BLACK THOMAS CATCHES A BURGLAR
There was a great commotion in this neighborhood on the first of
April, for then the robins came back.
I never heard such a clatter of talk from any bird as came from Vox
Clamanti, the head robin. Instead of contenting himself with saying,
“Cheer up cheerily, cheer up cheerily,” as the other robins did, he
just screamed a great amount of information about where he had spent
the winter and what he had been doing, and how the colored people down
South had tried to catch him, to make pie, but he was too smart for
them.
Finally he got into a quarrel about the Great War. “Of course, you
know, birds,” he said fussily, “that robins are the most important
birds in the world, and the war was all about them. The bad robins in
many nations persecuted my brothers, the English robins, and would not
let them into their countries. Then of course the Englishmen, who love
their robins, took up arms and began to fight the bad nations who were
persecuting us.”
Chummy laughed when he said this, but he was too sensible to argue
with him. Black Gorget, Chummy’s next best friend after me, was not so
wise, and he said, “I suppose you forget that English robins are not
any relation to your family.”
Vox Clamanti looked thoughtful, then he said, “Well, if not brothers,
then cousins. My cousins, the English robins—”
“They’re not even cousins,” said Bronze-Wing, the head grackle, “and
the war is not about robins, but grackles.”
Vox Clamanti said very rudely, “You are lying,” and then the grackle
gave a rough call in his squawky voice, and pulled out one of Vox
Clamanti’s tail feathers.
One would have thought the grackle had tried to murder him. Such a
screeching and yelling ensued that every bird in the neighborhood came
to see what the noise was about.
“What’s the matter with that robin?” I asked Chummy, as we sat side
by side in our usual meeting place, a branch on the old elm opposite
his tall brick house.
“He was very much spoiled by a university professor,” said Chummy.
“This old man, finding Vox Clamanti a weak and half dead young one, on
the campus one day, brought him up by hand and named him Vox Clamanti
which means something screechy. He praised the young robin too much,
and told him he was the smartest bird in the city, and it made Vox put
on airs. When the old professor died, and Vox flew outside, the robins
never could down him, and they had to make him their head bird to keep
him quiet, but he really has not as much brains as some of the other
robins. See now, that fuss is all over, and he is looking about for a
nesting site, before his mate Twitchtail comes. That tree that they
had for a home last summer has been cut down.”
I made no reply, and for some time Chummy and I sat quietly looking
down at the street below.
“We’ve had some nice times on this tree, Chummy, haven’t we?” I said.
“Indeed we have,” he replied, “and how much we have seen from here.”
“Have you heard anything more from Squirrie?” I asked.
He began to chuckle. “Yes, Chickari told me the latest news this
morning.”
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“For a time Squirrie was pretty bad. The only way they could make him
behave was to keep watching him. Then the Big Red Squirrel had an idea
come in his head. He has a horrid old sister too ugly to mate with
anyone. He keeps her up north. He sent for her and gave Squirrie to
her. She is very strong and bad-tempered, and she soon cuffed the two
policemen squirrels and sent them away. Squirrie hated her at first
and begged the Big Red Squirrel to kill him and put him out of his
misery, but now Chickari says she is leading him round like a little
gentle baby squirrel. He is frightened to death of her, and never
dares to rebel. She works him hard and has him even now laying up
stores for winter. She says, ‘If you don’t behave I’ll take you
further north, where the wind will cut you in two.’”
I laughed heartily. “What a joke on Squirrie;” then I said, “Hush,
Chummy—what is this little girl saying about our dear Martins?”
We both looked down to the sidewalk where a young girl was trotting
along beside her mother.
“Mummy,” she said pointing to the Martins’ house, “in there lives a
woman who raises birds from the dead.”
The mother laughed and Chummy said, “Isn’t that a joke? Your Missie is
getting famous.”
“They send for her from all over the city,” I said, “for her or for
our Mary to go and doctor sick birds. A lady up in that big apartment
house telephoned yesterday for Missie to come quickly, for her canary
was having dreadful fits. Missie went and looking at the bird said,
‘Cut his claws, Mrs. Jones. They are so long that they trip him up and
make him fall down on the floor of his cage.’”
Chummy was not listening to me. His eyes were fixed on Black Thomas
who was gazing upward, his face as soulful as if he had been doing
something to be proud of.
“He’s probably been catching an extra number of birds,” I said
gloomily.
“No, that isn’t a bird look,” said Chummy. “T-check, t-chack, Thomas,
what is the matter with you?”
Thomas strolled to our tree and stretching himself in the sunlight,
said proudly, “I caught a burglar last night.”
“Ha! ha!” shouted Vox Clamanti who had been listening, “Thomas has
reformed. He’s going to catch men instead of mice and birds.”
All the birds came flying up, Black Gorget and ever so many other
sparrows with Sister Susie who had just flown out for an airing.
Slow-Boy and Susan, Bronze-Wing, and even Chickari, the good squirrel,
and his little mate came running along the branches overhead.
Thomas rolled his eyes at them as they assembled, and when they had
calmed down, he began his tale.
“Last night,” he said, “when dinner was over, cook and the maids
cleaned up in the kitchen and dining-room and went upstairs to their
rooms. There was no one in the back of the house but me. I alone saw a
strange man come along the lane by the garden, get over the fence, and
come up to one of the dining-room windows which had been left open to
air the room. I, all by myself, watched him creep in and hide himself
behind the big sideboard in the corner. I said nothing to him, and he
said nothing to me, for he did not see me. I had been sleeping beside
the radiator, for the night was chilly. At ten o’clock cook came
downstairs to lock up. She opened the dining-room door, came in, and
put the window down and locked it. I followed her out, and ran to my
dear mistress’ room.
“She was in bed, but I mewed and fussed till she got up, and said,
‘What is the matter with Thomas?’
“I threw my whole hunting soul in my eyes, and turned my head from one
side to another, like this—” and he moved his black head about, the
way he does when he is stealing through the shrubbery looking for
young birds.
“By my wings,” said Chummy in my ear, “Thomas is becoming quite a
fancy speaker.”
Thomas was going on with his story: “I cried lustily and led her
toward the dining room, but when she started to go there I got in
front of her and acted in a frightened way.
“She understood me. She is a very clever woman, much cleverer even
than your Mrs. Martin, Dicky-Dick.”
“She is not,” I chirped angrily.
“Hush up,” said Chummy, giving me a gentle peck. “Let him finish his
tale. Don’t you see how wound up he is?”
“My mistress sent cook upstairs,” said old Thomas, going on, and
keeping an eye on Chummy and me, for he knew we were inclined to make
fun of him. “She asked two of the gentlemen to come down. They did so,
and now I quite joyfully led the procession to the dining-room, and,
on arriving there, I sprang toward the sideboard.
“The burglar ran to the window and smashed through it, but the
gentlemen caught him, even as I catch a mouse, and they telephoned for
the patrol wagon, and he is now in jail and they will probably hang
him.”
“Oh, no, Thomas,” said Chummy protestingly, “you go too fast. He will
likely get only a prison term.”
The other birds burst out laughing, but Chickari said, “Good boy,
Thomas—you are a public benefactor to catch a burglar! What is your
mistress going to do to reward you?”
“I am to have a silver collar,” said Thomas soberly, “which I know I
shall hate. Cats should never have collars. They prevent us from going
into out-of-the-way places.”
“Birds’ nests, for example,” said Bronze-Wing, in his rough voice.
“Have you heard the latest thing about cats, Thomas—I mean the latest
plan to keep them from catching birds?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Thomas shortly.