Loe raamatut: «Golden Dicky, The Story of a Canary and His Friends», lehekülg 8

CHAPTER XVI
STORIES ABOUT THE OLD BARN

TO-DAY, after lunch, Mrs. Martin gave Billie a walk round the square, then she brought her in the house and said, “I am going to a knitting party where dogs would not be welcomed. I will come home at five and give you another walk.”

Billie wagged her tail in her funny, slow way and gave Mrs. Martin one of her sweetly affectionate glances, as if to say, “It’s all right. I know if it were your party you’d let me go.”

Mrs. Martin pulled an armchair to the window and put a cushion on it. “Jump up there, Billie,” she said, “and amuse yourself by looking outside.” Then giving her a pat, and throwing me a kiss, for she knows pets are apt to be jealous of each other, she went away.

I flew to the arm of Billie’s chair and sat dressing my feathers in the sunshine.

Presently Billie said discontentedly, “There’s nothing to see out of this window but yards and that old barn.”

“That old barn is full of stories,” I said, “and very interesting.”

“What makes it interesting?”

“In the first place, many birds nest there, and in the second, many animals have been housed in it.”

“I never see anything going on in it,” she said.

I smiled. “You are not a keen observer, Billie, except along dog lines. Look out now and you will see Susan going in with a little soft hay in her bill for the bottom of her nest.”

“Who is Susan?” asked Billie.

“Don’t you remember that Chummy told you about Susan, mate to Slow-Boy, both street pigeons? They are taking care of two eggs. He sits all day, and she sits all night.”

“I know male pigeons help their mates,” said Billie. “I used to see them doing that in New York.”

“He will come off at five and have his evening to himself. If Susan isn’t on time, just to the dot, he calls loudly, and gives her a great pecking. She is very patient with him usually, but the other day I saw her turn on him and give him a great blow with her wing. Pigeons fight that way, you know.”

“I’ve seen them,” said Billie. “They scrape and bow to each other, then step up and give a good whack.”

“Would you like to hear a story about a fire in the barn?” I asked.

“If you please. I feel very dull this afternoon, and would like something to amuse me. I think I ate too much tripe for my lunch. When our Mary’s back was turned I stole a nice little lump from the dish.”

“What a pity it is you are such a greedy dog, Billie!” I said.

“Yes, it is a pity,” she replied, with hanging head, “but believe me, Dicky, I can’t help it. I had to steal so much in my early life that I can’t keep from it now—please go on with your story.”

“Well, Susan and Slow-Boy are of course mated for life, for pigeons rarely change partners. They are very happy together, and only quarrel enough to keep things from getting stupid. You know, don’t you, that pigeons lay all the year round, if they can get food?”

“Oh, yes, Dicky, I know that. I should think they would get tired of raising families, but the Bronx pigeons only hold up in moulting time.”

“Now this Red-Boy I am going to tell you about,” I went on, “was one of their July pigeons of two years ago. Chummy told me the story, for of course I wasn’t here then. He says Red-Boy was a nice enough bird, but he took for a mate a very flighty half-breed fantail, called Tiptoe, from her mincing walk. You probably know, Billie, that when thoroughbred pigeons get mixed with street pigeons they lose all their fancy lines, and go right back to common ancestor blue rock dove traits.”

“Yes, I know,” said Billie; “but if they keep any fancy ways, or feathers, they are very proud of them.”

“Exactly,” I said, “so you can imagine how Tiptoe diddled about, putting on airs, before poor Susan, who is very plain-looking and has lost every trace of blue blood, except the half homer stripes on her solid old back. Now, when the time came for Red-Boy and Tiptoe to make a nest, Red-Boy wanted to build near his father and mother.

“Slow-Boy fought him and tried to get rid of him. He is a model father when his squabs come and when they turn to squeakers, but when they are grown up he naturally supposes that they will go out into the world and let him be free to bring up other young ones.”

“I suppose his mother had spoiled him,” said Billie. “Hen pigeons are often weak in the head.”

