Chapter V (7)

Yesterday, the friends of liberty assembled in the Hall of Natural History, where stuffed animals are preserved.

This preliminary meeting was held at a late hour. One by one the members assembled, and silently exchanging tokens of recognition, seated themselves in the galleries opposite their preserved ancestors. The stillness was such, that one could hardly distinguish the dead from the living. The Elephant, Bear, Buffalo, Bison, and the Eagle all arrived at the same moment, as if drawn thither by some power supernatural. But who can deny that love of liberty moves mountains, and at once explains the presence of these noble beasts.

“Brothers,” said an orator at last, “we have remained silent, and yet we know full well the cause of our meeting. Fellow elephants, apes, birds, and beasts! I crave your forbearance—(cheers)—while I point out to you the only true elements of reform. (Loud applause.) Our proceedings last year have let us in for a rather bad thing; the animals elected to edit our proceedings, and to conduct the affairs of our kingdom, have tampered with our liberty. Visit their chambers—there you shall behold histories without number, rejected and shelved; shelved to suit the editor’s caprices! (Cheers.) Many of the pages thus consigned to {221} oblivion, are very mirrors of light and liberty that would have shed a glorious lustre over the ages. Ah! I see, in the cultured faces around, the lineaments of all that is noble and patriotic in the land! I hear in those deep drawn sighs, harrowing tales of genius neglected and suppressed by the jealousy of those who are set over us! (Thunders of applause.) I read the sentiments of true hearts, roused by oppression, in the fervour of your wagging tails and glorious gnashing of incisors! Brothers, let calm and tranquil sagacity resume its throne in your breasts, which are torn with righteous indignation! Listen—words must express pent-up thoughts! I must speak! you must act!! The course we are pursuing is leading us to ruin! What has the publication of our history done for us? For us? nay, not for us; for the few—the select favoured ones whose stories have appeared in its pages. What has it done for us? simply nothing. In these pages the wrongs of all, high and low, should find a place. Has it been so? I ask you. (Shouts of ‘No! no! no! down with the editors!’) Down with them! the tyrants!! they have abused the power we placed in their hands! served their friends, and calmly said, ‘All is well.’ What has come of it all? Has our world ceased to be a vale of tears? Have our homes been happier? Our prospects brighter? Has our fame been spread abroad? (‘The stag, elk, and calf, No! no!!’) Brothers, since that memorable night, when the first outcry for liberty and reform was hailed by the acclamations of the whole world, our rights and liberties have been systematically betrayed. We have been sold! sold!! sold to men!! (‘True, true! they sold us,!’) sold to men!!! But let us leave these inferior animals alone, they are not our worst enemies. Our leaders have betrayed us for a caress from their keepers, or a miserable subsidy of nuts and crusts. Whither shall we direct our steps? shall it be back to our narrow prisons, or lonely desert wastes? (All the animals, ‘Alas! alas!’) Will the clouds be our canopy and the earth our pillow? I tell you, friends, we shall all of us die in irons. (In chorus, ‘O misery, misery!’)”

The orator, turning towards the remains of countless generations of animals, continued—

“Remains of our illustrious ancestors, you who once lived and breathed. Miserable mummies! ghosts of all that is beautiful in our vitality and action. Did you voluntarily relinquish the care of the creator to play your part in this ghastly mimicry of life? Were we created to be stuffed and preserved in cases, side by side with the poor {222} works of man, in place of returning to your parent earth after fulfilling your destinies? Brothers, let us escape from men and the doom that awaits us. The way to liberty may be narrow and well-guarded; it is our only way! we must follow it, force the passes, water them with our blood, and gain the glorious grassy plains and wooded vales of freedom!”

If one may credit the report of this pompous oration, the effect it produced was perfectly marvellous. We need only notice one point in this wicked dithyrambic. You say, Mr. Bison, the speaker, that we have sold you—you are right we have sold you! and what is more we are proud of it! No less than 20,000 copies. Could you have done so much? You owe us your thanks for raising your market value.

The dean of the Jardin des Plantes—a venerable Buffalo—whose personal character we esteem, replied thus to his cousin the Bison:—

“My children, I am the oldest slave in this garden, and have the sad honour of being your dean. Of my early days I have but a dim recollection, indeed I can only recall the days of my freedom. Sweet days they were, and in spite of my twenty odd years of bondage the young blood comes back to my heart as I reflect on the prospect of renewed liberty. (Cheers.) I speak of your liberty, my children, not of my own, for my eyes will close in death long before the dawn of that glorious day. Slave I have lived, and slave I shall die. (Shouts of ‘Long live the Buffalo.’) My good friends,” replied the speaker, “it is not in your power to add an hour to my life. It is not the selfish freedom of one, or of many, but of all that we must seek. I therefore beseech you to remain united. (Murmurs of dissent.) My children, do not plunge into the misery of civil strife. Do not cavil over the mean rags of power. When you have changed your one-eyed house for a blind mock, what benefit will the change confer? Think of the misery you may bring upon the poor and helpless ones, and how that a little power, more or less, vested in the hands of my hearers can never effect the good of all.”

The closing words of this speech were listened to coldly, the respect due to the speaker alone preventing a demonstration.

“Civil war leads to despotism and not to liberty,” said the dean, as he sadly resumed his seat.

“Are we here to listen to a sermon?” roared the Lynx.

