THE WHITE BLACKBIRD
“Do you know, I think the twenty-third verse is the best of the lot,”
said the Laziest Beaver. “Don’t you?”--appealing to Buddie.
“Why--I like them all,” she answered, much bewildered; and she pinched
herself to make certain she was wide awake. “For,” she said to herself,
“I must have fallen asleep and dreamed about the Rabbit and the
Guinea-Pig. Have you sung twenty-three verses?” she asked the Yellow
Dog.
“I’m just beginning the thirty-seventh,” he replied. “If you’re tired
of the song I’ll stop.”
“Oh no; _do_ go on!” cried Buddie. “But, you see, I lost count. Not
that it matters a bit,” she added to herself; “one verse sounds just
like another.”
[Music: Nobody Knows.
_Not too fast._ Music by EMMA BONNER TAYLOR.
Why a peach or a plum has of seeds only one,
While a fig has a thousand, we know;
We know why a fire won’t burn in the sun,
And why you can’t boil melted snow;
We know why green peas make the best currant jell,
Why and wherefore the peanut-tree grows;
But alack and alas there is no one can tell
Why a rabbit must wabble his nose,
We’ve whispered it so you could hear it for miles,
We’ve shouted it “under the rose,”
But alas and alack only echo calls back,
“Oh why does he wabble his nose?”]
The song _was_ rather monotonous. You can get a very good idea of how
the fiftieth verse sounded by singing the first verse twenty-five or
thirty times.
“Bark away!” said the Laziest Beaver. “You’re wasting time.”
The Yellow Dog cleared his throat, which Buddie thought must be getting
tired, and resumed:
“We know why it’s lucky to tumble uphill,
And why it’s bad luck to fall down;
Why a cold and wet May means a barnful of hay,
And why a brown study is brown;
“Why one should plant corn in the old of the moon,
Why there’s luck in odd numbers of crows;--
‘But why, tell us why,’ is our sing-songy cry,
‘A rabbit must wabble his nose!’
“We’ve whispered it so you could hear it for miles;
We’ve shouted it ‘under the rose’;
But, whisper or shout, we can’t seem to find out
Why a rabbit must wabble his nose.”
Again that peculiar echo, the words of which seemed to play
hide-and-seek right over Buddie’s head:
“Wabble--his--nose--
His--no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ose”--
She looked up--to see the open sky break into little patches, as the
tree-tops ran together; and when she looked down--lo! the Yellow Dog
and the Laziest Beaver, the meadow and the little river had again
vanished, and she was back in the deep wood where she had met the
Rabbit and the Guinea-Pig.
[Illustration]
“So I didn’t dream it, after all,” she thought. “I’m glad of that;
for perhaps I shall see them again. Only, I do wish these creatures
wouldn’t go away so suddenly. It makes you feel funny all over. I
wonder if Colonel is very far from here. Perhaps he can hear me if I
call.” And she began shouting at the top of her voice (and it was a
long way to the top of it, I assure you):
“Colonel! _Colonel!_ COLONEL!”
“Never halloo till you’re out of the wood,” piped a small voice.
Buddie looked about her and saw, perched on a balsam limb, a snow-white
bird, who, with his head cocked on one side, was regarding her with the
most comical expression imaginable.
“Never halloo till you are out of the wood,” he piped again.
“Why not?” asked Buddie.
“Because you’ll start the bark of the dogwood trees, and they’ll make
noise enough to wake the dead leaves.”
This seemed a sufficient reason, and Buddie changed the subject.
“I never saw such a very white bird,” she said, gazing admiringly at
her new acquaintance. The lake gulls were not nearly so snowy.
“I’m not a whitebird; I’m a blackbird,” replied Snowfeathers.
“What’s the use of contradicting?” Buddie reflected. “Everything in
this queer wood is wrong-end-to. Won’t you come down?” she invited,
stretching out one hand. But the bird cocked his little head on t’other
side and answered:
“A bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.”
“But I won’t hurt you, dearie,” coaxed Buddie, in such a sweet voice
that Snowfeathers flew down from the balsam and perched on her shoulder.
“I’ve heard my papa say, You might as well try to catch a white
blackbird,” said Buddie, stroking him; “but I’ve caught _you_, haven’t
I?”
