Little Miss Gwenny was sitting alone in the garden, taking her tea. Her
comfortable little garden chair was placed under the projecting eaves on
the shady side of the Parsonage; the unclipped jessamine that climbed up
the wall was clustering round her, and a soft breeze was stirring its
long shoots, and gently lifting the little girl’s long hair with the
same breath. She looked the picture of comfort and enjoyment.
[Illustration: The Sorrows of a House-Martin.]
On the table by her side were the tea-tray and a well-worn copy of
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” She was not reading, however, though
now and then she turned over the pages and looked at a picture. Except
when she did so, she kept her eyes half closed, and leaning back in her
chair gazed sleepily into the garden through her drooping eyelashes. The
fact was that she was every minute expecting something wonderful to
happen. What it would be she could not in the least guess; but that
lovely September day it really seemed as if there might be fairyland in
the garden at last. Twice before during that summer she had contrived to
have the garden to herself, without fear of interruption from parents,
brothers, servants, or visitors; but nothing wonderful had happened, and
this would probably be her last chance before cold and wet set in.
But in spite of her tea and her book and her beloved solitude, Miss
Gwenny was not at this moment in quite such a happy frame of mind as to
deserve to have her garden turning into fairyland. Several things had
happened to vex her; and when one is vexed it is too much to expect
White Rabbits or Cheshire Cats or Mock Turtles or March Hares to wait
upon one at pleasure and tell their tales. It was true indeed that her
brothers were well out of the way at a cricket-match, and that her
father and mother had just set out on a long drive, taking with them the
manservant, who was always spoiling her plans by poking about in the
garden with his tools. But this same man had spitefully (so she thought)
locked up the tool-house before he went away, and it was just this very
tool-house on which she had been setting her heart all the morning.
There she could not possibly be seen either from the road or the
windows, while she could herself see enough of the garden to catch sight
of anything wonderful that might come; and there too she had some
property of her own in a dark corner, consisting of a dormouse, the gift
of her brothers, and sundry valuable odds and ends, with which she might
amuse herself if nothing did come.
And this was not the only thing that troubled her. She had heard her
mother say that she was going to ask Aunt Charlotte to look in and see
after Gwenny: and Gwenny did not want, I grieve to say, to be seen after
by Aunt Charlotte. That kind lady was sure to stay a long time in the
garden fidgeting with the rose-trees, and collecting snails and
caterpillars in an old tin pan. These creatures she always carefully
killed, to the great delight of the boys, by pouring boiling water on
them, and she had more than once sent Gwenny to the kitchen to fetch a
kettle for this purpose. Gwenny secretly determined to rebel if such
were her lot this afternoon; for how could there be fairyland in the
garden if all the animals were killed? And every minute she was
expecting to hear the latch of the gate lifted, and the quick decided
step of her aunt coming up the garden path.
Several times as she sat there a quick shadow had passed over the white
page of her book, but she did not notice it, nor did she heed a
continuous quiet chatter that was going on over her head. At last, just
as she happened to turn to the page on which is the picture of the
Duchess carrying the pig-baby, the shadow hovered for a moment and
darkened the leaf, so that she looked up with a little frown on her
face.
“Everything teases me this afternoon!” she exclaimed. But the House
Martin, whose shadow had disturbed her, had flown into his nest with
food for his young ones. Gwenny watched for his coming out again, and
listened to the chattering that was going on in the nest. She could just
see his tail, and the bright white patch above it, as he clung to the
door of his nest up there under the eaves. Presently he came out, and
then she watched for his return; and soon, so constant was the hovering
and chattering, that Aunt Charlotte, and the gardener, and fairyland
itself, were all forgotten, and she began, after her own odd fashion, to
talk to the Martins in a dreamy way.
“What busy people you are!” she said, very softly, so as not to disturb
them: “how tired you must get, fussing about like that all day long!
