SQUIRRIE’S PUNISHMENT
The next morning the Big Red Squirrel sent down two squirrel
policemen, and you may be sure every English sparrow on the street,
and the robins, grackles, and wild sparrows were all on tiptoe.
I heard Chummy’s call for me, “T-check, t-chack, Dicky O! T-check,
t-chack, Dicky O!” and I flew out of the bird-room with all speed, out
to our favorite elm tree. There were the two squirrel policemen, old
sober fellows, climbing on the roof of the lodging house and going
straight to Squirrie’s front door hole which a dozen young sparrows
were eager to show them.
“Oh, Chummy,” I said, standing with my tailless back against the tree
trunk, “they won’t kill him, will they?”
“I don’t know,” he said gravely. “I can’t tell what they were told to
do, but I guess that they are going to drive him up to North Hill and
let him plead his own case before the Big Red Squirrel.”
I shuddered. This was very painful to me, and I wished I had said
nothing about my adventure.
“I know what is passing in your canary mind,” said Chummy, “and,
Dicky-Dick, do not be troubled. Squirrie had to be dealt with. Your
affair only hurried things a little—see, here he comes. They have had
a tussle with him. There is blood on one ear.”
Suddenly we heard voices below us on the sidewalk. “Oh the darling
little squirrie babies, taking a walk in the sunshine!” and, looking
down, we saw Sammy-Sam and his sister Lucy-Loo standing with their
fresh young faces turned up to us.
Chummy, who was very fond of children, said softly, “Bless their
little hearts, how they misunderstand birds and beasts! Those two
serious old squirrels taking a scamp off, perhaps to bite him to
death, they think is a bit of fun.”
“What dreadful faces he is making!” I said.
Squirrie, seeing all the birds assembled to stare at him, was in such
a fury that he looked as if he would like to kill us all. Every few
minutes he halted and tried to run back to his hole.
Whenever he did this, the two old ones closed in on him, and urged him
on. They went leaping from branch to branch, till we lost sight of
them up the old elm-shaded street.
No one went near Squirrie’s hole. The old policemen squirrels had left
word that no bird was to enter it. The Big Red Squirrel had heard that
it was an excellent home for a squirrel and he was going to send down
another one of the clan, and, sure enough, late in the afternoon,
didn’t the beloved Chickari with a brand-new mate come loping down the
street.
The birds all gathered round him, to hear news of Squirrie. “Was he
dead?”
“No,” he said, he had been let out on parole. He was to keep near the
Big Red Squirrel’s own private wood on a gentleman’s estate, and if he
did one single bad thing he was to be killed.
“How did he look when he was brought up before the squirrel court?”
asked Chummy.
“Very saucy at first,” said Chickari, “and made faces, but—”
“Well, what happened?” asked Chummy.
“I don’t like to tell you,” said Chickari, looking about at the young
sparrows listening with their beaks open.
“Go on,” said Chummy sternly. “These are rebellious times. It won’t
hurt these young fellows to learn how bad birds and beasts are dealt
with.”
“The policemen laid his shoulder open with their teeth,” said Chickari
unwillingly, “but a little blood-letting is cooling, and it stopped
his mischief and made him beg humbly for pardon.”
“Well,” said Chummy, speaking for us all, “we hope he may become a
better squirrel, but we also hope that his squirrelship, the judge of
all the clan, will never send that bad creature down here again.”
“He’ll never come here while I live,” said Chickari gayly, “for I told
the Big Red Squirrel that I just loved this neighborhood and would
bring up my young ones so carefully that if they dared to suck a
bird’s egg or kill a young one I’d bite their ears off.”
Chickari’s face as he said this was so ferocious, and at the same time
so comical, that we all burst out laughing at him.
Our laughter was checked by pitiful squeals from our house, four doors
down, and we all stared that way.
Our Billie was running down the sidewalk with something dark and hairy
on her back. Like a yellow and white streak she raced in by the
boarding house, which was set back from the street, and dashed into a
little shrubbery behind it.
I flew after her as well as I could in my tailless condition. Some
persons do not know that even the loss of one feather makes a
difference in a bird’s flight.
The shrubs had scratched the monkey off and, jabbering excitedly at
Billie, she stood threatening her, till seeing Black Thomas coming,
she ran nimbly down the street to our house.
Black Thomas was mewing angrily at Billie, “And what are you doing in
my yard—haven’t you one of your own?”
“Oh, let me alone, cat,” said Billie wearily. “I’m only resting a bit.
I’m dead tired.”
Black Thomas snarled a trifle; then, seeing her friend the cook at the
back door, he went to her.
“Too much monkey, eh, Billie?” I said.
She just burst into dog talk. “I’m nearly crazy, Dicky-Dick. I don’t
know what I’ll do. Every minute that thing persecutes me. She sleeps
in my box with me and kicks me to death. She is always creeping up to
me and putting her arm round me, and it tickles me—and I’m tired of
giving her rides. I’m not a pony. I’m a dog. I hate any one to love me
so hard. I wish she’d hate me.”
“She’s cold, Billie, and she is lonely.”
“She’s got a little coat. Mrs. Martin made her one. She won’t keep it
on. She tries to put it on me.”
By this time I was sitting on a low branch just above Billie’s head.
