STORIES ABOUT THE OLD BARN
To-day, after lunch, Mrs. Martin gave Billie a walk round the square,
then she brought her in the house and said, “I am going to a knitting
party where dogs would not be welcomed. I will come home at five and
give you another walk.”
Billie wagged her tail in her funny, slow way and gave Mrs. Martin one
of her sweetly affectionate glances, as if to say, “It’s all right. I
know if it were your party you’d let me go.”
Mrs. Martin pulled an armchair to the window and put a cushion on it.
“Jump up there, Billie,” she said, “and amuse yourself by looking
outside.” Then giving her a pat, and throwing me a kiss, for she knows
pets are apt to be jealous of each other, she went away.
I flew to the arm of Billie’s chair and sat dressing my feathers in
the sunshine.
Presently Billie said discontentedly, “There’s nothing to see out of
this window but yards and that old barn.”
“That old barn is full of stories,” I said, “and very interesting.”
“What makes it interesting?”
“In the first place, many birds nest there, and in the second, many
animals have been housed in it.”
“I never see anything going on in it,” she said.
I smiled. “You are not a keen observer, Billie, except along dog
lines. Look out now and you will see Susan going in with a little soft
hay in her bill for the bottom of her nest.”
“Who is Susan?” asked Billie.
“Don’t you remember that Chummy told you about Susan, mate to
Slow-Boy, both street pigeons? They are taking care of two eggs. He
sits all day, and she sits all night.”
“I know male pigeons help their mates,” said Billie. “I used to see
them doing that in New York.”
“He will come off at five and have his evening to himself. If Susan
isn’t on time, just to the dot, he calls loudly, and gives her a great
pecking. She is very patient with him usually, but the other day I saw
her turn on him and give him a great blow with her wing. Pigeons fight
that way, you know.”
“I’ve seen them,” said Billie. “They scrape and bow to each other,
then step up and give a good whack.”
“Would you like to hear a story about a fire in the barn?” I asked.
“If you please. I feel very dull this afternoon, and would like
something to amuse me. I think I ate too much tripe for my lunch. When
our Mary’s back was turned I stole a nice little lump from the dish.”
“What a pity it is you are such a greedy dog, Billie!” I said.
“Yes, it is a pity,” she replied, with hanging head, “but believe me,
Dicky, I can’t help it. I had to steal so much in my early life that I
can’t keep from it now—please go on with your story.”
“Well, Susan and Slow-Boy are of course mated for life, for pigeons
rarely change partners. They are very happy together, and only quarrel
enough to keep things from getting stupid. You know, don’t you, that
pigeons lay all the year round, if they can get food?”
“Oh, yes, Dicky, I know that. I should think they would get tired of
raising families, but the Bronx pigeons only hold up in moulting
time.”
“Now this Red-Boy I am going to tell you about,” I went on, “was one
of their July pigeons of two years ago. Chummy told me the story, for
of course I wasn’t here then. He says Red-Boy was a nice enough bird,
but he took for a mate a very flighty half-breed fantail, called
Tiptoe, from her mincing walk. You probably know, Billie, that when
thoroughbred pigeons get mixed with street pigeons they lose all their
fancy lines, and go right back to common ancestor blue rock dove
traits.”
“Yes, I know,” said Billie; “but if they keep any fancy ways, or
feathers, they are very proud of them.”
“Exactly,” I said, “so you can imagine how Tiptoe diddled about,
putting on airs, before poor Susan, who is very plain-looking and has
lost every trace of blue blood, except the half homer stripes on her
solid old back. Now, when the time came for Red-Boy and Tiptoe to
make a nest, Red-Boy wanted to build near his father and mother.
“Slow-Boy fought him and tried to get rid of him. He is a model father
when his squabs come and when they turn to squeakers, but when they
are grown up he naturally supposes that they will go out into the
world and let him be free to bring up other young ones.”
“I suppose his mother had spoiled him,” said Billie. “Hen pigeons are
often weak in the head.”
“Yes, Chummy says of all Susan’s young, Red-Boy was the favorite. She
stood by him, and finally old Slow-Boy gave in, and Red-Boy and Tiptoe
chose a ledge right above the parents’ nest. They even stole straws,
when Slow-Boy wasn’t looking, and Chummy says he heard that Susan was
foolish enough to give them some of the choicest ones she brought in.
It wasn’t a tidy nest when it was finished—not a bit like the careful
one the old birds made, with nice fine bits of straw arranged inside
for little squab feet to cling to.”
“Don’t pigeons line their nests with wool and fine cotton, like you
canaries?” asked Billie.
“My dear friend,” I replied, “do reflect an instant. Squabs are not
like canaries. They have big feet and they want something to clutch
when they raise themselves in the nest for the mother to pump milk
down their necks.”
Billie stared at me. “Pigeons and milk, Dicky-Dick! Are you telling
the truth?”
“Indeed I am,” I said earnestly. “When the squabs hatch out, a kind of
milk is formed in the mother’s crop and softens the food which she
pumps down into their little crops. They could not digest whole grain.