Fancy if my mother had to run round the garden twenty times before
giving me anything to eat! That would be more in Aunt Charlotte’s way,
wouldn’t it? I won’t get the boiling water today,—or at least I’ll spill
it. You look very happy, gossiping away all day, with a nest full of
young to look after; anyhow it’s lucky for you that you can’t be caught,
and have boiling water poured on you. She’d do it if she could, though.
Yes, you are certainly very happy; you don’t come back to your nest and
find it locked up like my tool-house. How you do skim about, like fish
swimming in the air! And how nice and clean you are!—though I did see
you grubbing in the mud the other day on the road. I say, I should like
to be you instead of _me_, with all sorts of things to worry me.”
At this moment a Martin stopped to rest on a bare twig of the apple-tree
which grew close to the house and almost touched it; and at once fell to
ruffling up its feathers, and pecked at them with great energy.
“What are you doing that for?” asked Gwenny, watching in a lazy way,
with her eyes half closed.
The Martin seemed to take no notice, but clinging to his twig with some
difficulty against the rising breeze (for his feet were not much used to
perching) he went on diligently searching his feathers with his bill.
“What are you doing that for?” asked Gwenny again, rousing herself. And
recollecting her manners, she added, “If you will be kind enough to tell
me, I should really like to know, because, you see, I’m interested in
all the animals in our garden.”
“That’s easily answered,” said the Martin: “it’s only because these
things I’m pecking at tease me so.”
“Tease you!” cried Gwenny. “Why, I was just thinking that you had
nothing in the world to tease you. I’m sure you look as happy as the day
is long. I have so many little things to worry me, you see!”
“Dear little Gwenny!” said the Martin, after a pause, “so you have your
troubles too! Do you know, I’ve seen you here every summer since you
were hardly big enough to toddle about the garden, and I should have
thought you were the happiest little girl in the world.”
Gwenny shook her head sadly; and indeed at that moment she heard the
latch of the gate lifted. But it was only the postman, and there was no
sign yet of Aunt Charlotte. The Martin went on:
“And do you really think that a House Martin has not troubles? Why, dear
me, to think only of these ticks! There are half a dozen in each
feather, I really believe; and if you had to count my feathers, it would
be your bedtime long before you got through half of them. I could sit
here by the hour together hunting for them, if I hadn’t plenty of other
work to do. You can’t think how they fidget one, tickling and creeping
all day long! And the nest up there is swarming with them! Have you got
ticks under your feathers, I wonder?”
“Don’t talk of such horrid things,” said Gwenny. “Of course I haven’t.
Please don’t fly down: you might drop some about. I had no idea you were
such nasty creatures!”
“Speak gently, please,” returned the Martin. “It’s not our fault. They
will come, and there’s not a Martin in the world that hasn’t got them.
You see we have our troubles; and you are a very lucky little girl. You
have no ticks, and no journeys to make, and no droughts to go through,
and no sparrows to bully you, and no men or cats to catch and kill you.
Dear me,” he added with a sigh, “such a spring and summer as my wife and
I have had! Troubles on troubles, worries on worries—and, depend upon
it, we haven’t seen the end of it yet. But it’s no good talking about
it. When one is worried the best thing is to be as busy as possible. So
I had better say goodbye and get to work again.” And he fluttered off
his perch.
“No, don’t go,” said Gwenny. “Tell me all about it; I’m sure it’ll do
you good. I always go and tell some one when I get into trouble.”
So the Martin began, while Gwenny arranged herself comfortably as for a
story, while the breeze blew the brown locks all about her face.
“The wonder is,” he said, “that I am here at all. Every year it seems
more astonishing, for half the Martins that nested in the village in my
first summer are dead and gone. And indeed our numbers are less than
they used to be; we have to face so many troubles and perils. When we
left Africa last spring——”
“Why did you leave it?” asked Gwenny. “If you will make such terribly
long journeys, (and I know you do, for father told us) why do you ever
come back? Of course we’re very glad to see you here,” she added, with
an air of politeness caught from her mother, “but it seems to me that
you are very odd in your ways.”