“Be patient, dear dog friend. In amusing the monkey, you are helping
our Missie.”
“And she’s so bad,” said Billie, “she’s stolen all the cake for
to-night’s knitting party. She got into the sideboard after lunch and
Missie doesn’t know it, and I caught her yesterday in the basement
fussing with the box that the electric light man goes to. I don’t
believe any of the lights will go on to-night. The front door bell
hasn’t rung all day, and no one knows but me that it’s the monkey that
put it out of order.”
“It’s too bad,” I said, “and beside all this wickedness on her part,
she’s keeping me a prisoner in the bird-room. I managed to fly out
this morning when our Mary had the door open, but I don’t know when
I’ll get back. I just had to come out to get news of Squirrie.”
Billie, while listening to me, was staring gloomily about the
shrubbery. Suddenly she got up and nosed something lying on the
ground. “What’s this, Dicky-Dick?” she asked.
“Betsy, a rag doll belonging to Beatrice.”
“I wonder if it would be any harm to take it?” she said wistfully.
“I don’t think so. I saw Beatrice throw it there the other day, and
she said she was tired of playing with it.”
“I might take it for the monkey,” said Billie, with such a funny face
that I burst out laughing at her.
With a roll of her eyes at me, she seized it in her mouth and went
trotting home with it.
I flew along with her. I had to get back into the bird-room, for I did
not dare to stay downstairs while that bad monkey was about.
Now, as we reached the house a very strange thing happened. It seems
that Mrs. Martin had not understood my going back to the bird-room.
She thought that I might be seeking a little playmate there, being
disappointed that she had not got me one.
Wishing to keep me downstairs, she had hurriedly gone next door and
bought the little lonely canary Daisy from the lodging house lady.
There she was, our dear Missie, walking along with the cage in her
hand, and at first, forgetting about the monkey, I was overjoyed.
I flew right to her. “Daisy! Daisy!” I cried in delight, as I stared
down at the pretty little creature inside the cage who was tremblingly
looking up at me. She knew me, but she was frightened of the street
and the noises.
“Why, Dicky, you are talking!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. “Say that again,
my pretty one.”
“Oh, Daisy! Daisy!” I sang. “Daisy! Daisy! Daisy—y—y!”
Billie dropped her doll and stared at me. Now she believed that
canaries can talk. Presently she barked warningly. Nella was running
out of the house.
“Take care, take care,” she called; “Nella will hurt your Daisy.”
I was in despair. I clung to the top of the cage as Mrs. Martin
carried it in the house and gave my fright cry, “Mary, Mary, I’m
scary, scary,” and our Mary at once came hurrying downstairs.
“Mother,” she said, “there’s something the matter with Dicky-Dick. I
wonder whether he got a shock when the squirrel pulled his tail out?”
Mrs. Martin had put Daisy’s cage on a table in the library which was
close to the front door, and they gazed first at me as I sat crying on
the top of it, and then at Billie, who was laying her doll at Nella’s
feet.
Nella took it up, looked it over, then gave it a toss in the corner.
Billie gazed despairingly at her. Nella would rather play with dogs
than dolls.
“There’s something the matter with Billie, too,” said Mrs. Martin. “I
suppose of course it’s the monkey. Billie, dear, you don’t like Nella.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” barked Billie. “I don’t like her. I hate her.”
“I thought so,” said Mrs. Martin. “Now talk to me some more about her.
She teases you, doesn’t she?”
“Oh, wow, wow, wow!” sobbed Billie; “she worries my life out of me.”
Mrs. Martin turned to me, “And you, Dicky-Dick, friend of Billie, you
don’t like Nella.”
“I’m scary, scary,” I sang, “and Daisy is scary, scary.”
“I don’t know much about monkeys,” said Mrs. Martin, “but this one
seemed very gentle and kind to me, and her owner said she was used to
birds and dogs. Come here, Nella.”
The monkey jumped on her lap and began fingering the buttons on her
dress.
“Let me hear your side of the story,” said Mrs. Martin. “Do you like
this dog and bird?”
Nella began a long story, jabbered out in such a funny way. Billie and
I understood it, but Mrs. Martin got only an inkling of it. Nella told
of her life in a forest, when she was a baby monkey, and how cruel men
snatched her away from her parents, and she would now like some monkey
society. She did not care much for dogs, but had to play with Billie
because there was no animal of her own kind to amuse her.
When she finished, Mrs. Martin and our Mary looked at each other. They
had got the drift of it.
“Down at Riverdale,” said Mrs. Martin, “is a fine monkey house, with
little healthy animals just like yourself. They have a good time
playing in big rooms which are well warmed, then they run out a small
door to a yard and romp in the snow. When they get cold, they hurry
inside, and sprawl flat on the radiators. I will send you there, and I
think you will be happier with your own kind.”
Nella’s face beamed, then she did such a pretty thing. Blinking her
queer yellowish eyes affectionately at Mrs. Martin, she threw her two
skinny arms round her arm and hugged it. She was very happy to go to
the monkey house.
“Mary, please telephone for a taxi,” said Missie, while Billie and I
exchanged a look of deep content.
Then Daisy was taken up into a vacant room in the attic, and I was
shut in a big cage with her until the monkey went away. After that,
Mrs. Martin said we should both go downstairs.