Kitabı oku: «Aileen Aroon, A Memoir», sayfa 20
“What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent, and how quickly they passed, perhaps no one but pussy and her little friend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two feline madcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glittered overhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seat themselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, however pleasant cats’ music heard at midnight may appear to the pussies themselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervous invalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or very soothing either.
“Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten as well, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far from where they sat.
“‘Ah!’ said Mirram, ‘that is sure to be some one who is delighted with our music, and is going to throw something nice to us.’
“Alas! alas! the something did come, but it wasn’t nice. It took the shape of a decanter of water and an old boot.
“One night pussy Mirram had stayed out very much longer, and Eenie had gone to bed crying, because she thought she would never, never see her Mirram more.
“Thoughtless Mirram! At that moment she was once again on the roof, and the kittie’s face was at the pigeon-hole. Mirram was sitting up in the most coaxing manner possible.
“‘Come out again,’ she was saying to kittie, ‘come out again. Do come out to – ’
“She didn’t see that terrible black cat stealing up behind; but she heard the low threatening growl, and sprang round to confront her and defend herself.
“The fight was fierce and terrible while it lasted, and poor Mirram got the worst of it. The black cat had well-nigh killed her.
“‘Oh!’ she sobbed, as she dropped bitter, blinding tears on the roof, – ‘oh, if I had never left my mistress! Oh, dear! oh, dear! whatever shall I do?’
“You see Mirram was very sad and sorrowful now; but then, unfortunately, the repentance came when it was too late.”
“Thank you,” Ida said, when I had finished; “I like the description of the garden ever so much. Now tell me something about birds; I’ll shut my eyes and listen.”
“But won’t you be tired, dear?” said my wife.
“No, auntie,” was the reply; “and I won’t go to sleep. I never tire hearing about birds, and flowers, and woods, and wilds, and everything in nature.”
“Here is a little bit, then,” I said, “that will just suit you, Ida. It is short. That is a merit. I call it – ”
About Summer Songs and Songsters
“Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from every feathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day out in the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature – my county is the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England – and I cannot help throwing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to the singing of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me that I am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizen thereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me, because I never hurt or frighten them.
“High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud, is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his head with the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I can observe that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, in her cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his pretty speckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top of the hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinions of a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is it because of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simple song a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, I know why he sings so, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it.
“In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind and weather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song on the highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not much music in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, and I’ve no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic gloss of his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to her his gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the song of the nightingale herself.
“But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk. There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, that really do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those of their mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bush of furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it, and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errand of some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouring bush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so he presently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is his ditty, that at five yards’ distance methinks you would fail to hear it. There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. The song of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis or speckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is what you might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently to amuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, trying all sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird within hearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale, after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation he makes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that.
“Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this question quickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply would be, ‘Oh, because he deserves to be loved.’ This is true enough; but let me tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinking it cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can to make friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made my first acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and one time there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn to be fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colder day than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in the parlour window – the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted his notice.
“‘You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,’ he seemed to say; ‘think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.’
“My dear mother – she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, and all created things – did think of his cold feet. She opened the window, and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open, but being given to understand that this would interfere materially with family arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charming grace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became his resting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water or milk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased when one day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. And it was always while we were at dinner that he sang.
“‘I suppose,’ he seemed to say, ‘you won’t object to a little music, will you?’ Then he would strike up.
“But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had an appointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business.
“My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a little boy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamoured of a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom I was residing during the temporary absence of my parents on the Continent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me —that helped my determination, no doubt. I did not get very far away – I may mention this at once – but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of a spruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bed was the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on the ground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think he hardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me. Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, and never forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perch on a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly, that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read this you will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation of truth in the beautiful tale of ‘The Babes in the Wood.’ Before nor since my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame as the one I met in the spruce-pine wood.
“Birds take singular fancies for some people. I know a little girl who when a child had a great fancy for straying away by herself into the woods. She was once found fast asleep and almost covered with wild birds. Some might tell me the birds were merely keeping their feet warm at the girl’s expense. I have a very different opinion on the subject.
“Robins usually build in a green bank at the foot of a large tree, and lay four or five lightish yellow or dusky eggs; but I have found their nests in thorn-bushes. In the romantic Isle of Skye all small birds build in the rocks, because there are no trees there, and few bushes. In a cliff, for example, close to the sea, if not quite overhanging it, you will find at the lower part the nests of larks, finches, linnets, and other small birds; on a higher reach the nests of thrushes and blackbirds; higher still pigeons build; and near the top sea-gulls and birds of prey, including the owl family.
“There is a short branch line not far from where I live, which ends five miles from the main artery of traffic. In the corner of a truck which had been lying idle at the little terminus for some time, a pair of robins built their nest, and the hen was sitting on five eggs when it became necessary to use the truck.
“‘Don’t disturb the nest,’ said the kindly station-master to his men; ‘put something over it. But I daresay the bird will forsake it; she’s sure to do so.’
“But the bird did nothing of the kind, and although she had a little railway journey gratis, once a day at least, to the main line and back, she stuck to her nest, and finally reared her family to fledglings.