A number of agitators followed. It is necessary here to remark that {223} the more indifferent the cause to be advocated the greater the crowd of speakers.

The Boar proceeded to address the assembly in a flow of eloquence, until domestic duties called him to the bosom of his numerous family.

Here we end our quotations from the “Journal of Reform,” and in justice to the rioters, will conclude with a literal account of the proceedings, furnished by a Ferret who was present at the meeting.

“For three hours the rioters, irrespective of the place, or the sacred presence of the dead around, kept up an incessant thunder of inarticulate sounds, stamping, groaning, and applauding. Sixty-three speakers addressed the audience simultaneously. The result of this tumult of voices may be more easily imagined than described.”

Our correspondent adds: “The art of whistling and howling has made such astonishing progress among the audience as to suggest a mass meeting in England!”

One of those doubtful dogs who have no political opinions, and who are to be found in every popular assembly attempted to gain a hearing.

“If we are vanquished!” he said.

“Vanquished! bah! Out with the cur!” cried the Bear, with that air of brutality so peculiarly his own.

“Out with him!” growled the Hyena; “barking is not enough, we must bite!”

“Beware of the spy,” shrieked the Weasel.

The prudent brute waiting to hear no more, tucked his tail snugly between his legs and bolted through a window.

Here the Ram ventured to point out that the editors had gained the confidence of the people.

“Popularity is no proof of genius,” said the Wolf. “The people will forget their idols.”

“And hate them,” growled the Hyena.

“If they neglect their love, they will nurse their hatred!” hissed the Snake.

The Fox perceiving that unanimity of sentiment was hopeless, adjourned the meeting by proposing that the rioters should refresh themselves by a night’s repose. So they departed each one to his den, and there dreaming of reform and rapine, rose with the sun to renew the conflict. They awoke to arms and assaulted the amphitheatre. The onslaught was severe, and in our extremity we inquired for Prince Leo. {224}

“They have taken the amphitheatre,” said that great general, “and what is more they shall keep it.”

The prince’s firm attitude proved reassuring, for this renowned tactician had taken timely measures to teach the traitors a terrible lesson. He shut them in and secured the approaches, so that the stronghold was like to become the tomb of the insurgents. All attempts to relieve their position were vigorously repulsed by Prince Humble-Bee.

An audacious Ape mounted the amphitheatre roof and raised the standard of revolt; while a Mole proposed to entrench the army within its hill. The proposal was negatived, as the position was deemed already too strong.

A celebrated engineering Spider offered to spin a suspension bridge over which the insurgents might escape during the night. To this the Fly objected, while the Elephant urged that the work should be at once proceeded with.

The extraordinary simplicity of this giant of the forest inspired one {225} of our friends with the idea for the following couplet, which we gladly insert (as it ought not to be lost to posterity), regretting, at the same time, that the gifted poet insists on remaining anonymous:—

AIR—“_Femmes, voulez-vous éprouver_.”

“Un Éléphant se balançait
Sur une toile d’Araignée;
Voyant qu’il divertissait,
Une Mouche en fut indignée:
‘Comment peux-tu te rejouer,’
Dit-elle, ‘en voyant ma souffrance
Ah! viens plutôt me soucourir,
Ma main sera ta recompense.’ ”

{226}

We secured a number of brave auxiliaries in the shrimps, who, headed by a valiant sea-crab, shouted, as they formed into marching order—

“Forward let us march
With our backs upon the foe.”

All good citizens were ordered to leave wife and children, and prepare to be everywhere at a moment’s notice, ready to fight for their {227} country. Notwithstanding the happy stratagem which shut in the rebels, we were doomed to defeat. A company of the enemy’s flies, mechanics, were drafted to place the guns so as to command our position. The coolness of these creatures, foes though they were, won our admiration. They planted the weapons with an unconcern as complete as if preparing to storm the calix of a flower, while the result of their manœuvres soon told terribly on our left wing. Our swarms, impatient for the fray—displaying more valour than discretion—fell upon the foe in disorganised detachments. The right attacked the enemy’s left under the leadership of the Goliaths, but the light infantry under Prince Humble-Bee were as waves against a rock scattered in boiling foam. Our left was opposed by the mining, cutting, and carpentering Andrines, and the corporation of Rhinoceros-Beetles, who having only one horn, obeyed the mighty two-horned Stags. Flies, Moths, Grubs, and other insects attacked and routed our centre. Prince Humble-Bee calculated on the Rhinoceros-Beetles attacking his heavy troops, compelling them to traverse the field, separating the two armies; but the Beetle, who had been apprised of the plan of campaign by a deserter, commanded his troops to close their ranks and their wings, thus to await the enemy’s shock.

The colours floated in the wind, the sun shone brightly on the insects ranged in battle array, while martial music fired our foes with {229} desperate resolve. From time to time grains of balsam, projected into the air by Stag-Beetles with much precision, fell among our troops, exploding and scattering death and dismay around. The enemy’s forces stood firm as a rock. Our army, thoroughly demoralised, made a final attack, and were beaten off with great loss. Bruised wings, scattered mandibles and limbs impeded their movements, till at last they fell back in disorder. As a climax to our misfortunes, the general of the May Bugs, rolling over on his back, was pierced by the sting of a rebel Wasp. It was a lost battle—the Waterloo of our cause! Prince Humble-Bee, not caring to survive his defeat, plunged into the thick of the fray, when, after performing prodigies of valour, he died the death of the brave, pierced by twenty-nine wounds.