The Martin paused for a moment. “I really don’t quite know,” he
presently said; “I never thought about it: we always do come here, and
our ancestors always came, so I suppose we shall go on doing it.
Besides, this is really our home. We were born here, you see, and when
the heat begins in South Africa there comes a strange feeling in our
hearts, a terrible homesickness, and we _must_ go.”
“Then when you are once at home, why do you leave it to go away again so
far?” asked Gwenny.
“My dear,” said the Martin, “if you will listen, and not ask so many
questions beginning with ‘why,’ you may possibly learn something about
it. Let me begin again. When we left Africa this year we went our usual
way by some big islands in a broad blue sea, where we can rest, you
know, and stay a day or two to recruit ourselves,—and then we made
another sea-passage, and came to land near a large and beautiful town,
with great numbers of ships lying in its harbour. Of course we are not
afraid of towns or men: we have always found men kind to us, and willing
to let us build our nests on their houses. Long ago, you know, we used
to build in rocks, and so we do now in some places; but when you began
to build houses of stone we took to them very soon, for then there was
plenty of room for all of us, and no one to persecute us either, as the
hawks used to do in the rocky hills. But really I begin to fear we shall
be obliged to give it up again one of these days.”
“Why?” said Gwenny. “Don’t think of such a thing, now we’re friends. Why
should you?”
“If you want to know why,” continued the Martin, “you must wait a little
till I get on with my story. When we reached that fine town with the
ships, we rested, as we always do, on any convenient place we can
find,—chimneys, towers, telegraph wires; and of course as we come in
thousands and much about the same time, the people look out for us, and
welcome us. So they used to, at least: but of late years something has
possessed them,—I don’t know what,—and they have set themselves to catch
and kill us. It may be only a few wicked persons: but this year nearly
all those towers and wires were smeared with some dreadful sticky stuff,
which held us fast when we settled on it, until rough men came along and
seized us. Hundreds and thousands of us were caught in this way and
cruelly killed, and will never see their old home again.”
“Horrible!” cried Gwenny. “I believe I know what that was for: I heard
mother reading about it in the paper. They wanted to sell the birds to
the Paris milliners to put on ladies’ bonnets. But how did you escape?”
“Only by a miracle,” said the bird. “And indeed I do wonder that I’m
safe here; I alighted on a tall iron fence near the sea, and instantly I
felt my claws fastened to the iron,—not a bit would they move. A few
yards off were two or three of my friends just in the same plight; and
after a time of useless struggling, I saw to my horror a man come along,
with a boy carrying a big bag. As the fence was high, he carried a pair
of steps, and when he came to the other birds, he put these down and
mounted them. Then he seized my poor friends, gave their necks a twist,
and dropped them into the bag, which the boy held open below. It was
sickening: I could see one or two which he had not quite killed
struggling about at the bottom of the bag. Poor things, poor things! And
there was I just as much at the mercy of these ruffians, and my turn was
to come next.”
“It’s too horrible,” said Gwenny: “I wonder you can bear to tell it.”
“Ah, my dear,” said the Martin, “we have to get hardened to these
things. And it’s good for you to hear my story, as you thought our lives
were all happiness. Well, the man came along to me with his steps, and I
struggled, and he chuckled, and in another moment it would have been all
over. But just as he was going to grip me, he noticed that his boy was
not below with the bag, and turning round he saw him a little way off in
the road practising standing on his head, while the bag was lying in the
dust with its mouth open. He shouted angrily, scolded the boy, and bade
him bring back the bag directly; and when he came, gave him a kick in
the back that made him squeal. Then he turned round again, seized me
with a rough dirty hand, and wrenched my claws loose. Oh, the dreadful
misery of that moment! But it was only a moment. At the very instant
when he got me loose, the steps were pulled from beneath him, and as he
struggled to save himself he let go his hold of me. Away I went as fast
as I could fly, only looking back for a moment to see the man on his
face in the dust, and the boy running away with all his might. I owe my
life to that urchin’s mischief. He served his master out well, and I
hope he didn’t get beaten for it afterwards.
