A PLAIN TALK
There was trouble in the poultry yard. Whether over-indulgence in a
grasshopper diet was accountable, or the responsibility was to be laid
at the door of early morning rambles through damp grass, Peggy was not
sure, but the condition of the three chickens still under the charge of
the yellow hen was plainly alarming. The wretched little creatures
hardly had strength to peep, still less to follow their energetic mother
on the excursions she showed no intention of relinquishing, out of
regard to the health of her family. Peggy found it necessary again to
confine her to the small coop she had occupied previously, and the
yellow hen indicated her dissatisfaction with the cramped quarters.
While she thrust her long neck through the slats and scolded
clamorously, her family of three stood about in varying attitudes of
dejection, indifferent to the corn-meal mush Peggy spread lavishly
before them.
The neighborhood authorities, whom Peggy naturally consulted, pronounced
the chickens suffering from "pip" and prescribed weird remedies. Jerry
Morton was appealed to along with the rest, and surprised Peggy by
professing complete ignorance of the subject.
"I've heard my grandmother talk about the pip, but I don't know what
it's like. I don't know nothing about chickens anyway."
"That's queer," remarked Peggy musingly, "when you know so much about
birds."
"Oh, birds!" The boy's face lighted up. "Birds is different. They've got
their own way of doing things, and one kind ain't any more like another
than folks is. You ought to see a pair of old birds teaching a young one
to fly. If he hasn't got spunk enough to get out of the nest himself,
they'll push him over, and then they'll fly around him, and keep on
talking and talking and saying how easy it is, and show him how. And
then when he tries they praise him up, as if he was a perfect wonder,
and he begins to think he's pretty smart himself." Jerry chuckled, as if
recalling such a scene as he was so vividly describing, and Peggy
watched him thoughtfully but without speaking. She had learned long
before that Jerry was most likely to discuss the subjects nearest his
heart when stimulated by silent attention.
"Some people talk as if folks was the only things with sense," Jerry
continued, "but seems to me they've got about the least. Why, you can't
lose a bird or a bee. And the orneriest little spider knows enough to
play dead if you poke him. Inside he's pretty near scared to death, but
he's got too much sense to cut and run the way a man would. He curls up
his legs, and makes himself look withered up, so you'll say, 'Oh,
shucks! he's dead already. What's the use of killing him over again?'"
Peggy's smile proved her to be paying close attention, and Jerry went
on. "Now, most folks think one bird's as good as another. Why, there's
thieves and robbers among birds same as men. A blue-jay's one of the
worst, and my, how the other birds hate him! Once I saw a whole crowd of
'em chasing a jay. It was a reg'lar bird mob, all kinds in it, thrushes
and cat-birds, and robins, and song-sparrows. They were all small birds
'longside of the jay, but together they were too much for him, I can
tell you. And he dodged and ducked around till he see 'twasn't no use,
and then he dropped what he'd stole and they let him go."
"And what had he stolen?" asked Peggy.
"A little bird just hatched out of some nest. You needn't tell me that
birds don't have a language. The father and mother, they hollered to
some of their neighbors that a jay was 'round kidnapping, and the chase
started. And every bird they met, they'd say, 'Come on, boys! Let's make
it hot for this old robber.' And they did too." Jerry caught himself up,
and cast a suspicious glance at Peggy's attentive face. He had early
learned to keep to himself the dialogues he imagined as taking place
between his friends of field and forest, as any attempts at confidence
on his part had invariably called out derision or reproof. He was glad
to assure himself that Peggy was listening respectfully, though he
realized that her silence had lured him on to say much more than he had
intended.
"Jerry," remarked Peggy, breaking the brief pause that had fallen
between them, "did you ever hear of Audubon?"
"What's that? Do you mean the language for everybody to learn, so that
Japs and Dagoes and us folks can talk together, same as if we'd been
raised 'longside each other?"
"Oh, no! That's Volapuk you're talking about, Jerry. Audubon was a man."
"Oh!" Apparently Jerry had lost interest.