They are too young and feeble. As they get older, the milk becomes
thicker, and finally the parents feed them whole seeds.”
“Well, well,” said Billie, “I didn’t know that. They are something
like human babies.”
“Very like them—but to get back to Red-Boy and Tiptoe and their
nest-building. They thought they were doing a very smart thing when
they found a card of old-fashioned sulphur matches. Some of the
matches were broken off and silly Tiptoe took them to the nest and
arranged them crosswise, among the straws.
“Susan saw her and said, ‘Throw out those things; they are dangerous.’
“‘Why are they dangerous?’ asked Tiptoe.
“‘I don’t know,’ said poor old Susan; ‘but I just don’t like the smell
of them.’
“Tiptoe appealed to Red-Boy, and naturally he stood up for his mate.
“Old Susan went lumbering off to her nest with a worried face. She
could do nothing, and hoped for the best. Time went by, and two eggs
were laid and hatched out. Tiptoe was a very restless mother, and was
always flying off her nest to stretch her wings, and for that reason
it was good for her to be near her mother-in-law, for Susan often
checked her. If it had been cold weather the young ones would have
suffered from being left uncovered so much, but fortunately it was
midsummer. One frightfully hot day, when the sun was pouring on the
nest through that broken window high up in the peak of the barn—”
“Where?” asked Billie, stretching out her neck.
“Right up there, this side of the maple tree.”
“Yes, I see,” said Billie, and she lay down again on her cushion.
“This hot sun shining through the glass set fire to the matches,
and wasn’t there a quick blaze! Some robins who nested outside the
barn gave the alarm by crying out shrilly and swooping wildly about
the yard. The landlady of the house where Chummy lives heard the
noise, looked out, then rushed to the telephone. We are close to a
fire station, and in just a few minutes an engine came dashing down
the street and put the fire out. It was only a little blaze, but it
was a very sad one. Tiptoe, as I said before, was a silly mother, but
still she was a mother, and when she saw her frightened little ones
rising up in their nest and clacking their tiny beaks at the blaze she
flew right into the flame and hovered over them.”
“Of course she died,” said Billie.
“Oh, yes. She must have breathed flame and choked in an instant.
“The next day, Chummy says, he saw poor Red-Boy poking about the barn
floor looking at a little dry burnt thing. His heart was broken, and
he flew away and no one here ever saw him any more.”
“Young birds should mind what old birds say,” remarked Billie.
“But they never do,” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to let the young things
find out for themselves.”
“What about Susan and Slow-Boy?” asked Billie. “You said their nest
was near by.”
“Yes, they had one squab in it—a very big, fat squab. It was
frightened and fell from the nest down on an old table on the barn
floor.
“Chummy says it was pitiful to see old Slow-Boy looking at it, as if
to say, ‘Why did I lose my baby?’
“Our Mary took a snapshot of him for her bird album, and also one of a
robin who lost her young ones. She had a nest high up in the barn,
over the pigeons. Her name is Twitchtail, and she is very
bad-tempered, but she can’t hold a candle to her mate, Vox Clamanti.
Chummy said he made a tremendous fuss when he came home, his beak full
of worms for his beloved nestlings. He began to scream and shake his
wings when he caught sight of the crowd around the barn. Something
told him his young ones were gone. They had been washed out of their
nest by the heavy stream of water from the hose and were lying on the
ground, quite dead. He and Twitchtail blamed the landlady, the
firemen, the crowd, the pigeons, and everybody on the street. They
loved their young ones, and were bringing them up very well.”
“Tell me some more about the barn,” said Billie. “I noticed a man
leading a horse from it just now.”
“Chummy says it used to be a disgrace to the neighborhood,” I said
angrily, “and he didn’t see why the nice people about here didn’t go
and inspect the old rickety building. It was bad for human beings, for
there was an unwholesome odor about it. It was full of holes, and last
winter a poor pony kept there almost died of the cold. His owner was a
simple old creature who needed some one to tell him how to take care
of animals. He had a cow there too, but she died. He bought a poor
quality of hay and did not give the pony enough water to drink, so he
was having a terribly hard time when something beautiful happened to
him.”
I stopped a minute, for Billie was heaving a long, heavy dog sigh. “I
know something about unhappy horses and cows,” she said. “There are
plenty of them in New York. Of course, human beings should take care
of us animals, because it is right to do so, but I don’t see why
selfish people don’t see that it pays to take care of their creatures.
Why, horses are worth a lot of money.”
“I know that,” I said, “but some persons are so unthinking that the
strong arm of the law has to beat wisdom into them.”
“What was the beautiful thing that happened to the pony?”
“Well, I must tell you his life history. When he was young, he was
very, very small, and was named Tiny Tim. His first master was a rich
man who made such a pet of him that Tim was treated more like a dog
than a pony. He used to go in his master’s home and walk up and down
stairs, and when a servant came to put him out he would hide under the
cloth on a big table.”
“He must have been very small to do that.”
