Hoodie Part 26

"Oh, birdie, _won't_ you come? Come, dear birdie, oh _do_ come and pouch on my finger. I'll never, never speak c'oss again--never, dear birdie, if only you'll come back and pouch on my finger."

It was very melancholy. Very melancholy too was the walking about the garden in vain hopes that birdie might be somewhere near and would fly down again. The whole day pa.s.sed most sadly. Hoodie's eyes were swollen with crying, and she could scarcely eat any dinner or tea, and her distress naturally was felt by all the nursery party. It was one of the saddest days the children had ever known, and they all went to bed with sorely troubled little hearts.

Magdalen too was grieved and sorry.

"I blame myself," she said to Hoodie's mother. "Pets are always a risk, and Hoodie is such a strange mixture that one shouldn't run risks with her. I wish I had never suggested her keeping the bird as a pet, but I thought it might be good for her to have something of her very own to care for and attend to."

"And so it was," said Hoodie's mother. "It has done her a great deal of good; it has softened her wonderfully. We all noticed it. And even this trouble may do her good; it may teach her really to try to master that sad temper of hers."

"I had no idea she would have been so put out at Duke's playing with her bird," Magdalen went on, "or I would not have risked it."

"But she _should_ not have been put out at it," said Mrs. Caryll. "You have nothing whatever to reproach yourself with, dear Magdalen. Hoodie _must_ be taught that she cannot be allowed to yield to that selfish, jealous temper."

"I know," said Magdalen. "But how are we to teach her? that is the difficulty--the least severity or sternness which does good to other children, seems to rouse her very worst feelings and only to harden her.

She is not hardened now, poor little soul, she is perfectly humble. Oh, how I do wish I could find her bird for her!"

"Don't trouble yourself so much about it, dear. You really must not,"

said Mrs. Caryll, as she bade her cousin good night.

But unfortunately those things which our friends beg us not to trouble ourselves about are generally the very things we find it the most impossible to put out of our minds. Magdalen could not leave off "troubling" about poor Hoodie. She slept little, and when she did sleep it was only to dream of the lost bird, sometimes that it was found again in all sorts of impossible places--sometimes that Hoodie was climbing a dreadfully high mountain, or attempting to swim across a deep river, where Magdalen felt that she would certainly be drowned,--in search of it. And once she dreamt that the bird flew into her room and perched at the foot of her bed, and when she exclaimed with delight at seeing it again it suddenly began to speak to her, and its voice sounded exactly like Hoodie's.

"I have come to say good-bye to you, Maudie's G.o.dmother," it said.

"n.o.body loves me, and I am always naughty, so I'd better go away."

And as Magdalen started up to catch the bird, or Hoodie, whichever it was--in her dream it seemed both--she awoke.

It was bright daylight already, though only five o'clock. Outside in the garden the sun was shining beautifully, the air, as Magdalen opened her window, felt deliciously fresh and sweet, everything had the peaceful untroubled look of very early morning--of a very early spring morning especially--when the birds and the flowers and the sunshine and the breezes have had it all to themselves, as it were, undisturbed by the troubles and difficulties and disagreements that busy day is sure to bring with it, as long as there are men and women, and boys and girls, in this puzzling world of ours.

Though, after all, it is better to be a child than a bird or a flower--whatever mistakes we may make, whatever wrong we may do, all, alas, adding to the great ma.s.s of mistakes and wrong--whatever sorrows we may have to bear, it is something to feel in us the power of bearing them, the power of _trying_ to put right even what we may have helped to put wrong--best of all the power of loving each other, and of helping each other in a way that the happy, innocent birds and flowers know nothing about. Is it not better to be _ourselves_, after all?

Magdalen leant out of the window, enjoying the sweet air and sunshine, but thinking all the time how much more she would have enjoyed this bright morning but for her sympathy with poor Hoodie's trouble.

Suddenly a thought struck her. _Possibly_ the bird, chilled and hungry after some hours' freedom, unaccustomed to be out in the dark, or to find food for itself--_possibly_ he might have returned to his cage in the night. Magdalen threw on her dressing-gown and hurried into the ante-room. The window was open, the cage-door stood open too, everything was ready to welcome the little wanderer--fresh seed in the box, fresh water in the gla.s.s--Hoodie had seen to it all herself before going to bed--but that was all!

There was no little feathered occupant in the cage--it was empty, and with a fresh feeling of disappointment, Magdalen stood by the window again, looking out at the bright morning, and wondering what she could do to comfort poor Hoodie. Outside, the birds were singing merrily.

"Should I get her another bird?" thought Magdalen, "a canary, perhaps, accustomed to cage life? No, I think not. It might only lead to fresh disappointment; besides, I don't think Hoodie is the sort of child to care for another, _instead_. No, that wouldn't do."

Suddenly a sort of flutter in the leaves round the window-frame--Mr.

Caryll's house was an old one; there were creepers all over the walls--made Magdalen look up.

"Can there be a nest in the eaves?" she said to herself, for the flutter was evidently that of a bird; and as she was watching, she saw it fly out--fly down rather from the projecting window-roof, and--to her amazement, after seeming for an instant or two to hesitate, it summoned up courage and flew a little way into the room--too high up for her to reach however, and not far enough into the room for her to venture to shut the window. She stood breathless, for as it at last settled for a moment on the curtain-rod, she saw what at first she had scarcely ventured to believe, that it was Hoodie's bird.

It stayed a moment on the rod, then it flew off again--made a turn round the room--"oh," thought Magdalen, "if it _would_ but settle somewhere further from the window, so that I could shut it in"--But no, off it flew again--out into the open air, and Magdalen's heart sank. Patience!