"And the reason I wondered if you knew about him is that sometimes you
remind me of him."
"Oh!" And the change in Jerry's inflection showed the change in his
mental attitude.
"Yes, he loved birds just as you do. Dick had to write a composition
about Audubon last spring, and I helped him in reading up for it. That's
how I happen to know so much about him."
With this preface Peggy began. The life of the great ornithologist would
need to be told very unsympathetically, not to be a dramatic and
appealing recital. The story of the enthusiast who found no toil irksome
which furthered his research, however unreliable he might prove in the
humdrum occupation of earning a livelihood, was calculated to impress
the boy who realized that his matter-of-fact neighbors had long before
catalogued him as a thriftless ne'er-do-well. The great man's hardships,
his persistence, and his prosperous and honored old age, made up a
fascinating story. Peggy, noticing the effect upon her listener, was
more than satisfied.
"Well, he got there, didn't he?" Jerry kicked a pebble out of his way,
and frowned reflectively. "I guess the folks that thought him a
good-for-nothing must 'a' been surprised."
"But there were a great many who believed in him," Peggy suggested. "I
think he was very fortunate in his friends. In fact, that was one of the
things that helped him. He made friends wherever he went."
"Well, that ain't like me." Jerry's tone indicated a grim satisfaction
in the extent of his unpopularity, which Peggy recognized as a bad sign.
"That's a pity," she said gravely. "Because nobody's big enough to get
along all by himself. Everybody needs friends to help him."
Jerry became meditative. That he had rightly interpreted the meaning of
Peggy's story, and applied it as she wished, was apparent when he broke
out impatiently, "Why, if I should try to draw pictures of birds, folks
would just laugh at me. I couldn't make 'em look like anything."
"No, I suppose not. Audubon had to learn. That's another mistake of
yours, Jerry, to think that you can get along without books and
teachers. You've found out a lot by yourself, but that's no reason why
you shouldn't have the help of all the things other people have been
discovering. It's just as I said about friends. Everybody can help, and
everybody needs to be helped."
"I'm too old to go to school," Jerry replied despondently. And the
answer, coupled with his dejected manner, was to Peggy an indication of
a success she had hardly dared to hope for. Jerry realized his lacks.
The armor of his complacency had been pierced. Then there was hope for
him.
"How old are you, Jerry?"
"Sixteen in September." He hung his head, as if ashamed of his advanced
years. And at Peggy's laugh, his face flushed hotly.
"The reason that sounds so funny," Peggy explained, "is because I was
thinking of a friend of my father's. He's a college professor, and
sometimes he comes to visit us in his vacation. He was twenty when he
first learned to read and write. How's that for a late start? And see
where he's got to!"
Jerry leaned toward her confidentially. "It's this way," he said. "I
wouldn't mind going to school if it 'twasn't for ringing in with a lot
of kids. I couldn't stand that, you know." He looked at Peggy, expectant
of her ready sympathy. But to his surprise, her lip had curled slightly.
"Oh, of course," she said, "if you're afraid--"
"Afraid!" Jerry flung back his head. "Me! I'm not afraid of nothing. Did
I ever show you the rattle I got off that big snake I killed? That
doesn't look much as if I was easy scared."
"I didn't know," returned Peggy, quite unmoved, "but that you might be
afraid of being made fun of."
Jerry had nothing to say. Peggy proceeded to occupy the interval of
silence.
"A boy graduated at one of our high schools a year ago, who had plenty
of pluck, I thought. He came from Russia, a Jew, you know, and when he
got here he couldn't speak a word of English. He was fourteen then, and
they started him in the first grade. That was the only thing to do, I
suppose. Well, it really was a funny sight to see him going into school
with those first-grade tots. He was a big boy for his age, and he had to
curl himself up to sit at one of those tiny desks, so he must have been
awfully uncomfortable. And, of course, it looked queer. If he'd been a
cowardly sort of boy," observed Peggy significantly, "I suppose he would
have given up."