_Notes by the Office-Boy._

Knowing the anxiety of my chiefs to keep our readers posted up in news, I take the liberty of writing in my turn, and shall go on until I am arrested.

My masters had just finished speaking, when the door flew to atoms. The Elephant had rung out the hour of doom at the door bell, and shivered the door with his foot. The pen fell from Mr. Parroquet’s claw, and his eyes closed as if in deep thought.

“What do you see?” he inquired of Mr. Cock, who stood at the window.

“I see trouble upon trouble; we are menaced on all sides! Confound them!!” cried he bravely; “why should we yield?”

“Yield only to reason!” said the Monkey; “never to force!”

“What!” crowed the Cock, jumping on the back of the Ape; “you cowardly, man-like animal, reason would tempt you to yield up your post?”

“No doubt about it,” replied the Ape, who became as livid as this paper; “if I am”——

He had no time to finish his sentence; the cabinet door flew open and the Fox entered.

“Arrest these gentlemen,” said he to the Dogs who followed him, pointing to the trio of editors.

The Parroquet flew up the chimney, the Monkey hid beneath his arm-chair, while the Cock stood defiant, his comb never having assumed a hue so red. They were arrested.

“What are you doing here?” said the Fox to me. {230}

{231}

“Whatever you choose, my lord,” I replied.

“Well, remain here,” he continued.

Many others had entered with the speaker, and shouted, “Long live my lord the Fox!” They were right, for never had I beheld so affable a prince.

“My friends,” he said, “nothing in this office is changed; only one additional animal appears.” (Cheers.)

The Fox, taking up the abandoned pen of the Ape, sat down to write his first proclamation.

FIRST PROCLAMATION.

“Inhabitants of the Jardin des Plantes, the editors having been removed, all cause for disorder has ceased.”

“THE FOX,

“_Provisional President and Editor_.”

“Read and sign this document,” said he to the ex-editors.

Whereupon the Cock replied, “Sir, I shall not dishonour myself by such a treacherous act.”

“We shall see,” replied the Fox.

He then proceeded to draw up another proclamation.

SECOND PROCLAMATION.

“Citizens, while you were asleep you were being betrayed, but friends were watching for you. Too long had we bowed our heads without murmuring; the time had come for us to assert our dignity. The traitors who governed and sold you breathe no more! The records of our nation will teach the world how the animal kingdom redresses its wrongs. During this hour justice has been executed, the work is finished, the culprits have paid with their lives the penalty of their guilt—they have been hanged!

“_N.B._—Out of sacred regard for our ancestors who suffered the extreme penalty of the law, they have been hanged on new gibbets.

“THE FOX.”

The Cock listened unmoved to the reading of this second document.

“But,” said the Monkey, “my lord, we are not hanged.”

“Are you really thinking of hanging us?” cried the Parroquet, weeping at the prospect. {232}

“No,” replied the Fox, “it is a proceeding I do not care to carry out, only you must appear to have been hanged.”

The shouts of the populace outside could be plainly heard, demanding the heads of the editors.

“Patience,” replied the Fox, addressing the people from time to time—“patience, if you are wise. You shall have some medals to commemorate this event. [_Aside._] To refuse nothing, and to give nothing, is the way to govern wisely and well.”

The shouts, “Death to the tyrants!” “Death to the editors!” redoubled.

“You hear, gentlemen,” said the Fox. “It is necessary to do something for the people; yet,” he added, “if you can find means to deceive them by preserving your lives, you may do so.”

“Means!” screamed the Monkey; “I have found them,” and in his joy he turned three somersaults.

Mr. Monkey had got possession of the stuffed body of an ancestor, {233} no doubt with the intention of honouring his race. He at once produced the relic, and it was decided that this defunct relative should figure on the gibbet in place of his erring descendant. To better deceive the multitude, before sending the mummy to martyrdom the Monkey attired it in his coat and well-known cap; this he did, not without tokens of genuine grief.

“Now, my dear sir,” continued the Fox, “you must seek retirement for fifteen days, after which I think you may venture to show yourself again. There is no dead man or monkey who in Belle France has not the right to come to life audaciously at the end of a fortnight. The people are the most magnanimous of enemies—they forget everything.”

“They are also the most fickle friends,” replied the Ape; then, casting a last fond look on his boxes, his table, and his office, he vanished.

The Parroquet found means of communicating with an old friend, an ardent admirer of his talent, who volunteered to be hanged in his stead. A quarter of an hour after the execution, the ungrateful Parroquet was joking with his wife about the folly of martyrdom.

The Cock, who remained true to his principles, suffered death, much to the regret of a numerous circle of female admirers.

The crowd, drawn together with the view of seeing such mighty personages dangling in the air, had its wish gratified. Some silent worshippers of the illustrious dead could scarcely believe their eyes.

“Is it possible,” they said, “that animals of such influence can be hanged like common felons? What is the world coming to? They, only the other day, seemed to be the mainsprings of life!”

A bird whose name remains unknown published a pamphlet on this subject, in which he developed this proposition: “Is it good that he who governs is not the State? for should misfortune befall him, there would be an end to the State.”

After the executions had taken place the Fox thought proper to make the two proclamations public, and being in a mood for proclamations, issued a third.

