It was perched low on a near-by tree and its plumage was of the most
gorgeous coloring that Westy had ever seen. Its body was plump and quite
long, and its tail was dotted like some exquisite jeweled fan.
He sat down on a bowlder and watched it as it warbled a deep-throated
trill. Ostensibly, it was doing this for Westy’s sole benefit, for when
it got through it would look to him as though awaiting applause and
start off again, sweeter than before.
Westy wondered if it would be wrong to kill this beautiful thing and
satisfy his own terrible hunger or take the chance of finding something
and go on?
The bird fascinated him! The sweet notes pouring out of its tiny throat,
the eyes seeming to look his way, as if to say it was lonely also and
enjoyed the chance meeting. And the lovely plumage! It was made for a
paradise and sunshine, not the dank, dark forest.
Its tameness and beauty tempted Westy to whistle low and sweet as he had
heard Lola do that day so long ago when they first saw the lake. She had
said that a bird would eventually come to you if you would sit quietly
and whistle long enough.
At first the bird just looked and listened, never moving. But as Westy
kept on, it flew to the ground about five feet away, then came nearer
and nearer until it hopped on his bare foot.
Westy reached down carefully and stroked its glossy, well-shaped head.
Very gently he put his hand over it and raised it up to his lap. To his
surprise, the bird nestled against him comfortably and relaxed.
“I couldn’t cook it,” Westy thought as he watched it, “but I’m desperate
for something and it would be some sort of food at that. But how----”
Instinctively his hand clasped the bird tighter. He couldn’t bear to
look at this beautiful creature he intended to destroy. But something
made him look again and he succumbed to the desire to glance at it once
more before its life would be extinct.
As he glanced down the bird looked up at him, implicit trust in its
expression. Westy tried to drown the tenderness welling up within him
and forced a stern look upon his countenance, and as he faced it for the
last time the bird chirped and hopped upon his arm and he grasped it
quickly with his free hand.
But the mute appeal in those eyes was too much for Westy. He turned his
head away and then back again, smiling:
“All right, old man,” he said. “You want to live just the same as I do,
isn’t that so?”
It almost seemed to understand.
“Well,” Westy continued aloud, “you’re going to go right on living
_now_, as far as I’m concerned. If I can’t find anything else to eat
to-day I’ll start digging for worms the same as you do.”
With that he released the bird and it flew over his head. He couldn’t
see where it went, but he heard it warbling again--the sweet,
deep-throated trill.
It kept up so insistently that Westy pushed through the damp brush a
little way to see where it had gone. As he parted the tall weeds he
beheld the little golden throat perched on the limb of a walnut tree,
abounding with its ripened fruit.
He rushed forward with eagerness and as he climbed up on the lower limb
the bird looked at him almost significantly and took to one of the top
branches.
Westy jammed and crammed his pockets full meaning to crack them on the
bowlder. After he had filled every available space in his trousers, he
clambered down. Then he looked up at his benefactor and smiled.
“Thanks, old man, for the find! You’re a better scout than I am any
day!”
In answer the bird trilled again and then flew--up, up into the sunshine
and away.
Westy watched him enviously.
“Still,” he mused, “I guess after all it’s a case of Even Stephen. God
gave me hands and feet and you--your wings!”