Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

He disengaged himself from the fervid embrace in which Molly had caught him, and was back in his seat, pulling hard into the current of the tide again, which was now carrying them fast along the foot of the cliffs. They rounded one little headland, and then another, and presently found themselves under a deep curve of the cliffs, here some three or four hundred feet high, quite inaccessible from above, where the rocks were almost perpendicular, but broken somewhat at the base by the action of the sea. These cliffs--the red cliffs as they were called from their colour--were the favourite breeding place of many birds, and they were dotted all over, as the boat rounded the headland, with kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, and other sea-birds, who sailed up into the air, or far away to sea, with loud cries, as the intruders came nearer. Harold paid them little attention, but made straight across the curve towards the opposite headland, where the cliff seemed almost to beetle over, and where the shadow, as they had been rowing eastwards and it was still morning, lay heavy and black over the water. Here, he knew, the peregrine falcon built its nest nearly every year: for the nest could only be reached from the sea, and no hardy climber had as yet attempted to get at it by that way. Once the male bird had been shot, and for two or three years no nest had been built; but another pair had found the place out, and this year had been so far lucky enough to escape the guns of collectors and gamekeepers.

Harold put in to the shore, and moored the boat to a stone. No falcon was in sight. He told Molly to lie down in the boat quite still; and stretching himself beside her on his back, he fed her with bread and cheese, keeping a sharp lookout all the while. For a long time they lay there, and it was a happy time for both of them. The gentle sigh of the waves daintily lapping the stones, and the call of the sea-birds overhead, were all the sounds they heard, except the occasional distant boom of a gun, which still sent a little pang through Molly’s tender heart. But she thought of the coastguard’s cottage, and all the time that was to be passed before she could be polishing its floors and windows for Harold melted away before that vision of happiness, which stood out like a distant peak when all the nearer hills and vales are hidden in a morning mist.

So they lay there in the boat, waiting for the falcon to appear, for it was hopeless to try and discover the nest until one of the old birds should return to it with food for the young. Every now and then Molly’s rosy mouth opened to receive a bit of bread and cheese, offered it on the point of Harold’s clasp-knife, which his coastguard friend had given him; but at last there was no more, and lulled by the gentle motion of the boat, she fell into a peaceful doze. She awoke, feeling Harold’s hand on her mouth.

“Don’t speak, Molly,” he whispered; “look there! That’s the wicked thing that killed your Snowdrop.”

She looked up and saw a large bird hovering just at the edge of the cliffs above them. Its great wings were spread out, as it sailed round and round for a while, looking to see that the coast was clear: and their sharp eyes could see that it carried something in its talons. Then, seeing nothing to disturb its solitude, it wheeled slowly down the cliff, and perched on a projecting bit of rock, not very high above their heads, and stood there, proud and fierce, with one foot still grasping its victim, which they could now see was a young leveret, bleeding and struggling in its last agony. When the last struggle was over, and not before, the sharp, cruel, beak was driven like a knife into the leveret’s neck, and the fur torn from its back; and when the butcher’s work was complete, the great bird slowly rose on its wings, and sailed into the air once more with the bleeding victim.

Harold slowly changed his position in the boat, and watched the falcon closely and silently. Wheeling once or twice, as it rose against the cliff, and uttering a chattering cry as if to announce its coming to its young ones, it passed within a narrow cleft in the rock, about a third of the way down the precipice, and disappeared. The boy was on his feet in an instant, and, springing out of the boat, he took off his blue jersey, and threw it to Molly to take care of; then he took a long look at the rocks above him, and rapidly made up his mind as to the line he would take in climbing. The first part was easy enough; but at the height of about a hundred feet from the sea the rocks suddenly became steeper. Still there was nothing to prevent an active lad from scaling them, if the hold for hand and foot were only firm; but the red rock was sometimes loose and brittle, and would need great care in handling. If he could pass safely along the face of these higher rocks by a little ledge which gave room for a few rock-loving plants to grow, he would reach the cleft into which the falcon had disappeared; once there, he must trust to luck, for he could not see further from below.

He quickly passed up the lower and more broken part of the cliff, Molly watching the easy motion of his supple form with pride and confidence. No shade of anxiety for him crossed her mind; she had often seen him climb both rocks and trees before, and had even sometimes climbed with him. She too was strong and active, and knew the delight of swinging herself from rock to rock or from bough to bough, with the perfect confidence that young heads place in the resources of their hands and feet. She would have been quite willing to dare even these cliffs with him, if he had asked her; but Harold knew very well that this would be the roughest climb he had ever yet tried, and had all the morning spoken as if he were going alone; so Molly quietly acquiesced, as she always did on such occasions. She sat in the boat, her hands playing with her blue worsted cap, but her eyes intently fixed on the climber.