“And what did your papa mean by that, pray?” asked Snowfeathers.
“Why--I suppose--that there wasn’t any such thing. It’s perfectly
’diculous for a blackbird to be white.”
“Did you ever see any green or red blackberries?”
[Illustration: “BUT I’VE CAUGHT YOU”]
Buddie was somewhat taken aback by this question. “But they weren’t
ripe, you know,” she said, after thinking a bit.
“Well, perhaps _I’m_ not ripe,” said the White Blackbird; and that put
an end to the argument.
“Oh!” cried Buddie, suddenly remembering her engagement with the
Rabbit, “can you tell me where the Corner is?”
“Certainly,” replied the White Blackbird. “As the crow flies, it’s five
trees straight ahead, ten to the right, fifteen straight ahead, twenty
to the right, twenty-five straight ahead, thirty to the right, and then
straight ahead to the Corner. You can’t miss it.”
“Dear me! I never could remember that!” said Buddie.
“It’s as easy as rolling off a prairie,” said
Snowfeathers. “Just keep to the right, and count
five--ten--fifteen--twenty--twenty-five--thirty. All you really have to
keep in mind is the dead trees; they don’t count.”
“My papa says crows fly in a straight line, like bees,” ventured Buddie.
“It would take you a week to go by a B line,” replied Snowfeathers.
“Evidently you don’t know what a B line is. Here’s one.”
Snowfeathers flew into the air, and described a number of graceful
curves.
[Illustration]
“Catch the idea?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” said Buddie.
“You are not very observant,” said the bird. “Don’t you know a B line
when you see it?”
“I didn’t see any bee,” replied the puzzled Buddie.
“Then you _don’t_ know a B when you see it,” said Snowfeathers.
“But my papa says a bee-line is straight,” persisted Buddie, not so
sure that her father wasn’t right and Snowfeathers wrong.
“Your papa seems to know a great many things that aren’t so,” was the
White Blackbird’s reply. “I dare say he tells you that the early bird
catches the worm.”
[Illustration]
Buddie nodded.
[Illustration]
“Which goes to prove that if you repeat a thing enough times you come
to believe it. Now, the early bird does nothing of the sort. Mind, I
don’t say he _couldn’t_ catch the worm; worms are such stupid creatures
that any bird can catch them, at any time of day. But they are much too
hearty for breakfast. One shouldn’t eat meat more than once a day; and
as for feeding it to fledglings, that is not to be thought of.”
“Then, what _do_ you eat for breakfast?” asked Buddie.
“Usually cracked wheat or rolled oats or some other kind of
bird-seed--when I can get it. Then, I’m very fond of cherries and other
small fruits. That’s why most birds make their homes in a farming
country, where there is plenty of the right sort of breakfast food.
I live some way south of here, in a wheat country, where I can have
cracked wheat every morning; but once a year I take a trip into the
pine woods for the benefit of my lungs. It’s no place for a small bird
to _live_, though it does very well for a health trip. But you said you
were going up to the Corner. If you wish, I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Buddie. “I’ll count the trees, and you
must tell me when I make mistakes. And now,”--jumping up--“which way do
we go first?”
“Straight ahead,” said Snowfeathers, again perching on her shoulder.
And the two set out for the Corner.
The first turn was reached without mistake, as there were only five
trees to count, and there was no doubt that all of them were alive.
[Illustration:
OLD SAWS RESET
WHILE YOU WAIT]
“Now, ten to the right,” said the White Blackbird.
But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and she
stopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighful
quality of an Æolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.
“What can it be?” said Buddie.
“Wait here and I’ll find out,” said Snowfeathers. He darted away and
returned before you could count fifty.
“A traveling musician,” he reported. “Come along. It’s only a little
way.”
Back he flew, with Buddie scrambling after. A few yards brought her to
a little open place, and here was the queerest sight she had yet seen
in this queer wood.
On a bank of reindeer moss, at the foot of a great white birch, a
mouse-colored donkey sat playing a lute. Over his head, hanging from a
bit of bark, was the sign:
+----------------+
| OLD SAWS RESET |
| WHILE YOU WAIT |
+----------------+