“Well, I flew off, as I said, and it was a long time before I rested
again. I was afraid that sticky stuff would hold me fast again, and I
dipped into the rivers and scraped myself in the dusty roads, till I
felt I had pretty well got rid of it. And no other misadventure happened
while we were in France; and then there came a pleasant morning with a
gentle breeze, in which we crossed the sea to this dear home of yours
and ours, where no one wants to catch and kill us; and then we felt as
happy as you fancy we always are. It was mid-April, and your fields
looked so fresh and green, we had not seen such a green for nearly a
whole year. The sun shone into the grass and lit it up, and forced the
celandines and marigolds to open their blossoms all along the valley as
we made our way to our old home here. Every now and then a delicious
shower would come sweeping down from the west, and the labouring men
would get under a tree, and throw old sacks over their shoulders to keep
them dry; and the gentlefolk out walking in the roads would put up their
umbrellas and run for it. But we,—ah! how we did enjoy those showers
after the long weary journey! We coursed about and chatted to each
other, and greeted our friends the Sand Martins by the river bank,
knowing that the sun would be out again in a few minutes, and would
bring all sorts of juicy insects out of the moistened grass. And when
the rain had passed, and the blue sky above was all the bluer for the
dark cloud in the distance, where the rainbow was gathering its
brightness, what delicious feasts we had! how we did career about, and
chatter, and enjoy ourselves!”
“I daresay you did,” said Gwenny. “And I’m very glad you are happy some
time: but I’m sure there’s something dreadful coming yet!”
“Only too soon there came something dreadful,” the Martin
continued,—“dreadful to us at least. The very next day—the day we came
here—the soft west wind dropped, and no more showers came. Quite early
in the morning I felt a difference—a dryness about the skin, and a
tickling at the roots of my feathers, which I knew was not caused by
those little creepers I told you of. And when I rested on the telegraph
wires to scratch myself with my bill, I got so cold that I had to leave
off and take to flight again. And then I knew that the wind was in the
_east_, and that I should get very little good by flying, though fly I
must, for the insects would not rise. Those of yesterday were dead
already, nipped with a single night’s frost, and there was no sun to
bring new ones to life. But we managed to get on fairly that day, and
hoped that the east wind would be gone the next morning.”
“Why, what a difference the east wind does make to some people!” put in
Gwenny. “You’re just like Aunt Charlotte; whenever she’s sharper than
usual, my mother says it’s the east wind, and so it is, I believe. It
dries up the snails, so that they go under the bushes, and she can’t
find them. That’s the only way I can tell an east wind: the snails go
in, and Aunt Charlotte gets put out.”
“Then Aunt Charlotte must have been very cross last spring,” said the
Martin; “and so were we, and very wretched too. It lasted quite three
weeks, and how we contrived to get through it I hardly know. Some of us
died—the weaker ones—when it turned to sleeting and freezing; and when
the Swifts came early in May they had a dreadful time of it, poor
creatures, for they are very delicate and helpless, in spite of their
long wings. There were no flies to be had, except in one or two places,
and there we used all to go, and especially to that long strip of
stagnant water which the railway embankment shelters from the east. We
used to fly up and down, up and down, over that dreary bit of water: but
to collect a good beakful of flies used to take us so long that we had
often to rest on the telegraph wires before it was done, and we got so
cold and so tired that we could only fly slowly, and often felt as if we
should have to give in altogether.”
“I saw you,” said Gwenny; “I watched you ever so long one day, and I was
quite pleased because I could see the white patches over your tails so
nicely; you flew so slowly, and sometimes you came along almost under my
feet.”