“Yes, Chummy says of all Susan’s young, Red-Boy was the favorite. She stood by him, and finally old Slow-Boy gave in, and Red-Boy and Tiptoe chose a ledge right above the parents’ nest. They even stole straws, when Slow-Boy wasn’t looking, and Chummy says he heard that Susan was foolish enough to give them some of the choicest ones she brought in. It wasn’t a tidy nest when it was finished—not a bit like the careful one the old birds made, with nice fine bits of straw arranged inside for little squab feet to cling to.”

“Don’t pigeons line their nests with wool and fine cotton, like you canaries?” asked Billie.

“My dear friend,” I replied, “do reflect an instant. Squabs are not like canaries. They have big feet and they want something to clutch when they raise themselves in the nest for the mother to pump milk down their necks.”

Billie stared at me. “Pigeons and milk, Dicky-Dick! Are you telling the truth?”

“Indeed I am,” I said earnestly. “When the squabs hatch out, a kind of milk is formed in the mother’s crop and softens the food which she pumps down into their little crops. They could not digest whole grain. They are too young and feeble. As they get older, the milk becomes thicker, and finally the parents feed them whole seeds.”

“Well, well,” said Billie, “I didn’t know that. They are something like human babies.”

“Very like them—but to get back to Red-Boy and Tiptoe and their nest-building. They thought they were doing a very smart thing when they found a card of old-fashioned sulphur matches. Some of the matches were broken off and silly Tiptoe took them to the nest and arranged them crosswise, among the straws.

“Susan saw her and said, ‘Throw out those things; they are dangerous.’

“‘Why are they dangerous?’ asked Tiptoe.

“‘I don’t know,’ said poor old Susan; ‘but I just don’t like the smell of them.’

“Tiptoe appealed to Red-Boy, and naturally he stood up for his mate.

“Old Susan went lumbering off to her nest with a worried face. She could do nothing, and hoped for the best. Time went by, and two eggs were laid and hatched out. Tiptoe was a very restless mother, and was always flying off her nest to stretch her wings, and for that reason it was good for her to be near her mother-in-law, for Susan often checked her. If it had been cold weather the young ones would have suffered from being left uncovered so much, but fortunately it was midsummer. One frightfully hot day, when the sun was pouring on the nest through that broken window high up in the peak of the barn—”

“Where?” asked Billie, stretching out her neck.

“Right up there, this side of the maple tree.”

“Yes, I see,” said Billie, and she lay down again on her cushion.

“This hot sun shining through the glass set fire to the matches, and wasn’t there a quick blaze! Some robins who nested outside the barn gave the alarm by crying out shrilly and swooping wildly about the yard. The landlady of the house where Chummy lives heard the noise, looked out, then rushed to the telephone. We are close to a fire station, and in just a few minutes an engine came dashing down the street and put the fire out. It was only a little blaze, but it was a very sad one. Tiptoe, as I said before, was a silly mother, but still she was a mother, and when she saw her frightened little ones rising up in their nest and clacking their tiny beaks at the blaze she flew right into the flame and hovered over them.”

“Of course she died,” said Billie.

“Oh, yes. She must have breathed flame and choked in an instant.

“The next day, Chummy says, he saw poor Red-Boy poking about the barn floor looking at a little dry burnt thing. His heart was broken, and he flew away and no one here ever saw him any more.”

“Young birds should mind what old birds say,” remarked Billie.

“But they never do,” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to let the young things find out for themselves.”

“What about Susan and Slow-Boy?” asked Billie. “You said their nest was near by.”

“Yes, they had one squab in it—a very big, fat squab. It was frightened and fell from the nest down on an old table on the barn floor.

“Chummy says it was pitiful to see old Slow-Boy looking at it, as if to say, ‘Why did I lose my baby?’

“Our Mary took a snapshot of him for her bird album, and also one of a robin who lost her young ones. She had a nest high up in the barn, over the pigeons. Her name is Twitchtail, and she is very bad-tempered, but she can’t hold a candle to her mate, Vox Clamanti. Chummy said he made a tremendous fuss when he came home, his beak full of worms for his beloved nestlings. He began to scream and shake his wings when he caught sight of the crowd around the barn. Something told him his young ones were gone. They had been washed out of their nest by the heavy stream of water from the hose and were lying on the ground, quite dead. He and Twitchtail blamed the landlady, the firemen, the crowd, the pigeons, and everybody on the street. They loved their young ones, and were bringing them up very well.”