THIRD PROCLAMATION.

“Inhabitants of the Jardin des Plantes, invested by your confidence with a post so important as that of directing the second and last part {234} of our National History, it is needless here to expose the principles which obtained for me your suffrage. It is by my work you shall judge me. I shall make no pledges, although pledges cost nothing. I shall not tell you that the golden age is about to begin for you, whatever the golden age may be; but I can assure you that when you find neither pen, ink, nor paper in my office, it will be because they are not to be had at any price. My advice for all is to observe justice and sincerity. Remember, were these words blotted out of the dictionary, you would still find them indelibly engraved on the heart of a Fox.

“Your brother and director,

“THE FOX.”

The effect of these proclamations, which were circulated everywhere, was almost magical. Perfect tranquillity reigned; the politest civilities were exchanged by all; a little dust sprinkled over the dead, and one would imagine that neither war nor bloodshed had ever disgraced this smiling land. Some disagreeable animals who sneak about and ferret out everything, having no fault to find with the chief editorship of the Fox, inquired by whom he had been elected chief? What can it matter to them, so long as he has been elected? One names one’s self, but one is no less editor-in-chief for all that.

My lord, casting his eyes over my work, was pleased to inform me that I gave him satisfaction, and that he intended to recompense me. Yesterday I was office-boy, to-day I am His Highness’s private secretary! Yesterday my feet were trod on, to-day they are licked! I am evidently somebody, and can do something. I embraced the occasion to inform him I had been yard-dog in a college.

“I congratulate you on your university training. Even if one knows nothing on leaving the walls of such an institution, one is credited with profound knowledge. The important part of life consists not in being, but in appearing to be.”

It is said that I sold myself; it is a mistake, I was bought, that was all. Besides, the advantageous post just given to me belonged to no one; it was made expressly for me. There is a ring at the bell, it is a deputation of animals.

“We come,” said the chief of the deputation humbly, “to represent to your Highness that something is wanting in our glorious constitution.” {235}

“What?” said the Fox.

“Sir,” replied the deputy, “what will posterity say to our pulling through a revolution without eating or drinking?”

{236}

“Gentlemen,” said His Highness President Fox, “I note with pleasure your attention to important details, and that the country may rely upon your practical common sense. Go and dine.”

A great public dinner was prepared, in token of rejoicing, in a field {237} in front of the amphitheatre. As on all similar occasions, there was much speech-making and little food, at least for many of the most deserving supporters of the republic. The Insects were relegated to an obscure position, politely called the place of honour, where they feasted on fine phrases. In consideration of his position, the Fox, as President, was supported by a Duck and Indian Hen, who kept a respectful distance from His Excellency. It was a most amicable gathering. The views expressed were as diverse as the individuals present. One said white, another black; one red, another green; and all agreed that the speakers were the living representatives of worth, genius, and national progress. The Fox was everything to every one. He had a smile and kind word for each guest. “You do not eat,” he said to the Cormorant. “Are you ill?” to the White Bear; “you seem pale.” To his _vis à vis_, “Have the Wolves no teeth now?” To the Penguin, who was yawning, “You require rest after your exploits.” To the Blackbird, “You seem silent.” And to all, “My good friends, use your pens freely.” At last came the toasts, the time for oratorical display. You should have watched how each one retired within himself, scratched his head or pensively caressed his tail as a means of inspiration, how each silently rehearsed his little speech. Unfortunately the order of the toasts had been arranged beforehand—not only the order, but the number as well. Splendid fasting might be forgiven, but the cancelling of a cherished toast—never! In spite of this wise precaution, there were so many speakers that my pen and patience alike failed to enumerate them. As may be imagined, the first toast was Liberty; this is traditional, and it is no fault of those who dine if liberty makes a poor show on such occasions. By courtesy the second was the Ladies, couched in these terms, “To the sex that adorns and ennobles life!” This toast, proposed by an amiable Hippopotamus well known for his gallantry, was greeted with applause.

Towards the close of the evening wine flowed freely, and as the contents of the cask fell, the spirits of the party rose to that pitch when all things earthly seemed steeped in the roseate light of a glorious dawn. The repast ended like all others of the kind, when the face of the universe is proposed to be changed, and the world forced backwards by eating and drinking. But the morning revealed the marvellous fact that the world still revolved in its old way, and that recourse must again be had to the common, traditional, time-honoured modes of life, at least so thought the Fox, who replaced his cap by a little crown, {238} declaring at the same time that in future he would shun popular feasts as he would the devil.

“I am about to draw up a charter. A nation that has a charter wants for nothing. Here is my charter:—

“All animals who can read, write, and especially count, who have hay in their racks, and powerful friends, being all equal before the law, shall receive protection. The great ones of the Jardin des Plantes may therefore enjoy their ease. The lesser ones are requested to give up what little they have, and to become so small as to be imperceptible and impalpable.

“It is impossible to please every one; those who are displeased ought not to be astonished, as they have a right to complain. The right of drawing up petitions is solemnly recognised. But as it is well known that the moments of a ruler are precious, and as it would be impossible for him to receive all the petitioners, it is forbidden for any one to bring his petition to the august arm-chair. They will only be received when sent by post, postage prepaid, and will only be read when convenient to do so.”