When he reached the steeper rocks, he went more slowly; and she could see him testing the firmness of his foothold by a kick, or loosening a stone with his hand, which went leaping downwards and fell into the sea with a splash, almost too near the boat to be pleasant. Once or twice he picked up the egg of some Guillemot or Gull which had flown off as he approached, and held it out for Molly to see; and once he stopped to examine the skin of the leveret which the falcon had left behind on the projecting bit of rock. At last he safely reached the ledge, and began to walk carefully along it, steadying himself against the rock above him with his right hand. Just before he reached the cleft to which the ledge was leading him, Molly saw the falcon sail out of it again within a few yards of him; but Harold stood perfectly motionless in the shadow of the rock, and the magnificent bird, too busy to search for intruders, failed to see him, and rising slowly, passed over the beetling brow of the cliff and disappeared inland.

Then he went on again slowly, to the corner where the ledge passed into the cleft and out of Molly’s sight: and now she first began to wonder whether he would after all be able to reach the nest. The corner projected sharply, and in rounding it, the ledge seemed almost to come to an end; no grass grew on it at that point, and the rocks above and below were cut sharply and steeply. She saw him stop for a minute or two when he came to this corner, and put his foot forward to try the footing; her blue cap dropped out of her hands into the boat, and she sat up gazing with eager eyes and parted lips. Then she saw him rest his left foot on the jutting bit of rock he had tested, kneel down on his right knee, and slowly work himself along with the help of his hands. As he turned the corner, he seemed to get into easier quarters, for he rose to his feet again, and passed in a moment out of her sight into the dark cleft.

A few minutes later she heard the cries of the young falcons, and a loud shout from Harold told her that vengeance was being done for Snowdrop’s death. Sticks and rubbish began to fall down the rocks; he was razing to the ground the falcon’s rockbuilt refuge. And then he emerged again, with a young bird in his hand, which he proceeded to tie up in his pocket-handkerchief, and button inside the breast of his shirt. When all was ready, he again knelt down, this time with his left knee, using his right foot to support him below wherever it could find a firm support. Molly watched her hero now impatiently; she wanted him to come down quickly and show her the young falcon.

The difficult part was almost over, when some bit of stone on which he had rested his right foot gave away, and rolled down the precipice. He had nothing now to hold by except his left knee, and Molly, now standing up in the boat in real anxiety, saw him keeping his balance with difficulty by pressing his unsupported leg hard against the rocks. Then she saw him make a spring--such a spring indeed as one can make with nothing to spring from but one’s left knee--and try to catch at a big red knob which lay just at the end of the perilous part of the ledge. His hands caught the knob, and he turned with his face to the rock struggling to bring his feet up once more to the level of the ledge. But the stone was treacherous and gave way, and the boy, after another moment’s effort to save himself, fell after it down the steeper part of the rocks, till he was caught by another ledge below, and there lay quite still.

Molly uttered an inarticulate sound as she saw him fall; she did not cry or scream, but she trembled all over. A cold feeling went down her back, and her heart beat so violently that for a moment she was obliged to sit down panting. She looked all round to see if any boat was in sight, but the fishermen did not often come so far at that time of the year, and the sea was unbroken by an oar. Only far out in the offing lay the huge form of the ironclad; and for an instant there flashed through Molly’s mind the picture of Harold in his young strength sitting opposite her with his oars, turning to watch the firing of the big guns, then holding her face in his hands, and bidding her not be silly. Something told her that now an effort was needed from her, such as she had never had to make in her life before; and, strong and healthy as she was, she felt her faintness passing, and her will growing strong. She was quite alone; she must act; what should she do?

At first she thought of rowing back for help, but she knew that the tide had not yet turned, and that she would be a much longer time getting back than they had taken in coming. And then she would have to leave Harold all that time, and he perhaps dying, or at least badly hurt. He might indeed be dead; but at none of these possibilities did she quail again, now that she had fully nerved herself for action. She must climb and reach him; and she set about it instantly. With a woman’s instinct she took what was left of the cold tea that they had brought with them, tied Harold’s blue jersey round her neck by the sleeves, stepped firmly out of the boat, and after marking the spot where he fell, began to climb.

Once at the top of the easier rocks, she found herself not far below the shelf upon which he must be lying, and called to him. No answer came. Panting with effort and excitement, but with firm limbs and steady head, she began to ascend the steeper rocks, and presently reached what seemed to be a faint track, made perhaps by some animal, which led her easily upwards to the shelf. When she reached it her strength failed for a moment, and her eyes seemed dim; but mastering herself again she advanced, and suddenly came upon Harold, lying on his back in a little bed of rough grass and samphire. She saw in an instant that he was alive, and spoke to him, but he did not answer. Then she knelt down beside him, folded up the jersey and put it under his head; opened the bottle of cold tea, and moistening her fingers with it, rubbed his temples and wetted his nostrils. She gave his forehead one kiss; but there was work to be done, and this was no time for kisses: she felt half ashamed even of this one. She searched for wounds, but could find none; only she feared that one arm on which he was lying must be badly hurt. But she could not move him, and must wait till he came to himself; and she went on rubbing and chafing, yet sparing the tea till he should wake and be able to drink some. It was quite an hour before he came to himself.