“Robins are early astir in the morning; their song is the first I hear. They sing, too, quite late at night; they also sing all the year round; and it is my impression, on the whole, that they like best to trill forth when other birds are silent.
“The song-birds of our groves are neither jealous of each other nor do they hate each other. Down at the foot of my lawn I have a large shallow pan placed, which is kept half-filled with water in summer. I can see it from my bedroom window, and it is very pleasant to watch the birds having a bath in the morning. There is neither jealousy nor hatred displayed during the performance of this most healthful operation. I sometimes see blackbirds, thrushes, and sparrows all tubbing at one time, and quite hilarious over it.
Chapter Thirty Two.
Harry’s Holiday – King John; or, The Tale of a Tub – Sindbad; or, the Dog of Penellan
“Country life, – let us confess it,
Man will little help to bless it,
Yet, for gladness there
We may readily possess it
In its native air.
“Rides and rambles, sports and farming,
Home, the heart for ever warming,
Books and friends and ease,
Life must after all be charming,
Full of joys like these.”
Tupper.
“I’m not sure, Ida, that you will like the following story. There is truth in it, though, and a moral mixed up with it which you may unravel if you please. I call it – ”
Harry’s Holiday
“The hero of my little story was a London boy. Truth is, he had spent all the days and years of his young life in town. I do not think that he had ever, until a certain great event in his life took place, seen even the suburbs of the great city in which it was his lot to reside. His whole world consisted of stone walls, so to speak, of an interminable labyrinth of streets and lanes and terraces, for ever filled with a busy multitude, hurrying to and fro in the pursuit of their avocations. I believe he got to think at last that there was nothing, that there could be nothing beyond this mighty London; and of country life, with all its joys and pleasures, he knew absolutely nothing. A tree to him was merely a dingy, sooty kind of shrub, that grew in the squares; flowers were gaudy vegetables used in window decorations; a lark was a bird that spent all its life in a box-cage, chiefly, in the neighbourhood of Seven Dials. As to trees growing in woods and in forests where the deer and the roe live wild and free; as to flowers carpeting the fields with a splendour of bloom; as to larks mounting high in air to troll their happy songs – he had not even the power of conception. True, he had read of such things, just as he had read of the moon as seen through a telescope, and the one subject was just as vague to him as the other.
“Harry at this time was, I fear, just a little sceptical. He lacked in a great measure that excellent quality, without which there would be very little real happiness in this world – I mean faith. He only believed in what he really saw and could understand, from which, of course, you will readily infer that his mind was neither a very comprehensive nor a very clever one. And you are right.
“Harry was not a strong boy; his face was pale, his eyes were large and lustrous, his poor little arms and legs were far from robust, and you could have found plenty of country lads who measured twice as much round the chest as Harry. Well, his parents, who really did all they could for their boy, were very pleased when one morning the postman brought them a letter from the far north, inviting their little son to come and spend a long autumn holiday at the farm of Dunryan, in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. He was to go all alone in the steamboat, simply in care of the steward, who promised to be very kind to him and look well after his comforts. And so he did, too; but I think that from the very moment that the great ship began to drop down the river, leaving the city behind it, with all its smoke and its gloom, Harry began to be a new boy. A new current of life seemed to begin to circulate in his veins, a better state of feeling to take possession of his soul. There was no end to the wonders Harry saw during his voyage to Aberdeen. The sea itself was a sight which until now he could not have imagined – could not have even dreamed of. Then there was the long line of wonderful coast. He had seen a panorama, but that couldn’t have been very large, because it was contained within the four stone walls of a concert-room. But here was a panorama gradually unrolling itself before his astonished gaze hundreds and hundreds of miles in extent. No wonder that his eyes dilated as he beheld it: the black, beetling cliffs that frowned over the ocean’s depths; the beautiful sandy beaches; the broad bays, with cities slumbering in the mists beyond; the green-topped hills; the waving woods; the houses; the palaces; and the grey old ruined castles that told of the might and strength of ages past and gone. All and every one of these seemed to whisper to Harry – seemed to tell him that there were more wonderful things even in this world than he had ever before believed in.
“When night came on, the stars shone out – stars more beautiful than he had ever seen before – so clear, so large, so bright. And they carried his thoughts far, far beyond the earth. In their pure presence he felt a better boy than ever he had felt before, but at the same time he could not help feeling ashamed of that feeling of unbelief that had possessed him in London. He was beginning to have faith already – a little, at all events. Were I to tell you of all Harry’s adventures, and all the strange sights he saw ere he reached Aberdeen, I would have quite a long story to relate. His uncle met him at the pier with a dog-cart, into which he helped him, the handsome, spirited horse giving just one look round, to see who was getting up. When he saw this mite of a hero of ours, —
“‘Oh,’ said the horse to himself, ‘he won’t make much additional weight. I’d trot along with a hundred of such as he is.’