The animals required no second telling. Every one having some source of complaint, petitions arrived in cartloads. The earth and air were thronged with messengers and couriers of every description. The charter had not been published two hours before the house, cellars, and lofts were packed full of petitions. They were even piled up against the outside door.

“Fools!” said the Fox, laughing in his sleeve to see they had taken him at his word. “How long will they imagine that governments are made to protect them? Yet I must look at these petitions, and in order to observe the strictest impartiality, will close my eyes.”

He opened one written by a Bittern, signed and crossed by many supporters. It ran as follows:—

“The undersigned declare that they have had enough of civil discords and of preliminary proceedings, and suggest that the white Blackbird should now be called upon to relate his history.”

“I like this petition,” said the Fox, “as it enables us to dispense with opening the others. The others may make a bonfire.”

No sooner said than done. They were burned.

{239}

HISTORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD.

How glorious and yet how painful it is to be an exceptional Blackbird! I am not a fabulous bird. M. de Buffon has described me. But, alas! I am of an exceedingly rare type, very difficult to find, and one that ought, I think, never to have existed.

My parents were worthy birds, who lived in an old out-of-the-way kitchen-garden. Ours was a most exemplary home. While my mother laid regularly three times a year, my father, though old and petulant, still grubbed round the tree in which she sat, bringing her the daintiest insect fare. When night closed round the scene, he never missed singing his well-known song, to the delight of the neighbourhood. No domestic grief, quarrel, or cloud of any sort had marred this happy union.

Hardly had I left my shell, when my father, for the first time in his life, thoroughly lost his temper. Although I was of a doubtful grey, he neither recognised in me the colour nor the shape of his numerous posterity.

“This is a most doubtful child,” he used to say, as he cast a side {240} glance at me, “neither white nor black, as dirty-looking as he seems ill-begotten.”

“Ah me!” sighed my mother, who was always coiled up in a ball on her nest. “You yourself, dear, were you not a charming good-for-nothing in your youth? Our little pet will grow up to be the best of our brood.”

While taking my part, my mother felt inward qualms as she saw my callow down grow to feathers; but, like all mothers, her heart warmed to the child least favoured by nature, and she instinctively sought to shield me from the cruel world.

When I was moulting, for the first time my father became quite pensive, and considered me attentively. While my down fell off he even treated me with some degree of favour, but as soon as my poor cold wings received their covering, as each white feather appeared, he became so furious that I dreaded his plucking me alive. Having no mirror, I remained ignorant of the cause of his wrath, and was at a loss to account for the studied unkindness of the best of parents. One day, filled with joy by a beam of sunlight and the warmth of my new coat, I left the nest, and alighting in the garden, burst into song. Instantly my father darted down from his perch with the velocity of a rocket.

“What do I hear?” he cried. “Is that meant for a Blackbird’s whistle? Is it thus I sing? Do you call that song?”

Returning to my mother with a most dangerous expression lurking round his beak, “Unfortunate! who has invaded our nest? who laid that egg?”

At these words my good mother jumped from her nest fired by proud resentment. In doing so she fell and hurt her leg; she wished to speak, but her heart was too full for words. She fell to the ground fainting.

Frightened and trembling, I cast myself at my father’s feet. “O my father!” I said, “if I whistle out of tune, and am clothed in white, do not punish my poor mother. Is it her fault that nature has not tuned my ear like yours? Is it her fault that I have not your yellow beak and glossy black coat, which recall a sleek parson swallowing an omelette? If Heaven has made me a monster, and if some one must bear the punishment, let me be the only sufferer.”

“That is not the question,” said my father. “Who taught you to whistle against rule?”

“Alas! sir,” I said humbly, “I whistled as best I could, because my breast was full of sunshine and stomach full of grubs.” {241}

“Such whistling was never known in my family,” he replied. “For untold centuries we have whistled, from father to son, the notes alone by which we are known. Our morning and evening warblings have {242} been the pride of the world since the dawn that awoke us to the joys of paradise. My voice alone is the delight of a gentleman on the first floor and of a poor girl in the attic of yonder house. They open their windows to listen to me. Is it not enough to have your whitened clown-at-a-fair coat constantly before my eyes? Were I not the most pacific of parents, I should have you plucked and toasted on the poor girl’s spit.”

“Well,” I cried, disgusted with my father’s injustice, “be it so, I will leave you—deliver you from the sight of this white tail you are constantly pulling. As my mother lays three times a year, you may yet have numerous black children to console your old age. I will seek a hiding-place for my misery; perchance some shady spout which shall afford flies or spiders to sustain my sad life. Adieu!”

“Please yourself,” replied my father, who seemed to enjoy the prospect of losing me; “you are no son of mine—in fact, you are no Blackbird.”

“And who may I be, pray?”

“Impossible to say; but you are no Blackbird.”

After these memorable words, my unnatural parent with slow steps left me, and my poor mother limped into a bush to weep. As for myself, I flew to the spout of a neighbouring house.

II.

My father was heartless enough to leave me in this mortifying situation for some days. In spite of his violence he was naturally kind-hearted, and had he not been prevented by his pride, he would have come to comfort me. I saw that he would fain forgive and forget, while my mother’s eyes hardly left me for an instant. For all that, they could not get over my abnormally white plumage, and bring themselves to own me as a member of the family.

“It is quite evident I am not a Blackbird,” I repeated to myself, and my image, reflected in a pool of water in the spout, confirmed this belief.