At last his eyes opened slowly, and his lips moved a little, but without a sound. She held the bottle to them, and he swallowed a little of the tea; then the eyes closed again, and he seemed to sleep. Presently she saw a fisherman’s boat passing at some distance from the shore. She stood up, waved her handkerchief and shouted; but the boat was too far off, and she was neither heard nor seen.

Her shouting woke Harold again, and in a faint voice he said, “What’s the matter, Molly?” and then, after a pause, “Where’s the young falcon?”

She looked in his shirt; the handkerchief was still there, and the young bird was in it, though dead. “Here it is, Harold,” she said; “and now you must try and get up and come down with me to the boat, and I’ll row you home and take care of you till you’re all right again.”

“Dear old Molly,” was all that Harold answered; but they were words that Molly never forgot.

He tried to get up, but the pain in his arm was so great that he fainted away again; and Molly had to sit, now silent and sad, and watch for some boat coming round the headland, chafing his temples from time to time with fingers as gentle as a lady’s. When he came to himself once more, it was getting towards evening; the sea was cold and gray, and the mist began to creep again around the cliffs. Molly had been thinking of what was to be done; her mind seemed stronger and clearer than it had ever been before, and she spoke to Harold firmly, like a mother talking to her little boy.

“Harold dear, I must leave you and go and get help; you will die of cold if we have to stay out all night. But first I must make you as comfortable as I can. Which pocket is your knife in?”

He told her, and she succeeded in getting it out without hurting him. Then she took the jersey from under his head, cut off the sleeve that belonged to the injured arm, and contrived to slip the warm garment over his body and right arm; took off her own jersey, and laid it under his head, gave him a kiss and stroked his fair hair, and told him to lie still and go to sleep, and she would be back soon. And then she started down the rocks, marking her way carefully that she might recollect it when she returned, and stepping into the boat, pulled westwards as fast as she could. The sun was setting when she reached the village.

Her news spread like wildfire. Her father borrowed a horse, and rode off to the nearest town for a doctor; her mother put on her bonnet and went to break the news to Harold’s mother. By the time Molly, still steady of purpose though stiff and tired, had eaten such a meal as she could get down, and put up some more provisions and some brandy for Harold, four stalwart fishermen were ready with a big boat and lanterns, and were waiting for her on the beach. Tired as she was, Molly would have liked to have taken an oar, and even asked to be allowed to do so. She could not bear to be doing nothing; she was in a state of restless activity and energy. One of the men laughed, and bade her lie down in the boat and go to sleep. But an older man, who saw her dark eyes sparkling in the moonlight with a strange wildness, did Molly a good turn.

“Give her the tiller, Dick,” he said: “don’t you see the lass must be at something? Come, Molly, lass, steer us straight, and tell us all about you and the lad.”

So Molly took the helm, and went over the story with them again, and kind old Martin kept asking her to describe this or that once more and once again, and they pulled so strongly and quickly that they were at the Red Cliffs long before she expected. Then she asked them to shout, and held her hands to her ears in hopes of catching an answer from the cliff, and after the second shout there came a feeble answer.

She led the way up the rocks in the moonlight. They found Harold very cold and in pain; but the brandy soon revived him, and he even contrived to eat a little.

“Dear old Molly,” he said once more. And Molly kissed him again, and stepped downwards with the lantern, to show them the best places for their feet, while they lifted the boy, groaning sadly with pain, laid his injured arm over his chest, and began to carry him slowly down the rocks. She guided them safely down, though the work took a long time, and was perilous for men who could not use their hands, and terribly painful for Harold: but it was over at last, and he was laid safely in the bottom of the boat, and made as comfortable as possible with the rugs and pillows which Molly’s mother had provided. Molly sat in the stern again holding the tiller; but she soon began to droop over it now the tension was taken off her, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Old Martin took the tiller from her hand, laid her down by Harold, and covered her with his own rough pilot-coat. When they reached the village, where the beach was crowded with eager faces, and lanterns were moving about here and there, he took her in his arms and carried her to her mother’s cottage.

“That’s a rare lass of yours,” he said, “and I never would have thought it of her. They two must make up together one of these days; and a fine pair they’ll be! Good-night, ma’am.”

Molly was put to bed, and slept an unbroken sleep till late in the morning. When she woke she was so stiff and tired that she could hardly turn round; but when she did so, she saw the two mothers, her own and Harold’s, standing by the bedside. The latter kissed her many times on the forehead, and told her how Harold had slept well and was now wide awake, and asking for her; and how he had sent her another pigeon, even more beautiful than the last.