“So away they went. Now Harry had been taught to look upon London as the finest and prettiest town in the world; but when he rattled along the wide and magnificent streets of the capital of the north, he found ample reason to alter his opinion. Here was no smoke – here was a sun shining down from a sky of cerulean hue, and here were houses built apparently of the costliest and whitest of marble. On went the dog-cart, and the closely-built streets gave place to avenues and terraces, and rows of palatial buildings peeping up through the greenery of trees.
“Harry was a little tired that night before he reached the good farm of Dunryan; but his aunt and cousins were kindness itself, and after a bigger and nicer supper than ever he had eaten before in his life, he was shown to his snow-white couch, and the next thing he became conscious of was that the sun was shining broad and clearly into his chamber, and there was a perfect babel of sounds right down under his window, sounds that a country boy would easily have understood, but which were worse than Greek to Harry. He soon jumped out of bed, however, washed and dressed, and then opened the casement and looked down. I have already told you that Harry’s eyes were large, but the sight he now witnessed made him open them considerably wider than he had done for many a day. A vast courtyard crowded with feathered bipeds of every kind that could be imagined. Harry hurried on with his toilet, so that he might be able to go downstairs and examine them more closely.
“Everybody was glad to see him, but he had to eat his breakfast all alone nevertheless, for his cousins had been up and had theirs hours and hours before. One of his relatives was a pretty little auburn-haired lass of some nine or ten summers, with blue, laughing eyes, and modest mien. She volunteered to show Harry round the farm. But Harry felt just a little afraid nevertheless, and considerably ashamed for being so, when he found himself in the great yard quite surrounded by hens and ducks and gobbling geese and turkeys. I think the animals themselves knew this, and did all they could to frighten him. The hens were content with cackling and grumbling, evidently trying to incite the cocks to acts of open hostility against our trembling hero. The cocks crew loudly at him, or defiantly approached him, looking as if they meant to imply that he owed it entirely to their generosity that his life was spared. The turkey-cocks put themselves into all sorts of queer shapes – tried to look like fretful porcupines, elevated the red rag that Harry was astonished to see depending from their noses, and made terrible noises at him. The ducks were content with standing on tiptoe, clapping their snow-white wings, and crying, ‘What! what! what!’ at the top of their voices. The peahens were merely curious and impertinent; but the geese were alarmingly intrusive. They stretched out their necks to the longest extent, approached him thus, and gave vent to hissings unutterable by any other creature than a goose.
“‘They won’t bite or anything, will they?’ faltered our hero, feeling very small indeed.
“But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then taking Harry’s hand, she ran him off to show him more wonders – great horses that looked to the London boy as big as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses; donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the same time. ‘Poor boy,’ Lizzie used to think to herself, ‘he has never been out of London before. What can he know?’
“Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry’s physical weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn’t climb the broom-clad hills as she could – not at first, at all events; but after one month’s stay in this wild, free country, new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the heather’s bloom.
“Harry’s uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to doubt what they cannot understand. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth,’ said his uncle one day, ‘than we have dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an impossibility, simply because he couldn’t understand it? Have faith, boy, have faith.’
“But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy, didn’t know where chickens came from? He really didn’t. Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the history of great men, and lead them to a better train of thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very small beginnings.
“Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over. This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the thought led to wisdom and faith.
“Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest, and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles, and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, ‘I, too, will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great world, in which I am now convinced everything is well ordained.’
“He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast which enables him to look beyond.”
“Now one other,” said Ida; “I know you have lots of pretty tales in that old portfolio.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “here goes; and then you’ll sleep.”
King John; or, The Tale of a Tub
“King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock – simply that, and nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny – he was not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, ‘Kok aik uk uk?’ with strong emphasis on the ‘aik,’ and which in English means, ‘How dare you stand and stare at me?’
“King John’s tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one’s little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions – that is, those whom he cared about – you would have repented it the very next minute, and King John’s spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock wouldn’t have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were – most of them young too – golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king, and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior members of the farmyard.
“Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held. He was a very proud king – though, to his credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne – an old water-tub, by the way – and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a challenge to every cock or king within hearing – never, I say, had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jock ought to have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock’s life became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no worse off than before.
“Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large potato, and said he to himself, ‘Hullo! I’m fortunate to-day; I’ll have such a nice breakfast.’
“‘Will you indeed?’ cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. ‘Will you indeed?’ repeated his majesty. ‘How dare you attempt to eat a whole potato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.’
“‘I won’t,’ cried the little cock, quite bravely.
“‘Then I’ll make you,’ roared the big one.
“‘Then I shan’t,’ was the bold reply.
“Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but victorious enemy.
“When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock mounted his throne – the afore-mentioned water-butt – and crew and crew and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn’t crow any longer; then he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John.
“The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly.
“And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John —
“‘Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,’ for his articulation was not so distinct as it formerly was.
“‘Kurr-r-r!’ the new king would reply, ‘he’d better keep at a respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I’ll – I’ll eat him entirely up!’
“‘I think,’ said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife – ‘I think we’d better have t’ould cock for our Sunday’s dinner.’
“‘Won’t he be a bit tough?’ his good wife replied.
“‘Maybe, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘but fine and fat, and plenty of him, at any rate.’
“Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch’s execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a coward.
“But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely end.