One wet night, when I was going off to sleep, a thin, tall, wiry-looking bird alighted close by my side. He seemed, like myself, a needy adventurer, but in spite of the storm that lifted his battered plumage, he carried his head with a proud and charming grace. I {243} made him a modest bow, to which he replied with a blow of his wing, nearly sweeping me from the spout.

“Who are you?” he said with a voice as husky as his head was bald.

“Alas! good sir,” I replied, fearing a second blow, “I have no notion who I am; I imagine myself to be a Blackbird.”

The singularity of my reply, together with my simple artlessness, interested him so much that he requested me to tell him my history, which I did.

“Were you like me, a Carrier-Pigeon,” said he, “all the doubtings and nonsense would be driven out of your head. Our destiny is to travel. We have our loves—we also have our history; yet I own I don’t know who my father is. To cleave the air, to traverse space, to view beneath our feet man-inhabited mountains and plains; to breathe the blue ether of the sky, in place of the foul exhalations of the earth; to fly like an arrow from place to place, bearing tidings of peace or war,—these are our pleasures and our duties. I go farther in one day than a man does in six days.”

“Well, sir,” I replied, a little emboldened, “you are a Bohemian bird.”

“True,” he said; “I have no country, and my knowledge is limited to these things—my wife, my little ones; and where my wife is, there is my country.”

“What have you round your neck?”

“These are papers of importance,” he replied proudly. “I am bound for Brussels with news to a celebrated banker which will lower the interest of money one franc seventy-eight centimes.”

“Ah me!” I exclaimed, “you have a noble destiny. Brussels must, I suppose, be a fine city? Could you not take me with you? as I am not a Blackbird, perhaps I am a Carrier-Pigeon.”

“Were you a Carrier you would have returned my blow.”

“Well, sir,” I continued, “I will return it, only don’t let us quarrel about trifles. Morning dawns and the storm has abated, pray let me follow you. I am lost, have no home, nothing in the world; should you leave me, I shall destroy myself in the gutter.”

“Come along, follow me if you can.”

Casting a last look at the garden where my mother was sleeping, I spread my wings and away I flew. {244}

III.

My wings were still feeble, and while my guide flew like the wind, I struggled along at his side, keeping up pretty well for some time. Soon I became confused, and nearly fainting with fatigue, gasped out, “Are we near Brussels?”

“No, we are at Cambray, and have sixty miles to fly.”

Bracing myself for a final effort, I flew for another quarter of an hour, and besought him to rest a little as I felt thirsty.

“Bother! you are only a Blackbird,” replied my companion, continuing his journey as I fell into a wheat-field.

I know not how long I lay there. When at last I made an effort to raise myself, the pain of the fall and fatigue of the journey so paralysed me that I could not move. The dread of death filled my breast when I saw approaching me two charming birds, one a nicely-marked coquettish Magpie, the other a rose-coloured Ringdove. The Dove stopped a few paces off and gazed on me with compassion, but the Magpie hastened to my side, saying, “Ah, my poor child, what has befallen you in this lonely spot?”

“Alas! madam, I am a poor traveller left by a courier on the road; I am starving.”

“What do I hear?” she exclaimed, and flew to the surrounding bushes, gathering some fruits, which she presented on a holly leaf. “Who are you?” she continued; “where do you come from? Your account of yourself is scarcely to be credited; you are so young, you have only cast your down. What are your parents? how is it they leave you in such a plight? I declare it is enough to make one’s feathers stand on end.”

While she was speaking I raised myself a little and ate the fruit ravenously, the Dove watching my every movement most tenderly. Seeing I was athirst, she brought the cup of a flower half full of rain-drops, and I quenched my thirst, but not the fire kindled in my heart. I knew nothing of love, but my breast was filled with a new sensation. I should have gone on dining thus for ever, had it been possible, but my appetite refused to keep pace with my sentiment, nor would my narrow stomach expand.

The repast ended and my energies restored, I satisfied the curiosity of my friends by relating my misfortunes. The Magpie listened with marked attention, while the tender looks of the Dove were full of {246} sympathy. When I came to the point where it was necessary to confess ignorance of my name and nature, I felt certain I had sealed my fate.

“Come,” cried the Magpie, “you are joking. You a Blackbird? Nonsense; you are a Magpie, my dear fledgling—a Magpie, if ever there was one, and a very nice one too,” she added, touching me lightly with her fan-like wing.

“Madam,” I replied, “it seems to me that I am entirely white, and that to be a Magpie—— Do not be angry, pray.”

“A Russian Magpie, my dear; you are a Russian Magpie.”

“How is that possible, when I was hatched in France, of French parents?”

“My good child, there is no accounting for these freaks of nature. Believe me, we have Magpies of all colours and climes born in France. Only confide in me, and I will take you to one of the finest places on earth.”

“Where, madam, if you please?”