“And I saw you,” returned the Martin, “one day, but one day only; for
you caught your bad cold that very day while you were watching us; and
the next time I saw you, when I peeped in at the window as I was looking
for my old nest, you were in bed, and I could hear you sneezing and
coughing even through the window panes. It was a bad time for all of us,
my dear.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Gwenny. “I don’t much mind staying in bed,
especially in an east wind, because then Aunt Charlotte stops at home,
and can’t——”
“Never mind Aunt Charlotte,” said the Martin. “She’ll be here directly,
and you mustn’t say unkind things of her. I can feel with her, poor
thing, if she lives on snails like the thrushes, and can’t catch them in
an east wind.”
Gwenny was about to explain, but the Martin said “Hush!” and went on
with his tale, for he was aware that it was getting rather long, and
that Aunt Charlotte might be expected at any moment.
“At last the east wind went, and then for a while we had better luck.
Rain fell, and the roads became muddy, and we set to work to rebuild our
nest. For you must know that it was one of our bits of bad luck this
year that our dear old nest had been quite destroyed when we returned,
and instead of creeping into it to roost during that terrible east wind,
as we like to do, we had to find some other hole or corner to shelter
us. You see your home is our home too; and how would you like to have to
sleep in the tool-house, or under the gooseberry bushes in the garden?”
“I should love to sleep in the tool-house,” said Gwenny, “at least, if I
could have my bed in there. But I didn’t know you slept in your old
nests, nor did father, I am sure, or he would have taken care of them
when the workmen were here painting the window-frames and the timbers
under the roof.”
“I thought that was how it was done,” said the Martin; “they like to
make everything spick and span, and of course our nests look untidy.
Well, it can’t be helped; but it was bad luck for us. We went to work
all the same, gathering up the mud in our bills, and laid a fresh
foundation, mixing it with a little grass or straw to keep it firm.”
“Like the Israelites when they had to make bricks!” cried Gwenny.
“Just so,” said the Martin, though he did not quite understand. “And all
was going on nicely, and my wife up there was quite in a hurry to lay
her eggs, and we were working like bees, when out came the sun, and
shone day after day without a cloud to hide him, and all the moisture
dried up in the roads, and our foundations cracked and crumbled, because
we could get no fresh mud to finish the work with. We made long journeys
to the pond in the next village and to the river bank, but it was soon
all no good; the mud dried in our very mouths and would not stick, and
before long there was nothing soft even on the edge of pond or
river—nothing but hard-baked clay, split into great slits by the heat.”
“Why, we could have watered the road for you, if we had known,” said
Gwenny.
“Yes, my dear, to be sure; but then you never do know, you see. We know
a good deal about you, living as we do on your houses; we know when you
get up (and very late it is) and when you go to bed, and a great deal
more that you would never expect us to know; but you know very little
about us, or I should not be telling you this long story. Of course you
might know, if you thought it worth while; but very few of you take an
interest in us, and I’m sure I don’t wonder.”
“Why don’t you wonder?” asked Gwenny.
“Because we are not good to eat,” said the Martin decisively. “Don’t
argue,” he added, as he saw that she was going to speak: “think it over,
and you’ll find it true. I must get on. Well, we waited patiently,
though we were very sad, and at last came the rain, and we finished the
nest. Ah! how delicious the rain is after a drought! You stay indoors,
poor things, and grumble, and flatten your noses against the nursery
windows. We think it delightful, and watch the thirsty plants drinking
it in, and the grass growing greener every minute; it cools and
refreshes us, and sweetens our tempers, and makes us chatter with
delight as we catch the juicy insects low under the trees, and fills us
with fresh hope and happiness. Yes, we had a few happy days then, though
we little knew what was coming. An egg was laid, and my wife nestled on
it, and I caught flies and fed her,—and soon another egg was laid, and
then,—then came the worst of all.”
The Martin paused and seemed hardly able to go on, and Gwenny was silent
out of respect for his feelings. At last he resumed.