“But, Molly,” she went on, “the doctor says his spine is injured as well as his arm, and he won’t be able to go into the Navy. He’s terrible vexed about it, poor lad.”

Molly sprang out of bed, in spite of her stiffness. She felt a real and lively pity for Harold, and she must go to him at once. All her childishness was gone; if she could have seen Harold that moment in his sailor’s dress, marching off to Portsmouth, she would have jumped for joy. There was work still left for her to do; she must comfort Harold.

* * * * *

The case was more serious than the doctor at first supposed. Harold had before long to be taken away to a London hospital, where he could get the benefit of constant attendance and all kinds of appliances. His mother went with him, and took up her abode in London, in the house of one of Harold’s uncles, who was a small dealer there, and Harold slowly recovered his strength, was apprenticed to a carpenter, learnt his trade with a good will, and began to make a start in life. It was full four years before Harold and Molly met again.

When at last he came to pay a visit to the old fishing-village, he found Molly a tall, strong and sensible-looking maiden of eighteen. It was she who proposed a row to the Red Cliffs, to see the scene of their adventure four years ago; and it was she who rowed this time, while he sat in the stern and steered. But it was he who, on their homeward way, just before they rounded the last headland into the little harbour, let go the tiller, took her brown face between his hands, and said once more,

“Dear old Molly!”

And they plighted their loves as the old thatched cottages came in sight under the curving embrace of the down.

A DEBATE IN AN ORCHARD.

It was one of those midsummer evenings which to the discontented seem almost too long. In the orchard the old birds had finished finding the young ones their supper, and the long labours of the day were over. The swifts were flying, and screaming with delight as they flew, round the old church tower, and the swallows were gliding less noisily in and out of the long shadows of the apple-trees; but most of the dwellers in the orchard had taken a quiet perch, and were singing, or dallying in some pleasant way with the last half-hour of daylight, until it should be time to go to roost.

A blackbird, a robin, a sparrow, and a blue titmouse found themselves together on a single tree. They were old acquaintances, for they had lived together in the orchard and garden the whole winter; friends, in the proper sense of the word, they were not, for they differed a good deal in their opinions, and had quarrelled nearly every day in the winter over the crumbs which had been put for them outside the farmhouse windows. But they contrived to put up with one another, and had been so busy with their young of late, that all ill-feeling had passed away from their minds.

“Well,” said the sparrow, “here we are again. Upon my word I wish the sun would set; there’s nothing more to do.”

“Why don’t you sing?” said the robin.

“That’s a stale joke,” was the answer. “And your song is getting stale too, Mr. Robin; you’ll have to leave it off a bit soon.”

“One should not sing too much,” observed the blackbird. “I wonder you robins don’t get tired of hearing yourselves. It’s too hot to sing this evening: spring is the time for that. Let us do something else to amuse ourselves.”

“Let us see who can hang from a bough best with his head downwards,” said the blue tit; and he instantly performed the feat with great agility. The sparrow, being in want of something to do, tried to imitate him, but he couldn’t do it a bit, and made himself ridiculous.

“What a lubberly creature!” said a swallow, who had paused in her flight through the orchard to rest for a moment at the end of a dead bough of the same tree. “Are you so hard up for something to do? Why don’t you have a debate? There was a debate going on in my barn the other evening, and very amusing it was. Old Squire Wilmot was in the chair. He told the men and boys that they were going to have a debate once a month to sharpen their wits, and--”

(“That’ll take a long time,” put in the blue tit.)

“And the young squire was going to propose a motion himself that night.”

“What do you think it was about? Bird’s-nesting! He said it was cruel, I believe; and some one else said it wasn’t; and there they were chattering away all the evening. But I had young to attend to, and of course I couldn’t listen, even if it had been worth while. Why don’t you have a debate? I dare say you wouldn’t talk quite such nonsense. Good evening.” And off she went, without waiting for an answer.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the blue tit; “only I don’t much care to imitate Man. What a lumbering animal it is! However, if we are to have a debate, why not debate about _him_? We shall all have something to say on that subject, anyhow.”

“Very well,” said the Robin, who had a way of taking things into his own hands, “very well, we will discuss Man. But first we must elect a president. I am willing to be president, if you like. Our family has encouraged Man for many centuries, and we ought to know something about him by this time!”

There was silence for a minute. The Robin was not so popular in the orchard as to be elected at once by acclamation. At this moment the Swallow returned to her twig, just to see how they were getting on, and was informed of the difficulty.

“Oh, by all means elect Robin,” said she; “they always elect some respectable person president. They like some one who looks better than he talks. Presidents don’t make speeches as a rule; they sit and look grand, like the beadle in the church where I nested last summer. And now I think of it,” she added, “that beadle had a red waistcoat just like Bobby’s; so he had.”

And off she went again.