“To my verdant palace, my little one. There you will behold life as it ought to be. There you shall not have been a Magpie for five minutes before you shall resolve to die a Magpie. We are about one hundred all told, mark you, not common village Magpies who pick up their bread along the highway. Our set is distinguished by seven black marks and five white ones on our coats. You are altogether white. That is certainly a pity, but your Russian origin will render you a welcome addition to our number. I will put that straight. Our existence is spent in dressing and chattering, and we are each careful to choose our perch on the oldest and highest tree in the land. There is a huge oak in the heart of our forest, alas! it is uninhabited; it was the home of the late Pius X., and is now the resort of Penguins. We pass our time most pleasantly, our women folk are not more gossiping than their husbands are jealous. Our pleasures are pure and joyous, since our hearts are as true as our language is free. Our pride is unbounded. Should an unfortunate low-born Jay or Sparrow intrude himself, we set upon him and pick him to pieces. Nevertheless, our fellows are the best in the world, and readily help, feed, and persecute the poor Sparrows, Bullfinches, and Tomtits who live in our underwood. Nowhere can one find more gossip, and nowhere less malice. We are not without devout Magpies who tell their beads all day long, and the gayest of our youngsters are left to themselves, even by dowagers. In {247} a word, we pass our time in an atmosphere of glory, honour, pleasure, and misery.”

“This opens up a splendid prospect, madam, and I would be foolish not to accept your hospitality; yet, before starting on our journey, permit me to say a word to this good Ringdove. Madam,” I continued, addressing the Dove, “tell me frankly, do you think I am a Russian Magpie?”

At this question the Dove bent her head and blushed. “Really, sir,” she replied, “I do not know that I can.”

“In Heaven’s name, madam, speak; my words cannot offend you. You who have inspired me with a feeling of devotion so new and so intense that I will wed either of you if you tell me truly what I am.” Then softly I continued, “There seems to be something of the Dove about me, which causes me the deepest perplexity.”

“In truth,” said the Dove, “it may be the warm reflection from the poppies that imparts to your plumage a dove-like hue.”

She dared say no more. “Oh, misery!” I exclaimed, “how shall I decide? How give my heart to either of you while it is torn with doubts? O Socrates, what an admirable precept was yours, yet how difficult to follow, ‘Know your own mind’! It now occurred to me to sing, in order to discover the truth. I had a notion that my father was too impulsive, as he condemned me after hearing the first part of my song. The second part, I was fain to believe, might work miracles with these dear creatures. Politely bowing by way of claiming their indulgence, I began to whistle, then twitter and make little warblings, after which, inflating my breast to its fullest, I sang as loud as a Spanish muleteer in his mountains. The melody caused the Magpie to move away little by little with an air of surprise, then in a stupefaction of fright she described circles round me like a cat round a piece of bacon which had burned her, and which proved too tempting to relinquish. The more impatient she became, the more I sang. She resisted five-and-twenty bars, and then flew back to her green palace. The Ringdove had fallen asleep—admirable illustration of the power of song. I was just about to fly away when she awoke and bade me adieu, saying—

“Handsome, dull, unfortunate stranger, my name is Gourouli. Think of me, adieu!”

“Fair Gourouli!” I replied, already on my way, “I would fain live and die with thee. Such happiness is not for me.” {248}

IV.

The sad effect of my song weighed heavily upon me. Alas! music and poesy, how few hearts there are who understand thee! Wrapped in these reflections, I knocked my head against a bird flying in an opposite direction. The shock was so great that we both fell into a tree. After shaking ourselves, I looked at the stranger, expecting a scene, and with surprise noted he was white, wearing on his head a most comical tuft and cocking his tail in the air. He seemed in no way disposed to quarrel, so I took the liberty of asking his name and nationality.

“I am more than astonished you do not recognise me,” he said. “Are you not one of us?”

“In truth, sir,” I replied, “I do not know who I am myself, far less who you are. Every one asks me the same question, ‘Who are you?’ Who should I be if I am not one of nature’s practical jokes?”

“Come now, that will do; I am no green hand to be caught by chaff. Your coat suits you too well; you cannot disguise yourself, my brother. You certainly belong to the illustrious and ancient family called in Latin _Cacuata_, and in the vulgar tongue Cockatoo.”

“Indeed, sir? Since you have been good enough to find me a family and a name, may I inquire how a well-bred Cockatoo conducts his affairs?”

“We do nothing, and what is more, we are paid for doing nothing! I am the great poet Cacatogan—quite an exceptional member of my family. I have made long journeys, crossed arid plains, and made no end of cruel peregrinations. It seems but yesterday since I courted the Muses, and my attachment has been most unfortunate. I sang under Louis XVI., I clamoured for the Republic, I chanted under the Empire, discreetly praised the Reformation, and even made an effort in these degenerate days to meet the exigencies of this heartless century. I have tossed over the world clever distiches, sublime hymns, graceful dithyrambics, pious elegies, furious dramas, doubtful romances, and bloody tragedies. In a word, I flatter myself I have added some glorious festoons, gilded pinnacles, and choice arabesques to the temple of the Muses. Age has not bereft me of poetic fire. I was just composing a song when we came into collision, and you knocked the train of my ideas off the line. For all that, if I can be of any service to you I am heartily at your disposal.” {249}

“You, sir, can serve me,” I replied, “for at this moment I too feel something of the poetic fire of which you speak, although, unlike yourself, laying no claims to poetic fame. I am naturally endowed with a voice and song which together violate all the old rules of art.”

“I myself have forgotten the rules. Genius may not be fettered, her flights are far beyond all that is stiff and formal in schools of art.”

“But, sir, my voice has a most unaccountable effect on those who {250} listen to its melody, an effect similar to that of a certain Jean de Nivelle whom—— You know the rest.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cacatogan. “I myself suffer from a similar cause, thoroughly inexplicable, although the effect is incontestable.”