“Tell me some more about the barn,” said Billie. “I noticed a man leading a horse from it just now.”

“Chummy says it used to be a disgrace to the neighborhood,” I said angrily, “and he didn’t see why the nice people about here didn’t go and inspect the old rickety building. It was bad for human beings, for there was an unwholesome odor about it. It was full of holes, and last winter a poor pony kept there almost died of the cold. His owner was a simple old creature who needed some one to tell him how to take care of animals. He had a cow there too, but she died. He bought a poor quality of hay and did not give the pony enough water to drink, so he was having a terribly hard time when something beautiful happened to him.”

I stopped a minute, for Billie was heaving a long, heavy dog sigh. “I know something about unhappy horses and cows,” she said. “There are plenty of them in New York. Of course, human beings should take care of us animals, because it is right to do so, but I don’t see why selfish people don’t see that it pays to take care of their creatures. Why, horses are worth a lot of money.”

“I know that,” I said, “but some persons are so unthinking that the strong arm of the law has to beat wisdom into them.”

“What was the beautiful thing that happened to the pony?”

“Well, I must tell you his life history. When he was young, he was very, very small, and was named Tiny Tim. His first master was a rich man who made such a pet of him that Tim was treated more like a dog than a pony. He used to go in his master’s home and walk up and down stairs, and when a servant came to put him out he would hide under the cloth on a big table.”

“He must have been very small to do that.”

“Yes, he says he was about as big as a Great Dane. He never walked in the street like the horses. He always went on the sidewalk. But when he grew older and larger he had to live with the horses and carry the children on his back. When he was tiny they used to play with him, and he says he would butt them, as if he were a little goat, and knock them over.

“Time went by, and the rich man lost his money and Tiny Tim had to be sold. He passed from one poor owner to another, till at last he became the property of this old man who collected junk. Chummy says all the sparrows knew that pony and pitied him, for they saw that he had known better days. He always went along with his head hanging down. He was ashamed and unhappy, and he scarcely had strength to drag around the shaky old cart that he was harnessed to. Tiny Tim of course did not like this poor place he was kept in, but the junk man could not afford a better one. Tim had only an armful of damp bedding, and Chummy says it was pitiful to see him standing with his little head down, the water from the leaky roof dripping on him, mud oozing from between the planks under his hoofs, and his lip curling over the messy hay before him.

“One morning early this winter Chummy says the rats who live in the barn spread the news that Tiny Tim had been adopted. It seems that very late the night before, when Tim was sagging back to the old barn, for the junk man’s wife had insisted on going for a drive after working hours, he—that is, Tim—fell right over here in the street. Now you may have noticed that there is a military hospital near us.”

“Oh, yes,” said Billie, “Mrs. Martin walks me by there every day, and that’s where the one-armed soldier lives who owns the sad-faced Belgian pup that he rescued from starvation when he was fighting abroad. Our Mary photographed me with him the other day.”

“Well, Chummy says those soldier boys are the jolliest in the city. They have all been wounded, and a good many are one-legged and going on crutches, waiting for their stumps to heal so they can get artificial limbs. Some of them had had permission to go over to the University, and they were returning to the hospital when they saw the poor pony down between the shafts. They hobbled up, unharnessed him, told the junk man that they were Albertans and used to horses, and that his pony was starving. They collected twenty-five dollars among themselves, bought the pony and the cart, put the pony in it, and the men with two legs and one arm managed to haul Tiny Tim over to the hospital, while the one-legged men hopped alongside on their crutches.

“When they got him over they didn’t know what to do with him. The hospital was very quiet and still, for every one had gone to bed. They sneaked Tiny round to the back entrance and got him off the cart, and led him into a bathroom. Then they got blankets off the beds for bedding, gave him some bread and milk and cereal foods they found in the pantry, and left him till morning. Of course they all slept late, and the first person to go in the bathroom the next morning was a nurse. She shrieked wildly when she saw this pitiful black pony with his big hungry eyes and the bathroom which was a sight, for the food had brought back some of Tiny Tim’s old-time spirit, and he had knocked things about.