“Bother that bird,” said the Robin; “she’s like a wild-rose bush, all prickles and no caterpillars. I won’t be president if I am not to be allowed to speak. Let the Blackbird preside; it would just suit his capacity.”

“I don’t pretend to be better than I am,” said the Blackbird in his mellowest tones; “but we had better vote at once, it will soon be dark. Each of you imitate the voice of the bird you wish to elect. All the birds in the orchard shall be welcome and eligible: Starling, Nuthatch, Creeper, Wren, Flycatcher, Chaffinch. Now then, one, two, three----”

A variety of strange sounds were heard, so strange and discordant that the farmer’s wife looked out at her back-door to see what could be going forward. But while it was still going on, there was heard at the top of all the din the clear shrill song of a Wren from a heap of old sticks by the wall.

“The very bird for you,” said the Swallow, alighting once more on her twig. “He’ll only have to turn on his loudest song to stop the speakers if they get tiresome or lose their tempers. He’ll be like the organ in that church I was telling you of; it was put there to prevent the singers being heard, and it did its business very well. Yes, yes, elect the Wren; he’s small, but he’s afraid of no one. And in some countries they call him king.”

She flew to the heap of sticks, and returned with the Wren, who took his station on a prominent bough, cocked his tail very high, and sang his very loudest.

“That will do capitally,” said the Swallow. “Turn on that whenever they make fools of themselves, and you’ll have the debate to yourself after all.”

And she was gone again, leaving them another pleasant little keepsake. But they were too eager for the debate to begin, to mind much what she said, and they all consented to accept the Wren as president.

“I appoint the Blackbird to open the debate,” said the Wren, who had been duly instructed in his duties by the Swallow. “Let the Blackbird state what motion he will propose.”

“I will propose,” replied the Blackbird, “that too close an association with Man is degrading to the race of birds.”

“I won’t speak on that motion,” said the Robin, “I consider it personal.”

“So do I,” said the Sparrow; “grossly personal and insulting.”

“What’s insulting?” said the Swallow, who was back again for the fourth time. “Oh, most insulting to birds who use men’s buildings for their nests! Look at me and the Sparrows, see how refined and elevated we have become through ages of association with man! One doesn’t like to talk of one’s self, but I put it to you whether the Sparrow’s charming, fairy-like grace, dainty appetite, and chastely brilliant colouring, can well be ascribed to any other cause? But dear me, I never meant to make a speech. Good-bye; don’t quarrel, and, above all, don’t be sarcastic; it’s a habit I abhor.” And she glided away once more.

“That’s one for you, Philip,” said the mischievous Blue-Tit to the Sparrow. “Let her have it back again next time, my dear boy; have a repartee ready. Make haste, you have no time to lose.”

“All right,” said the Sparrow. “Don’t fidget so. I’ll think of my repartee during the Blackbird’s speech.”

“Silence!” called the president. “Trrrrrr-lira-lira-lira-la-trrr! I must call on the Blackbird to put his motion in another form, as it is considered personal.”

“Well,” said the Blackbird, “I move that Man is an animal as useless as he is pernicious. That’ll suit everybody, I hope.”

“Won’t do,” said the President. “You must

have three adjectives, and they must all begin with the same letter. It always is so, I assure you; the Swallow told me so just now, and she heard it all going on in the barn. The young squire proposed that bird-nesting was mean, mischievous, and malevolent; and a very sensible motion too.”

“Very well,” said the Blackbird, “then I move that man is a mean, mischievous, and malevolent animal. Will that do for you?”

“Excellent!” said every one. “Go on, and be quick.”

“Be as quick as you can,” said the Robin, “or there won’t be time for my speech.”

“Silence!” cried the president. “I call on the Blackbird.” And the Blackbird began his oration.

“Man,” he said, “is in the first place _mean_. This may be thought perhaps too obvious a proposition to need proof. I need but ask you to look over the orchard wall into the kitchen-garden yonder. What do we see there? Gooseberry-bushes, currant-bushes, covered with delicious fruit; I know it, for did I not try the flavour of every one of them daily till yesterday? And now, now, just as their juices are mellowing, each of those trees has been covered over with a most vile and treacherous netting! If time were not pressing I could easily produce statistics to show----”

“What are statistics?” asked a Flycatcher deferentially.

“A new kind of earwigs,” said the Blue-Tit promptly. “Don’t interrupt. What a flow of eloquence!”

“I could produce statistics to show,” continued the Blackbird, “that those gooseberries and currants would be sufficient to feed scores of blackbirds for several weeks together. Think of what is here lost to the world through the meanness of Man!

“The raspberries indeed are not netted; but, friends, I would ask you, if you can control your feelings for a moment, to look in the direction of the raspberry canes. There you may see--I can hardly bear to mention it--the dead bodies of two cousins of mine, who lost their lives through the meanness of Man, in the exercise of their natural rights and appetites. Shot, cruelly shot, by the farmer’s son, and exposed to view to frighten us!”

