal when she saw me. The children had not gone to sleep, and I gave a leap past her and into the bed with them.
“Oh, how glad they were to see me! I jumped and squealed and licked them, and they petted me and hugged me, and the mother stood over us laughing to see her children well pleased.
“Wasn’t I delighted that I had come home! I settled down among them for a good night’s sleep, and I thought, ‘Now we are going to be happy ever after’—but dogs never know what is going to happen to them.
“Just when I was having a lovely dream about my friend the cat, in which she was changed into a nice, sensible dog, I felt a fierce grip on my neck, and, giving a scream, I jumped up.
“The Italian man stood over me, his face as black as a thundercloud. He had got work by this time—work outside, for Italians hate to be employed inside a building. He was a train hand now and he got good wages, but he was not willing to keep me.
“One hand dragged me out of bed, and the other shook a fist at me. ‘You, you animal,’ he said, ‘I’m going to take you away. If you come back, I shoot,’ and he took hold of the old gun standing in a corner of the room and shook it at me. ‘You saw me shoot a cat one day,’ he went on. ‘Well, I kill you if you come back. Hear that?’ Then he kicked me out of doors.
“I did not run away. I sat on a heap of ashes at a little distance, staring at the house. There I remained all night. I was confused and unhappy and stupid. I did not know what to do. I knew I could never live with the children again, but something just chained me to the spot.
“I sat there all the next morning. The children were afraid to play with me, for their father was sleeping inside the house, but they threw me some crusts. I was very thirsty, but I did not dare to go near the house, and something kept me from losing sight of it, so I did not run to the river to get a drink.
“At dusk the man came out of the house and, catching sight of me, he yelled for me to go to him. I went inch by inch, and crawling on my stomach. He took a string out of his pocket, tied it round my neck, and set off walking toward the railway.
“I gave one last look over my shoulder at the cottage, and the children. They were crying, poor little souls, and their mother had her arms round them.
“The man made me trot pretty fast after him. He did not know and would not have cared if he had known that my thirst was getting more and more painful, and that I was almost choked to death with fear. For we were approaching the railway tracks and all my life long I had been frightened to death of noises, especially train noises.
“Suddenly a suspicion struck me that he might be going to throw me under the wheels of a train. Half mad with fear, I gave a violent leap away from him, dragging the cord from his hand, and then I ran, ran like a creature bereft of its senses, for my flying feet took me right toward the trains, instead of away from them.
“I was aware of a rush and a roar, and then something gave me a pound on the back, then a blow on my head. I rolled over and over, and for a time I knew nothing.
“When I recovered, the Italian was bending over me, his face quite frightened and sympathetic.
“‘Poor dog!’ he said; then when I tried to get up, he lifted me and put me under his arm. I found he was climbing on a train.
“Another man was grinning at him. ‘We gave your dog a fine clip as we came in,’ he said. ‘He got a roll and a turnover fast enough.’
“The Italian said nothing. He was not a bad man. He was just thoughtless. I knew he was sorry for me and his children, but times were hard and the price of food was high, and he thought they could not afford to keep me. He knew the children often gave me bits of their bread, and he knew, too, that sometimes when the hunger rat was gnawing too sharply I would even steal.
“I found out that he was a fireman on a freight train which had a big engine, not like the neat electric ones on the passenger trains.
“He put me down on some lumps of coal, and I sat and stared stupidly at him.
“Presently the train started, and, though I was still terrified, I found it was not as bad to be on the thing as to watch it going by.
“I had only a short trip on it. In about five minutes we stopped at a station, and to my immense surprise he picked me up, threw his coat over me, and sprang to the platform.
“I felt myself jammed against something hard, then the coat was pulled off me, and I was alone. He had deserted me.
“I looked about me. I was on a high platform, railway tracks on both sides of me; and beyond me were other platforms and more railway tracks. This was the One Hundred and Eightieth Railway Station in the Bronx, I found out afterward. The Italian had put me close to the door of a waiting-room, and you may be sure that I was in no haste to leave my shelter. It was just a tiny corner, but I flattened myself in it, for even if I had wished to leave it, my limbs were too tired and sore to carry me.
“Trains came dashing by every few minutes, first on one side, then on the other. It seemed to me that I would go crazy with the noise and confusion, and I was sure that each train would strike me. That was very stupid in me. There were the tracks, why should the trains leave them? But my head was still dizzy from the blow I had received, and my dog mind was bewildered. I was crazy for the time. Then back of all fright and body pain was the dreadful ache of homesickness. I had no place to go. No one can tell the terror of a lost dog, especially when that dog is timid. I had been torn from my home—a poor home, but still a dear one to me, and I was out in a world of confusion and fright and hurry. If I stepped from my corner, some of those rushing people might hurl me to the railway track in front of one of the cruel-looking engines, which would grind me to pieces. Oh, if some one would only come to my aid, and I stared and stared at the nice faces whirling by. My eyes felt as big as the engine headlights. Why could not some one read my story in them?
“It is astonishing how few people can tell when a dog is lost. They don’t even know when it is unhappy. Yet dogs have expression in their faces. So many kind men and women gave me a glance. Some even said, ‘Good doggie.’ One nice old lady in glasses remarked, ‘The emblem of faithfulness is a dog. See that one sitting there, waiting for his master’s return.’
“Unthinking old lady! My master would never return, and where, oh, where was I to get some water, for by this time my tongue was so dry that it felt swollen and my throat was as parched as a brick.
“Hour after hour I sat there, and the dreadful railway rush of New York went on. You know nothing about that rush here in this comparatively quiet city of Toronto. The station hands and ticket sellers were all downstairs, for I was on the elevated part of the station. Finally two young men stopped in front of me, and one of them said, ‘What a dismayed-looking dog! I wonder if we could do anything for it?’
“‘Come on,’ said the other. ‘Here’s the White Plains train.’
“The first young man went away, looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t interested enough to stay.”