Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Part 11

Once d.i.c.k fell into a bucket of water, and called l.u.s.tily for the "doctor;" and I was only just in time to save him from a watery grave.

When I got him out, he did not speak a word until he had gone to the fire and opened his wings and feathers out to dry, then he said: "Bravo!

B-r-ravo" several times, and went forthwith and attacked Hezekiah.

d.i.c.k had a little travelling cage, for he often had to go with me by train; and no sooner did the train start than d.i.c.k used to commence to talk and whistle, very much to the astonishment of the pa.s.sengers, for the bird was up in the umbrella rack. Everybody was at once made aware of both my profession and character, for the jolting of the carriage not pleasing him, he used always to prelude his performance with, "Doctor, doctor, you r-r-rascal. What _is_ it, eh?" As d.i.c.k got older, I am sorry, as his biographer, to be compelled to say he grew more and more unkind to his wife--attacked her regularly every morning and the last thing at night, and half-starred her besides. Poor Hezekiah! She could do nothing in the world to please him. Sometimes, now, she used to peck him back again; she was driven to it. I was sorry for Hezekiah, and determined to play pretty d.i.c.k a little trick. So one day, when he had been bullying her worse than ever, I took Hezekiah out of the cage, and fastened a small pin to her bill, so as to protrude just a very little way, and returned her. d.i.c.k walked up to her at once. "What," he wanted to know, "did she mean by going on sh.o.r.e without leave?"

Hezekiah didn't answer, and accordingly received a dig in the back, then another, then a third; and then Hezekiah turned, and let him have one sharp attack. It was very amusing to see how d.i.c.k jumped, and his look of astonishment as he said: "Eh? _What_ d'ye say? Hezekiah!

Hezekiah!"

Hezekiah followed up her advantage. It was quite a new sensation for her to have the upper hand, and so she courageously chased him round and round the cage, until I opened the door and let d.i.c.k out.

But Hezekiah could not live always with a pin tied to her bill; so, for peace' sake, I gave her away to a friend, and d.i.c.k was left alone in his glory.

Poor d.i.c.kie! One day he was sh.e.l.ling peas to himself in the garden, when some boys startled him, and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself, and couldn't find his way back. At all events I only saw him once again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from the house, when a voice above in a tree hailed me: "Doctor! doctor!

What _is_ it?" That was d.i.c.k; but a rook flew past and scared him again, and away he flew--for ever.

That same evening, Ida, who had been absent for some little time, returned, and shyly handed me a letter.

"Whom is it from, I wonder, Ida," I said; "so late in the evening, too?"

"Oh, it is from Maggie," Ida replied.

"What!" I exclaimed; "from that impudent bird? Well, let us see what she has to say;" and opening the note, I read as follows:--

"Dear Master,--I fully endorse all you have written about the starling, especially as regards their treatment, and if you had added that they are pert, perky things, you wouldn't have been far out.

Well, we magpies build our nests of sticks on the tops of tall trees, lining it first with clay, then with gra.s.s; our eggs are five in number, and if they weren't so like to a rook's they might be mistaken for a blackbird's. The nests are so big that before the little boys climb up the trees they think they have found a hawk's. In some parts of the country we are looked upon with a kind of superst.i.tious awe.

This is nonsense; there is nothing wrong about us; we may bring joy to people, as I do to you, dear Doctor, by my gentle loving ways, but we never bring grief. We like solitude, and keep ourselves in the wild state to ourselves. Perhaps if we went in flocks, and had as much to say for ourselves as those noisy brutes of rooks, we would be more thought of. Even in the domestic state we like our liberty, and think it terribly cruel to be obliged to mope all day long in a wicker cage.

It is crueller still to hang us in draughts, or in too strong a sun; while to keep our cage damp and dirty cramps our legs and gives us such twinges of rheumatism in our poor unused wings, that we often long to die and be at rest.

"The treatment, Doctor, you prescribe for starlings will do nicely for us, and you know how easily we are taught to talk; and I'm sure I _do_ love you, Doctor, and haven't I, all for your sake, made friends with your black Persian cat and your big Newfoundland dog?

"No, I'm not a thief; I deny the charge. Only if you do leave silver spoons about, and gold pens, and shillings and sixpenny-bits--why--I-- I borrow them, that is all, and you can always find them in Maggie's cage.