“The other nurses ran and doctors and soldiers came, and they just yelled with laughter. Anyway, the pony was adopted by the hospital—”

Billie interrupted me, “You don’t mean to say this story is about the soldiers’ mascot in the yard over at the hospital?”

“The same,” I said. “Tiny is now as fat as a pig, and as happy as a king. The soldiers love him, and he often goes for walks down Spadina Avenue with them. You know everybody loves soldiers, for they have been so brave in protecting their country, and they are allowed many privileges. He is too small for them to ride, and of course he is old now, but isn’t it nice that he is happy and not in that horrid old stable?”

“That is a lovely story,” said Billie. “I wish soldiers would go to New York and rescue some of the poor horses there. Now, tell me what became of the junk man?”

“Oh, the story got into the papers and the Martins felt dreadfully to think they had not discovered the condition the pony was in. They spoke to some of their rich friends and formed a company, and they are building model boarding stables for poor men’s horses, away downtown. They have good lighting and ventilation, and fine roomy stalls, and running water, and fly screens, and on top of the stables is a big roof garden for neighborhood children to play in. It is a very crowded district and the children will love this garden, and Chummy says they will be sure to eat lunches up there and it will be fine for birds too.”

“But the junk man,” said Billie. “Your talk flies all over the place, Dicky-Dick.”

I could not help laughing at her funny, impatient expression. Then I said, “The Martins got him a young, strong horse, and told him how to take care of it. It is not a charity, Billie—the stables, I mean. By taking a good many horses, the company can make money out of it.”

“Are there any horses in the old barn now?” asked Billie.

“Not for any length of time. It is to be torn down and a garage put up there.”

“Just as well,” said Billie, “but what are you staring at, Dicky-Dick?”

“At Squirrie,” I said. “He just came off the roof and went into the old barn. I hope he is not after young birds. Billie, I think I’ll go have a talk with him. I’ve been longing to get him alone for some time.”

“Better let him alone,” said Billie warningly. “He wouldn’t mind you.”

“I’m going to try,” I said, “and if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you for a little while.”

Billie shook her head, but I was determined, and, flying into the sitting room, for we were in Mrs. Martin’s bedroom, I went out through the open window and flew behind our house to the old barn.

CHAPTER XVII
I LOSE MY TAIL

PERCHING on the roof of the barn, I called softly, “Squirrie, Squirrie, where are you?”

For a long time he would not speak, then I heard him mocking me, “Here I am, baby, baby,” and he unexpectedly put his head out of a hole right behind me.

I turned round, and he made one of his dreadful faces at me.

“Squirrie,” I said gently, for I was determined not to lose patience with him, “come out, I want to talk to you.”

“And what have you to say that is worth listening to?” he asked teasingly, and sticking his head a little further out of the hole.

“I want to tell you how sorry I am for you,” I went on, “and to ask you if I can help you to try to be a better squirrel. The birds are getting pretty angry with you, and I fear they may run you out of the neighborhood if you don’t improve.”

At this bit of news he came right out, his eyes twinkling dangerously.

“What are they planning to do?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing definite. They’re just talking of what they’ll do if you tease their young ones this year, as you did last year. You remember they got very angry with you before the nesting season was over.”

He began to hum his favorite song—“I care for nobody; no, not I—”

“Squirrie,” I said pleadingly, “if you only knew how much pleasanter it is to be good and have everybody love you.”

“Just like you—little sneaking soft-face!” he said.

I was quite shocked. “I am not a sneak,” I said, “and why do you call me soft-face—I, a hard-billed bird?”

“You’re such a little drooling darling,” he said disdainfully, “making up to all the birds in the neighborhood, and pretending to be such an angel. You’re a little weasel, that’s what you are.”

“A weasel,” I exclaimed in horror, “a bad animal that sucks birds’ blood. Squirrie, you’re crazy!”