“Sir, you are the Nestor of poetry. Can you suggest a remedy for this peculiarity of song?”

“No; during my youth I was much annoyed by it. Believe me, its effect indicates only the public inability to appreciate true inspiration.”

“That may be so. Permit me to give you an example of my style, after which you will be better able to advise me.”

“Willingly,” replied Cacatogan; “I am all ears.”

I tuned my pipe at once and had the satisfaction of seeing that he neither flew off nor fell asleep, but riveted his gaze on me, and from time to time displayed tokens of approbation. Soon, however, I perceived he was not listening; his flattering murmurs were lavished on himself.

Taking advantage of a pause in my song he instantly struck in, “It is the six-thousandth production of my brain, and who dare say I am old? My lines are as harmonious and my imagination as vivid as ever. I shall exhibit this last child of my genius to my good friends;” thus saying he flew off without another word.

V.

Left thus alone and disappointed, I hastened my flight to Paris, unfortunately losing my way. The journey with the Pigeon had been too rapid and unpleasant to leave any lasting impression of landmarks on my mind. I had made my way to Bourget, and was driven to seek shelter in the woods of Morfontaine just as night closed in.

Every bird had sought its nest save the Magpies and Jays—the worst bedfellows in the world—who were quarrelling on all sides. On the borders of a brook two Herons stood gravely meditating, while close at hand a pair of forlorn husbands were patiently waiting the arrival of their giddy wives, who were flirting in an adjoining hedge. Loving Tomtits played in the underwood, beneath a tree where a busy Woodpecker was hustling her brood into a hollow in the trunk. On all sides resounded voices saying, “Come, my wife!” “Come, my daughter!” {252} “Come, my beauty!” “Here I am, my dear!” “Good-night, love!” “Adieu, my friends!” “Sleep well, my children!”

The situation for a celibate was most embarrassing. I was almost tempted to seek the hospitality of some birds of my own size, as we all looked alike grey in the dark. At last perching on a branch where there was a row of different birds, and modestly taking the lower end, I hoped to remain unobserved; but I was disappointed. My nearest neighbour was an old Dove, as thin as a rusty weather-cock. The moment I approached her, the few feathers which covered her bones became the objects of her solicitude. She pretended to pick them, but as they had only a slender hold of her skin, merely passed them in review, to make sure she had her right number. Scarcely had I touched her with the tip of my wing, when, drawing herself up majestically, she said, “How dare you, sir?” administering at the same time a vigorous British push that sent me spinning into the heath, on the top of a Hazel Hen, who would have willingly made room for me, only her spare bed was taken up by a son returned from the harvesting.

I heard myself called by the sweet voice of a Thrush, who made signs for me to join her companions. Here at last, I thought, are some birds of my feather, and nothing loath, took my place among them as lightly as a _billet-doux_ disappearing in a lady’s muff. Alas! I discovered that the dames had feasted freely on the juice of the grape, so I left them, to flee I knew not where, as the night was pitchy dark. Onward I sped till arrested by a burst of heavenly music. It was the song of the Nightingale, and dame Nature, attired in her sombre hues, stood listening in silence to the glorious lullaby that had soothed her children to sleep. The song recalled the first notes that doomed me to become an outcast. There was a touch of melancholy about the music, a mournful refrain that seemed to breathe forth a longing for something brighter, purer, holier than all life’s experiences. My resolution to live my life out seemed to melt away in the liquid strain, and at the risk of becoming the prey of some nocturnal Owl, I plunged into the darkness determined to return to my home or die in the effort. At daybreak I descried the towers of Notre Dame, and soon perched upon the sacred building, to rest for a moment before alighting in the old garden. Alas! absence had wrought a sad change. Nothing remained to mark the site save a bundle of fagots. Where was my mother? In vain I piped and sang, and called on her to return. She had left the old familiar scene. There stood the woodman’s axe that {253} had laid low the trees and severed the ties of kindred. The shrubs of the green lane were rooted up to make way for the cold grey stones of the abodes of men.

VI.

I searched for my parents in all the gardens around, but in vain; they had doubtless sought refuge in some distant spot, and were lost to me for ever. Overwhelmed with sorrow, I lingered about the spout from which my father’s wrath had exiled me. Sleep deserted me, and I lay down to die of hunger and grief. One day my sad reflections were interrupted by the jarring discord of two voices. Two slattern dames, standing slipshod, dirty, and bedraggled in the road beneath, were disputing over some point of household discipline, when one clinched the argument by exclaiming, “Egad! when you manage, you slut, to do these things, just let me know on’t, and my faith, I’ll bring you a white Blackbird.”

Here was a discovery; probably the little unforeseen circumstance destined to turn the tide of my fortune and land me at last in Elysium. I must be a real, though rare bird of a misguided type. Thus impartial speech is sufficient to justify the conclusion. That being so, humility ill befits me. It is a mistake to cheapen what in reality are attributes as rare as they are highly prized. I am the one living illustration that in nature, as in law, nothing is impossible—that black even may become white. In law, I am told, this transformation is effected thoroughly, but at the same time at great cost to clients, and only by highly-gifted members of the bar. In my own case, natural law has been manipulated to bring about a like end, intended clearly for my gain.