"We can eat all that starlings eat; yes, and a great many things they would turn up their supercilious bills at. But, remember, we do like a little larger allowance of animal food than starlings do.

"No more at present, dear Doctor, but remains your loving and affectionate Magpie, Maggie."

N.b.--The grammatical error in the last sentence is Maggie's, not mine.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ROOK TOBY.

"A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths.

Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads; Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night?"

"It most have been on just such another night as this, Frank, that Southey penned these lines," I began.

"How about the dewy freshness?" said my wife, who is usually more practical than poetic. "Don't you think, dear, that Ida had better go in?"

"Oh! no, auntie," cried Ida; "I must stay and hear the story. It isn't nine o'clock."

"No," Frank remarked, "barely nine o'clock, and yet the stars are all out; why, up in the north of Scotland people at this season of the year can see to read all night."

"How delightful!" cried Ida.

The nodding lilacs and starry syringas were mingling their perfume in the evening air.

"Listen," said my wife; "yonder, close by us in the Portugal laurel, is the nightingale."

"Yes," I replied, "but to-morrow morning will find the bird just a trifle farther afield, for some instinct tells him that our dark-haired Persian p.u.s.s.y is an epicure in her way, and would prefer philomel to fish for her matutinal meal."

I am more convinced than ever that for the first two or three nights after their arrival in this country the nightingales do not go to sleep at all, but sing on all day as well as all night, the marvel being that they do not get hoa.r.s.e. But after a week the night-song is not nearly so brilliant nor so prolonged, nor does it attain its pristine wild joyfulness until spring once more gilds the fields with b.u.t.tercups. By day the song is not so noticeable, though ever and anon it sounds high over the Babel of other birds' voices. But, of course, the thrush must sing, the blackbird must pipe, and vulgar sparrows bicker and shriek, and talk Billingsgate to each other, for sparrows having but little music in their own nature, have just as little appreciation for the gift in others.

"Look!" cried Frank; "yonder goes a bat."

"Yes," I said, "the bats are abroad every night now in full force. What a wonderful power of flight is theirs; how quickly they can turn and wheel, and how nimbly gyrate!"

"I much prefer the martin-swallow," said Ida.

"We have no more welcome summer, or rather spring visitor, Ida, than the martin.

"'He twitters on the apple-trees, He hails me at the dawn of day, Each morn the recollected proof Of time, that swiftly fleets away.

Fond of sunshine, fond of shade, Fond of skies serene and clear, E'en transient storms his joys invade, In fairest seasons of the year.'"

"But I must be allowed to say that I object to the word 'twitter,' so usually applied to the song of the swallow. It is more than a meaningless twitter. Although neither loud nor clear, it is--when heard close at hand--inexpressibly sweet and soft and tender, more so than even that of the linnet, and there are many joyous and happy notes in it, which it is quite delightful to listen to. Indeed, hardly any one could attentively observe the song of our domestic martin for any length of time without feeling convinced that the dusky little minstrel was happy--inexpressibly happy. Few, perhaps, know that there is a striking similarity between the expressions by sound or, voice of the emotions of all animals in the world, whether birds or beasts, and whether those emotions be those of grief or pain, or joy itself. This is well worth observing, and if you live in the country you will have a thousand chances of doing so. Why does the swallow sing in so low a voice? At a little distance you can hardly hear it at all. I have travelled a good deal in forests and jungles and bush lands in Africa and the islands about it, and, of course, I always went alone, that is, I never had any visible companion--because only when alone can one enjoy Nature, and study the ways and manners of birds and beasts, and I have been struck by the silence of the birds, or, at all events, their absence of song in many of them."

"Why should that be so, I wonder?" said Ida.

"Probably," said Frank, "because the woods where the birds dwell are so full of danger that song would betray their presence, and the result be death. And the same reason may cause the house martins to lower their voices when they give vent to their little notes of tuneful joy."

There was a moment's pause: Aileen came and put her head in my lap.

"She is waiting for the story," said Frank.

"Oh! yes," my wife remarked; "both the dogs are sure to be interested in 'Toby's' tale."

"Why?" said Frank.

"Because," my wife replied, "Toby was a sheep."

Here Theodore Nero must join Aileen. The very name or mention of the word "sheep," was sure to make that honest dog wag his tail.

"Two heads are better than one," I once remarked in his presence.

"Especially sheep's heads," said the dog.

And now for the story.