Here the speaker was overcome by emotion, and paused for a few moments.

“Go on,” said the Robin, “or you’ll never get to the end of your speech. Why do you want to eat fruit? Caterpillars are much better.”

“Order, order,” cried the President. “Trrrrr-lira-lira-trrr.” The Blackbird resumed the thread of his argument.

“I do not care,” he said, “to notice unseemly interruptions at a moment when such painful thoughts have obtruded themselves on my mind. I will proceed in the next place to show that man is _mischievous_. I need not dwell on this point; the fact is known to you all. The word is far too mild. Which of us has not lost a nest, or seen our young caught and killed, either by man himself, or by his parasite the cat? They are the only two animals who kill for the pleasure of killing. Of the two, as you know, man is far the worst; he is more cruel and more awkward than a cat. A cat is agile, nimble, even beautiful to look at, terrible as she is; and she does not steal the nests which we have taken such infinite pains to build. A kitten is a pretty and even a harmless little creature; but the young of man is horrible to contemplate. What dreadful noises he makes! What a contemptible object he appears! Though compelled by nature to keep to the ground and go along on two stumps, he will sometimes climb trees if he can but see a chance of doing us a mischief. You hear the awkward creature crashing through the branches; you are forced to fly for your life, and to leave your young and eggs to the monster’s mercy! I will not harrow your feelings further, but will content myself with the simple assertion that cats are far better.

“I now come to the third point. Man is _malevolent_. Man, that is (as some of you may not understand the word), is evilly disposed towards us. His evil deeds are the result of an evil will. I see you are getting impatient, so I will only give you a single instance of this, which shall at the same time be a crushing proof. As I was enjoying myself in a gooseberry bush a day or two ago, before the meanness of man displayed itself in those malicious nets, I heard the farmer’s wife singing to her baby as she sat on the seat under the pear-tree close by me. I kept very quiet, as you may imagine, and heard all she said. Fancy my horror when I heard her begin--

“Four-and-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.”

Thus you see from his earliest years--from the egg, I might have said, had Fate destined him for a higher sphere than that he occupies--is Man taught malevolence towards the birds. His mother whispers the poison even into his baby ears; he grows up thinking of baked blackbirds; and though no doubt in later life he prefers what he (luckily for us) calls bigger game, the malevolence of his mind towards us singing-birds is ever on the increase. Such then is Man: mean, mischievous, malevolent; a creature that might indeed, in many ways be our equal if he could but restrain his evil instincts; but as he is, degraded, demoralized, and dangerous.”

This burst of eloquence took the company by surprise; they never suspected the Blackbird of possessing such genius. There was general applause, which was broken in upon however by an unlucky incident. The Robin, when the Blackbird stopped, had instantly taken possession of the orator’s bough, a prominent one directly below that of the president. The Sparrow, seeing this, and being always ready to pick a quarrel with the Robin, had flown to the bough with angry screams, and was trying to turn out the new orator. Robin fought as might be expected of him, the other birds were preparing to join in, the President was calling for order, and whistling his very shrillest, when up came the Swallow once more. She preferred to be absent during the speeches, but looked in, she said, to see if their wits were getting sharpened.

“What!” she exclaimed, “quarrelling already! Ah, I see, no wits to sharpen, so try claws and beaks instead!”

“Where’s your repartee, Philip?” said the Blue Tit. But before the repartee was forthcoming the Swallow was gone again.

The Swallow’s remark had the result of calming the troubled waters; and as the Robin had been first on the bough, the President called on him to speak.

“I do not pretend to eloquence,” said the Robin; “but I know what I think, and shall say it as well as I can. Some things the Blackbird has said I agree with; but birds who habitually eat fruit must expect man to make war upon them. Now between my family and man there has been for ages a treaty of peace--a treaty which man keeps up, because he knows how much it is to his advantage; and which we keep up, not only for our own benefit, but because we hope that in due time we may improve and elevate man. He is powerful, but he is by nature vicious, as the Blackbird has observed. Well, we hope we have done something in the past, and may do something in the future, to rid him of his baser qualities.

“You probably do not know how this treaty of peace came to be made. I will tell you as shortly as I can. Long ages ago there was a king of this island who married and had two lovely children, a boy and a girl. These children went out one day to play in the wood near their papa’s palace, and lost their way. Night came on, and they lay down to sleep; they never woke up again, but lay there dead and cold. _We_ saw them there; _we_ covered them with leaves, and paid a last tribute to their beauty and innocence. The king and queen found us at the good work, and then and there made a treaty with us, which has lasted in this island ever since. By this treaty it was ordained--

“1. That man should not use his strength or his dreadful engines of destruction to kill or molest any robin.

“2. That man should abstain from taking the nest of any robin; but that he should be allowed to take one egg now and then, if he should feel his evil desire for collecting getting the better of him.