“I’m not crazy,” he said, coming quite out of the hole and sitting up on his hind legs and shaking his forepaws threateningly at me. “I see through you, Mr. Snake-in-the-grass.”

I was silent for a minute under this torrent of abuse and overwhelmed at his audacity in calling me, a tiny bird, by the names of bad animals—not that snakes are all bad, nor are weasels, but he used the bad part of them to describe me.

“Well,” I said at last, “you are taking my call in a wrong spirit.”

“Don’t I see through you!” he said fiercely. “Don’t I hear you talking me over with that imp Chummy! I’ll make him suffer for his bad talk about me. I’ll have his young ones’ blood this summer.”

“Do you think Chummy sent me to you?” I asked, in a shocked voice.

“No, I don’t,” he said roughly. “I think you came on your own sly account, you model bird trying to convert poor Squirrie and make him a smooth-faced hypocrite like yourself.”

“What do you mean by hypocrite?” I said furiously. “I am an honest bird. I am really sorry for you, and you know it. I would like to help you to be a better squirrel, but how can I help you, if you won’t let me?”

“You help me!” he said contemptuously. “Now what could you do, you snippy wisp of feathers and bone?”

I made a great effort to keep from losing my temper. “I could be your friend,” I said. “I could talk over your mistakes with you and advise you as to future conduct. It is a great thing to have a friend, Squirrie, one who really loves you.”

He became quite solemn and quiet in his manner. “Do I understand that you are prepared to love me?” he said.

“I am,” I said firmly. “I will be your friend and stand by you, if you will promise to try to be a better squirrel.”

“And give up Chummy?” he asked.

“Why should I give up Chummy?” I said. “He is a good, kind-hearted bird. I think he would become your friend too, if you reformed.”

“I hate Chummy,” he said.

“But don’t you understand, Squirrie,” I said quickly, “that if you become a good little animal, instead of hating everybody, you will love everybody, and you will feel so much more comfortable. It’s dreadful to be so mad inside all the time. It eats up your strength, and your kind-heartedness.”

I thought Squirrie was impressed, for he was silent for a long time and kept his head down. Then he began to laugh, quite quietly, but at last so violently that he shook all over.

I stared at him, not knowing what to make of him.

“You little tame yellow brat,” he said at last, “do you think I want to get like you? You have no fun in life.”

“What is fun?” I asked quietly.

His eyes shone like two stars. “Making things squirm,” he said.

“But squirming means suffering,” I replied.

He patted his little stomach with his paws. “What does it matter who suffers, if my skin is whole?”

“But your mind, Squirrie,” I said impatiently. “Even squirrels have something inside that isn’t all flesh. If I make another bird angry I feel nasty inside.”

“Squirrel minds don’t count,” he said airily, “my mother told me so. She said only bodies count.”

“That’s what the matter is with you,” I exclaimed. “You are hard-hearted and care only for yourself. If you get your own way, all the other little squirrels in the world can be cold and miserable and unhappy.”

“And all the little birdies too,” he said, mimicking me, “especially little Dicky-Dick birdies; and now for your impudence to me I’m going to take such a bite out of your tail that you’ll remember till moulting time the saucy offer you made to Mr. Squirrie to change his whole plan of life at your suggestion.”

I tried to fly, but I seemed paralyzed. He was staring fixedly right into my eyes, and suddenly he made a leap over my head, caught my tail in his mouth, and tore out every feather.

I thought he was going to kill me, and I screamed wildly, “Chummy, Chummy, help me! Help me!”

Dear old Chummy, whom I had seen down on the ground, examining the scrapings from my cage that Mrs. Martin always threw out the window to him, heard me and flew swiftly up. He gave his battle cry and in an instant the air was thick with sparrows, who were all about the roofs examining nesting sites.

However, by this time Squirrie was gone. I had one last glimpse of him as he looked over his shoulder, before he scampered along the ridge pole of the barn to a near-by tree and from it to our house top, then along the roofs to his own house and into his little fortress. Across his mouth was the bunch of my tail feathers. He would probably line his nest with them. I could not move, and sat trembling and crouching on the ridgepole.