Another moment and it was back again, with designs on its cage apparently, but it hesitated half way. Now was the critical moment.

Magdalen hesitated. Should she risk it? She stretched out her hand towards the bird and softly and tremulously whistled to it in Hoodie's well-known call. The wavering balance of birdie's intentions was turned--it c.o.c.ked its head on one side, and with a pretty chirp flew towards Magdalen and perched on her finger! Slowly and cautiously, whistling softly all the time, she slipped her hand into the cage, and quickly withdrawing it the instant birdie hopped off he found himself caught.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Slowly and cautiously, whistling softly all the time"]

But he seemed quite content, and in two moments was pecking at his seed as if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER XI.

HOODIE'S DISOBEDIENCE.

"Where are the pretty primroses gone, That lately bloomed in the wood?"

Notwithstanding her troubles, on account of them partly, perhaps, for nothing tires out little children more than long crying, Hoodie slept soundly that night. She was still sleeping when, at seven o'clock, Magdalen, already dressed and with the cage in her hand, came into her room to watch for her waking.

Martin, who had heard the joyful news an hour ago, stood with Miss King beside the little girl's bed and looked at her. Poor Hoodie! Her rosy face still bore traces of yesterday's weeping, and now and then through her sleep one heard that little sobbing catch in her breathing which is, to my thinking, one of the most piteous sounds in the world.

"She's tired herself out," said Martin. "She may sleep another hour or more. You'll be tired standing there, miss. Who would think Miss Hoodie had it in her to take things to heart so, for to see her sometimes she's like as if she had no heart or love in her at all."

"I think I'll put the cage on a chair beside the bed," said Magdalen, "and then she'll be sure to see it the moment she wakes."

She did so and went quietly away. Half an hour later, coming back again to see if Hoodie was still sleeping, she heard as she opened the door the sound of the little girl's voice. She had just awakened and had discovered the return of her bird. She was in an ecstasy of delight, very pretty to hear and see.

"Oh my darling little bird," she was saying, "oh my sweet, innocent pet, have you come back? oh my dear, _dear_ bird! You didn't mean to go away from Hoodie, did you? You lost your way, didn't you? Hoodie will never speak c'oss again, birdie, _never_. I do think G.o.d is vezzy kind to send you back again, and I _will_ try to please Him by being good, 'cos He's so kind."

Magdalen stood still and watched her, with pleasure, but with a strange sort of slight sadness and misgiving too. There was something almost startling in the little girl's extreme love for the bird, and it made her cousin wish it could be bestowed on a higher object.

"Why can't she love her sister and brothers more?" she thought to herself. "I do not know what she would do now if anything again happened to the bird. I wonder if it would have been better if it had not come back. But no, I must not think that. _All_ love must do good to a nature like Hoodie's, and her love for the bird may teach her other things. And oh, I should have been sorry to leave her while she was as unhappy as she was yesterday."

Then she came forward into the room, and when Hoodie saw her, there was a fresh cry of delight, and Magdalen had to tell her over and over again exactly how it had all happened; how it was that she was up so early, how birdie flew in and then out again, and how Magdalen feared that after all she might not be able to catch him, and how delighted she was when she felt sure she had got him safe.

"I was so glad to think how pleased you would be, Hoodie, dear!" she said.

"Thank you, Cousin Magdalen, you are vezzy kind," said Hoodie. "And I think G.o.d is vezzy kind too, for you know I said my prayers to Him last night to send birdie back again, so He must have told him to come.

P'raps He sent a' angel to show birdie the way. I'm going to be vezzy good now, Cousin Magdalen, _awful_ good, alvays, 'cos G.o.d was kind and sent birdie back. _Won't_ G.o.d be glad?"

"Yes, dear, G.o.d is always glad when His little children are good. He likes them to be happy, and being good is the only way," said Magdalen.

"But won't He be _dedfully_ glad for me to be kite good?" said Hoodie, seemingly not quite satisfied with her cousin's tone. "I wouldn't have tried so much if He hadn't sent birdie back, but now I'm going to try awful hard."

"But, Hoodie dear, even if G.o.d hadn't sent birdie back it would have been right to try as hard as ever you could," said Magdalen. "That's what I wish you could understand--even when G.o.d _doesn't_ do what we ask Him we should try to please Him. For He loves us just the same--better than if He did what we ask, for He knows that sometimes what we ask wouldn't be good for us. I don't think you understand that, Hoodie dear.

You think when your mother, or Martin perhaps, doesn't do all at once what you ask, that it is because they don't love you. You mustn't feel that way, dear, either about your friends here, or about G.o.d, your best friend of all."

Hoodie looked up, rather puzzled. Magdalen feared she had not understood what she said, and almost regretted having said it. And afterwards she wondered what had put it into her mind to try to explain to the little girl what puzzles and bewilders far wiser people, but by the time that "afterwards" came she no longer regretted having said what she had.

"I do think G.o.d loves me now," said Hoodie, st.u.r.dily, "'cos He's sent birdie back, and so I'm going to try to be good. But if I was G.o.d I'd _alvays_ do what ev'ybody asked me, and I'd _make_ it be good for them, and then ev'ybody would be so pleased, they'd always try to be good."

"I'm afraid not, Hoodie," said Magdalen with a slight smile. "I'm afraid if everybody always got what they want there would soon be very little goodness left anywhere."

Hoodie at this looked more puzzled than before, but Magdalen, who had been speaking more to herself than to the child this time, did not try to explain any more. She bent over Hoodie and kissed her.