“3. That man should put food outside his windows for the robins in the winter, and should take care that it was not all eaten up by sparrows.”

(Here the Sparrow asked the President whether the speaker was in order in introducing such offensive matter into his speech. The President decided that as the Robin was quoting a historical document, no offence could be taken.)

“These,” said the Robin, “are the most important clauses of the treaty. On our side it was agreed:

“First, that the robins should abstain as far as possible from damaging man’s property, _i.e._ his fruit or his corn, and should do him as much good as possible by eating the grubs and caterpillars in his gardens.

“This clause has been faithfully kept by us, to our own lasting benefit as well as that of man. I would advise all birds who insist on eating fruit and corn to observe how excellent are the results of a grub and caterpillar diet.” Here the Robin paused a moment, and displayed his portly red waistcoat in all its glory to the audience. Then he went on:--

“Secondly, it was agreed that the robins should take up their dwelling as far as possible in the haunts and gardens of man, and should sing to him, not only in the spring or the summer, but all the year round, as often as they should feel able and disposed to do so. This clause has also been faithfully kept by us, and the result is, in my humble opinion, that we are now not only the most regular, but the most versatile and accomplished singers who affect the haunts of man. I will not however press that point, as I see some of you seem to dissent.

“Now you will observe that though, as was right and proper, this treaty was framed much to the advantage of the robins, both parties to it have certainly gained by it, and man, who has on the whole kept it fairly well, has learnt from it to respect and to care for at least one family of birds. I would therefore conclude by asking you to consider, before you pass this motion, and commit yourselves to perpetual enmity to mankind, whether it would not be wiser to follow our example, and make a lasting peace with him. I am convinced that you would do yourselves no harm; and I am still more firmly convinced that you would find a pleasure in joining us in the good work of raising mankind to a higher level of life, and a better appreciation of the superior creatures around him.”

There was but faint applause when the Robin left the orator’s bough. He was not popular, as has been remarked; and he was always posing (so they thought) as a superior person. And now he claimed superior wisdom on the ground of his intimacy with man! The Sparrow, who had listened very impatiently to his speech, sprang up at once to the bough, and began in loud and rather angry tones:--

“What rubbish people can talk! The motion itself is absurd, the Blackbird’s speech was silly, and the Robin’s speech shows that his whole race, from the beginning, have, as I always said, been the victims of a delusion. You none of you know the least bit how to deal with man. We Sparrows found out the secret ages ago, and look how we have prospered! Talk of treaties! why in the name of all that’s feathered should any one want to make a treaty with man? I say it’s ridiculous. That isn’t the way to do it. Only idiots would do that.”

“Order, order!” said the President. “I really must call on the honourable speaker to control his feelings and modify his expressions.”

“Very well,” said the Sparrow; “but really when one hears such blathering nonsense talked--”

“Order, order!” called the President, and whistled his loudest. “The honourable Sparrow must positively address himself to the point, and not be rude, or I shall call on him to retire.” Thus admonished, the Sparrow continued in milder tones:--

“Well really, you know, what I was going to say was, when the President interrupted me, that man is here to be made use of, not to be made treaties with. We found out long ago how to make use of him, just as we found out long ago how to use the martins’ nests. (Loud cries of ‘shame.’) Shame, indeed! Rubbish! If you want to prosper, take what you can get, and don’t go to make treaties about it, or fight for it more than you can help; lay your claws into it when no one’s looking, and make sure of it. You’ll be the better, and no one else the wiser. Man sows corn: we take it; thousands of us live on it nearly all the year round. Man sows peas: we take them--at least all the juicy young ones--he can have the old ones for himself. Man plants crocuses: we found out that there was good food inside the blossoms, and we take them. Man puts bread-crumbs outside his window, in fulfilment of his treaty with the robins, no doubt: we take it nearly all. Man does no end of other things, and we take advantage of them all. And see how it pays! We sparrows are the rising race. We increase every year by thousands; we go everywhere; we despise nothing; we eat anything; and we have a good time of it. All you other birds will disappear in time; there’ll be no room for you, and nothing left for you to eat. Man will remain, but only to support us; we must have peas and corn, so man must remain. And may he ever remain,” added the orator, in a burst of eloquence, “the infatuated slave that he is now!”

“Bravo!” said the twittering voice of the Swallow, who had returned again, attracted by the Sparrow’s loud tones. “Capital! and how pleasing to think that there’s one animal in the world who’s a greater blockhead than a Sparrow!”

“Now then, Philip,” said the Blue Tit, “here’s your chance; where’s that repartee?”