“Tell me, tell me what has happened?” said Chummy. “Oh, Dicky-Dick, your tail is gone—what a dreadful thing! You, there, stop laughing,” and he made a dash at a giddy young sparrow of last season, called Tommy, who was nearly killing himself giggling over my funny appearance.

“It was Squirrie,” I said in a gasping way. “I was trying to do him good, and he bit off my tail.”

“Why didn’t you consult me?” said Chummy gravely. “That animal has heard enough sermons to convert a whole street full of squirrels. They just roll off him like gravel from the roof.”

“I thought I might influence him,” I said, “if I got him alone and talked kindly to him, but I didn’t do him a bit of good, and I have lost my pretty tail.”

Chummy shook his head sadly. “It is too bad, Dicky-Dick. I wouldn’t have had this happen for a pound of hemp seed.”

“I never am pretty,” I said miserably, “even with all my feathers; but my tail was passable. I shall be a fright now, and Missie was just going to get a mate for me. A proud little hen bird will despise me. Oh, why didn’t I stay at home!”

“Never mind, Dicky-Dick,” said Chummy consolingly. “You meant well, but it is always a dangerous thing to meddle with old offenders. Punishment is the only thing that counts with them, and I’ll see that Squirrie gets it.”

“Don’t do anything on my account,” I said quickly. “I forgive him.”

“So do I,” said Chummy grimly. “I forgive him so heartily that I am going to make an earnest effort to reform him myself.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked anxiously.

He smiled his funny little sparrow smile. “Wait and see—I will just tell you this much: I am going to pass him on to a higher court than ours.”

I did not know what he meant, but I listened eagerly as he said to some of the older sparrows who, seeing that he was looking after me, were leaving the roof and going back to their various occupations, “Friends, I am going up to North Hill. Just keep an eye on the grackles, will you? They are showing a liking for the trees in this neighborhood, and we don’t want them too near. If they bother you, call for help from Susan and Slow-Boy and drive them away. Don’t go too near them, just swarm at them and squawk loudly. They hate fussing from other birds, though they do enough of it themselves, gracious knows.”

Then he turned to me. “Shall I fly beside you, down to your window, Dicky-Dick? You had better go in and have a rest.”

“If you please, Chummy,” I said weakly. “I don’t know when anything has upset me like this.”

“You have lost some blood,” he said. “Those little feathers of yours must have been deeply rooted.”

He flew beside me quite kindly, till I got to my window. On arriving there, I begged him to come inside and have a little lunch before setting out on his long fly up to North Hill.

He was delighted to do this, especially as we found in my cage a good-sized piece of corn bread that Hester had just baked and Mrs. Martin had put in for me.

In his joy at finding it Chummy confided to me that the object of his journey was to find old King Crow and talk over Squirrie’s case with him.

“And who is King Crow?” I asked.

“He rules over all the crows in this middle part of Toronto, and in the North. He is very wise and has a great deal of influence. We sparrows hate the grackles, but like the crows, who often are of great assistance to us.”

“Chummy,” I said, “I feel badly at bringing this on Squirrie.”

“You are sincere in wishing Squirrie well, are you not?”

“Oh, yes, from the bottom of my heart I wish him to become a good squirrel.”

“And you didn’t succeed in making an impression on him. Now, why not hand him over to some one who has influence over him?”

“Very well,” I said sadly. “I suppose I had no business to interfere, but I meant well.”

Chummy smiled. “I have often heard that before. You see, Dicky-Dick, if all the kind birds and animals in this neighborhood who have tried to help Squirrie reform could not do it, how could you, a little weak stranger, coming in, hope to succeed?”

“That’s true,” I said. “Well, Chummy, I hope you will have a successful fly. You have a wise little head on your small sparrow shoulders.”

Chummy was poising himself on the window ledge by this time, preparatory to leaving me.

“There is a man in an airplane,” he said, looking up in the sky. “I’ll have a race with him to North Hill.”

I watched them starting out—the great whirring machine, and the tiny silent sparrow.

Chummy was ahead when I went back to my cage to have a rest. I wondered very much what Chummy would do, and impatiently awaited his return.