“Yes, he says he was about as big as a Great Dane. He never walked in
the street like the horses. He always went on the sidewalk. But when
he grew older and larger he had to live with the horses and carry the
children on his back. When he was tiny they used to play with him, and
he says he would butt them, as if he were a little goat, and knock
them over.
“Time went by, and the rich man lost his money and Tiny Tim had to be
sold. He passed from one poor owner to another, till at last he became
the property of this old man who collected junk. Chummy says all the
sparrows knew that pony and pitied him, for they saw that he had known
better days. He always went along with his head hanging down. He was
ashamed and unhappy, and he scarcely had strength to drag around the
shaky old cart that he was harnessed to. Tiny Tim of course did not
like this poor place he was kept in, but the junk man could not afford
a better one. Tim had only an armful of damp bedding, and Chummy says
it was pitiful to see him standing with his little head down, the
water from the leaky roof dripping on him, mud oozing from between the
planks under his hoofs, and his lip curling over the messy hay before
him.
“One morning early this winter Chummy says the rats who live in the
barn spread the news that Tiny Tim had been adopted. It seems that
very late the night before, when Tim was sagging back to the old
barn, for the junk man’s wife had insisted on going for a drive after
working hours, he—that is, Tim—fell right over here in the street.
Now you may have noticed that there is a military hospital near us.”
“Oh, yes,” said Billie, “Mrs. Martin walks me by there every day, and
that’s where the one-armed soldier lives who owns the sad-faced
Belgian pup that he rescued from starvation when he was fighting
abroad. Our Mary photographed me with him the other day.”
“Well, Chummy says those soldier boys are the jolliest in the city.
They have all been wounded, and a good many are one-legged and going
on crutches, waiting for their stumps to heal so they can get
artificial limbs. Some of them had had permission to go over to the
University, and they were returning to the hospital when they saw the
poor pony down between the shafts. They hobbled up, unharnessed him,
told the junk man that they were Albertans and used to horses, and
that his pony was starving. They collected twenty-five dollars among
themselves, bought the pony and the cart, put the pony in it, and the
men with two legs and one arm managed to haul Tiny Tim over to the
hospital, while the one-legged men hopped alongside on their crutches.
“When they got him over they didn’t know what to do with him. The
hospital was very quiet and still, for every one had gone to bed. They
sneaked Tiny round to the back entrance and got him off the cart, and
led him into a bathroom. Then they got blankets off the beds for
bedding, gave him some bread and milk and cereal foods they found in
the pantry, and left him till morning. Of course they all slept late,
and the first person to go in the bathroom the next morning was a
nurse. She shrieked wildly when she saw this pitiful black pony with
his big hungry eyes and the bathroom which was a sight, for the food
had brought back some of Tiny Tim’s old-time spirit, and he had
knocked things about.
“The other nurses ran and doctors and soldiers came, and they just
yelled with laughter. Anyway, the pony was adopted by the hospital—”
Billie interrupted me, “You don’t mean to say this story is about the
soldiers’ mascot in the yard over at the hospital?”
“The same,” I said. “Tiny is now as fat as a pig, and as happy as a
king. The soldiers love him, and he often goes for walks down Spadina
Avenue with them. You know everybody loves soldiers, for they have
been so brave in protecting their country, and they are allowed many
privileges. He is too small for them to ride, and of course he is old
now, but isn’t it nice that he is happy and not in that horrid old
stable?”
“That is a lovely story,” said Billie. “I wish soldiers would go to
New York and rescue some of the poor horses there. Now, tell me what
became of the junk man?”
“Oh, the story got into the papers and the Martins felt dreadfully to
think they had not discovered the condition the pony was in. They
spoke to some of their rich friends and formed a company, and they are
building model boarding stables for poor men’s horses, away downtown.
They have good lighting and ventilation, and fine roomy stalls, and
running water, and fly screens, and on top of the stables is a big
roof garden for neighborhood children to play in. It is a very crowded
district and the children will love this garden, and Chummy says they
will be sure to eat lunches up there and it will be fine for birds
too.”
“But the junk man,” said Billie. “Your talk flies all over the place,
Dicky-Dick.”
I could not help laughing at her funny, impatient expression. Then I
said, “The Martins got him a young, strong horse, and told him how to
take care of it. It is not a charity, Billie—the stables, I mean. By
taking a good many horses, the company can make money out of it.”
“Are there any horses in the old barn now?” asked Billie.
“Not for any length of time. It is to be torn down and a garage put up
there.”
“Just as well,” said Billie, “but what are you staring at,
Dicky-Dick?”
“At Squirrie,” I said. “He just came off the roof and went into the
old barn. I hope he is not after young birds. Billie, I think I’ll go
have a talk with him. I’ve been longing to get him alone for some
time.”
“Better let him alone,” said Billie warningly. “He wouldn’t mind you.”
“I’m going to try,” I said, “and if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you
for a little while.”
Billie shook her head, but I was determined, and, flying into the
sitting room, for we were in Mrs. Martin’s bedroom, I went out through
the open window and flew behind our house to the old barn.