The Sparrow ruffled his feathers, and pecked at them, as if half expecting to find the repartee there; but not succeeding, he was just about to fly at the Swallow and drive her from her perch, when lo! a little maiden of seven years old came running and dancing into the orchard, and made for the very tree on which the birds were perching. The Blackbird went off instantly with a loud cackle; the Sparrow chattered excitedly and went off too; the Robin departed very quietly to another part of the orchard; and the Starling, Chaffinch, and others made off as fast as they could go. Only the Swallow and the Wren were left; neither of them were a bit frightened.

“Now by the salt wave of the Mediterranean, which I have so often crossed,” said the Swallow, “I am glad we were spared that repartee.”

“Now by the sweet juices of a green caterpillar, which I have so often sucked,” said the Wren, “I am glad we have come to the end of this folly. Good-night; the sun has set. There’s a bat; I really must get home.”

The Swallow was left alone. “Well,” said she to herself, “once is enough; I’ll not ask them to have another debate. I’m glad I didn’t hear the speeches. We swallows trust in man, and he loves us; but we cannot understand him, nor he us. But we live all our lives by love and trust,” said she, as she opened her wings to fly; “as for understanding, that must wait.”

She was gone, and the orchard was silent again.

A TRAGEDY IN ROOK-LIFE

It was a fine day early in February, and the rooks, after roosting on the elm-trees in the village, and surveying the remnants of the nests of last year, were assembled, some on the moist pastures, some on the ploughed land, hard at work searching for grubs and worms. The bachelor rooks were also looking out for partners, and some of them were already settled in life--for that season at least.

There was a certain young bachelor among them who had not as yet won his way to the heart of any black maiden. Jetsom had certain ways about him that were looked on with suspicion by his fellows. His father and mother had had some doubt whether they ought to bring him up. His very egg had been unlike the others in the nest; it was longer and narrower, and not so thickly covered with dark spots. It was clearly an ill-omened egg. A one-eyed old rook, famed for wisdom and foresight, had been consulted about it, and was of opinion that no good would come of it. He sat on the edge of the nest, and turned his battered old bill this way and that, uttering now and then a hoarse inward caw. “I remember,” said he at last, “an egg exactly like this; it was the year the new allotments were made, long before you two were born. It was a lucky year in that way, for those allotments are a great blessing to us all, though you young folks don’t value them as you ought. But let me tell you (and here he ruffled his feathers, and made a dab with his bill at the unlucky egg), the chick from that egg became a scare-crow on those allotments!”

And overcome with his emotions, he gave several loud caws, and flew away to his own tree, leaving the young parents in great anxiety.

“We’d better turn it out,” said the father; “it’ll never do to see his body on a stake every time we go to feed in the allotments.”

“Let us hatch it first,” said the mother, “and see what it looks like. That old Gaffer thinks himself too wise; if it turns out all right we’ll proclaim him as a humbug.”

This was too tempting a proposal to be resisted. The egg continued in the nest, and in due time it was hatched. There was no difference between the chick of the queer egg, and those that came from the others. The mother-bird was right, and on the strength of this she got her own way in other matters. Her husband had loved and admired her, and now he also obeyed her, because of her prudence and wisdom. When old Gaffer came, uninvited, to look at the chick, she actually ordered her husband to drive him away; which he did with such valour that the old gentleman lost three of his tail feathers, and retired in great wrath to a neighbouring branch to recover his breath. When he had got it he croaked out a dismal prophecy for the chick, which struck terror into the hearts of the rooks in that tree; and in fact the whole matter was the cause of much scandal.

Old Gaffer did not venture to the nest again; his reputation for wisdom had been shaken, and his damaged tail was secretly made fun of by the younger birds. But he let it be known through a friend that there was no doubt whatever in his mind that young Jetsom would be shot--and serve him right--at the rook-shooting next month. It is only the oldest birds that think of the shooting beforehand; they know it is coming and take it as a matter of course. The colony must not be overstocked with young birds, which are often impudent and annoying, and the old inhabitants are not sorry to get rid of them.

When May came the young birds were one day perching on the edges of their nests, and taking short flights to exercise their wings; Jetsom was among them, as fine a young bird as any, and the peculiar pride of his parents. Some men came under the trees with guns, the parent-birds cawed loudly to their young, and all was noise and disturbance. Bang went the guns; half-a-dozen young rooks fell dead or struggling through the branches. The others took flight a short way, but thinking all was safe again, returned very soon to their tree. Young Jetsom however, who was stronger of wing than most, got carried on by a gust of wind, and found himself very soon over a ploughed field, where a few rooks were peaceably feeding. He dropped down on it, rather flustered and tired, and seeing the other birds poking their bills into the ground, and turning over the clods, began to do the same. Presently one of them came near him, looked at him, cawed, flapped its wings, and said, “Who are you? You don’t belong to us.”

Jetsom explained as well as he could.

“My young friend,” said the rook, “you had better make haste and go. It’s my duty to hustle you to death for coming here, and I shall do it if you stay another minute. Be off, before the others see you. Here they come--”