“One afternoon, when the morning’s feeding was over, I flew off, so
joyful did I feel, and coursed up and down over meadow and river in the
sunshine, till the lengthening shadows warned me that my wife would be
getting hungry again. I sped home at my quickest pace, and flew straight
to the nest. If I had not been in such a hurry I might have noticed a
long straw sticking out of it, and then I should have been prepared for
what was coming; but I was taken by surprise, and I never shall forget
that moment. I clung as usual to the nest, and put my head in before
entering. It was a piteous sight I saw! My wife was not there; the eggs
were gone; and half a dozen coarse white feathers from the poultry yard
told me what had happened. Before I had time to realise it, I heard a
loud fierce chatter behind me, felt a punch from a powerful bill in my
back, which knocked me clean off the nest, and as I flew screaming away,
I saw a great coarse dirty sparrow, with a long straw in his ugly beak,
go into the nest just as if it were his own property. And indeed it now
was his property, by right of wicked force and idle selfishness; for as
long as I continued to hover round, he sat there looking out, his cruel
eyes watching me in triumph. I knew it was no good for me to try and
turn him out, for I should never have lived to tell you the story. Look
at my bill! it’s not meant to fight with, nor are my claws either. We
don’t wish to fight with any one; we do no one any harm. Why should we
be bullied and persecuted by these fat vulgar creatures, who are too
lazy to build nests for themselves? Up there at the farm-house they have
turned every one of us out of house and home, and I daresay that next
year we shall have to give up your snug house too. You could prevent it
if you liked, but you take no notice, and you think us always happy!”
This was too much for poor Gwenny, and the tears began to fall. “No,
no,” she implored, “you _shall_ come here again, you _must_ come here
next year! I’ll tell father, and I know he’ll protect you. We’ll do all
we can if you’ll only promise to come again and have a better summer
next year—I’ll promise, if you’ll promise.”
“Dear child, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” said the Martin. “It’s all
right now, so dry your eyes. We built another nest, and there it is over
your head. But it’s very late in the season, and if the cold sets in
early my little ones will have hard work to keep alive. In any case they
will be late in their journey south, and may meet with many trials and
hardships. But we must hope for the best, and if you’ll do your best to
keep your promise, I’ll do my best to keep mine. Now we are friends, and
must try not to forget each other. As I said, this is your home and mine
too. Often and often have I thought of it when far away in other lands.
This year I thought I should have hardly one pleasant recollection to
carry with me to the south, but now I shall have you to think of, and
your promise! And I will come back again in April, if all is well, and
shall hope to see you again, and your father and mother, and Aunt
Charlotte, and the sn——”
“Gwenny, Gwenny!” said a well-known voice; “my dear child, fast asleep
out of doors, and evening coming on! It’s getting cold, and you’ll have
another chill, and drive us all to distraction. Run to the kitchen and
make the kettle boil, and you can warm yourself there before the fire.”
“I’m not cold, Aunt Charlotte, and I’m not asleep,” said Gwenny,
stretching herself and getting up. “And, please, no boiling water
to-day! It’s fairyland in the garden to-day, and I really can’t have the
creatures killed, I really can’t!”
“Can’t _what_!” cried Aunt Charlotte, lifting the pan in one hand and
the garden scissors in the other, in sheer amazement. “Well, what are we
coming to next, I wonder! Fairyland! Is the child bewitched?”
But at that moment the Martin, who had left his perch, flew so close to
Aunt Charlotte’s ear that she turned round startled; and catching sight
at that moment of the carriage coming down the lane, hastened to open
the gate and welcome Gwenny’s father and mother.
Gwenny looked up at the Martin’s nest and nodded her thanks; and then
she too ran to the gate, and seizing her father with both hands, danced
him down the garden, and told him she had made a promise, which he must
help her to keep. It was an hour before they came in again, looking as
if they had greatly enjoyed themselves. Aunt Charlotte had gone home
again, and the snails were left in peace. And as the Martin flew out of
his nest, and saw Gwenny and her father watching him, he knew that the
promise would be kept.