Jerry made no comment, unless an uneasy movement might have been
interpreted as such.
"But he didn't give up, and after a few months he was promoted to the
second grade. And it took him even less time to get into the third. And
then it got so that we'd ask every morning what grade David had been
promoted to. Instead of laughing at him, everybody was proud of him."
Still no comment on Jerry's part.
"Well, as I said, he graduated from the high school a year ago last
spring. He stood second in his class. The boy who was ahead of him is
the son of a circuit judge. David was nineteen. In five years he had
gone from the very beginning to the end of the high school course. Now
he's in college, and I don't know what he'll do after he graduates, but
I'm sure it will be something fine. Don't you think that's better than
being afraid of being laughed at, and settling down to be an ignorant
laborer all his life?"
"Oh, I guess it's all right, if he felt like it." Jerry spoke with an
elaborate carelessness. "Well, I must be going." There was a trace of
resentment in his tone, more than a trace in his heart. Jerry's high
opinion of Peggy had originally sprung from her appreciation of his good
qualities. It was a rather painful surprise to find that she recognized
his lacks. In fact, Jerry was inclined to think that she exaggerated
them.
"I ain't no coward, just because I don't want to be cooped up in school
with a lot of kids," he told himself angrily, as he walked away. Yet his
morning's talk with Peggy had clouded his spirits. Long before Jerry had
come to accept with cheerful philosophy the disapproval of his
neighbors. They understood crops and dairying. He understood birds and
trees, and, in his own opinion, he was at no disadvantage in the
comparison, but rather the opposite. He regarded their knowledge as
humdrum, and it did not disturb him that they looked on his acquisitions
as worthless.
But with Peggy it was different. The naturalist who had impoverished
himself in his eagerness to study birds, she had held up to his
admiration as a great man. Jerry was sure that his neighbors would not
so estimate him. They would call him "shiftless," the adjective that had
been applied times without number to Jerry himself. Peggy approved such
research, and yet she found fault with him. She thought he needed the
help of the schools, of books, of friends. Undoubtedly she had implied
that he was a coward. Jerry winced at the recollection.
"I don't have to go to school just to please her," Jerry boasted, but
his declaration of independence failed to assuage that curious
uneasiness that was almost pain. He had disappointed a friend. His
effort to forget that fact in manufacturing resentment against Peggy
proved quite unsuccessful.
As for Peggy, she watched the vanishing figure rather ruefully, and was
inclined to think her morning's effort wasted, if not worse. Like most
amateur gardeners, Peggy was fond of immediate results. She liked to see
shoots starting when the seed had hardly touched the soil, leaf and
blossom following with miraculous swiftness. Nature's slow processes
were trying to the patience. Peggy watched Jerry out of sight, and then,
her face unusually thoughtful, made her way to the front porch which
presented an unusually populous appearance that morning. The day was
rather warm, and a forenoon of idleness had appealed to the household as
preferable to a more strenuous form of entertainment.
"Aren't they any better?" asked Elaine, noticing the gravity of her
friend's face, but misinterpreting it.
"Who? Oh, the chickens." Peggy roused herself. "I can't say that I see
any improvement. And if there's anything that looks more sickly than a
sick chicken, I don't know its name."
"Well, anyway, Freckles is perfectly healthy," Ruth said encouragingly.
"And it's all the more to your credit because you brought him up
yourself." Some time before, the speckled chicken had asserted his
individuality to such an extent that a name had seemed a necessity, and
after considerable canvassing of the matter, "Freckles" had received a
majority vote. Freckles had long ceased to impress the observer as a
pathetic object. He was an energetic, pin-feathery creature, noted
equally for his appetite and his pugnacity. Dorothy who had not
hesitated to bestride Farmer Cole's boar, and was absolutely fearless as
far as Hobo was concerned, retreated panic-stricken before Freckles'
advances. For owing to reasons not apparent, Freckles found an
irresistible temptation in Dorothy's slim, black-stockinged legs.
Peggy shooed away the persistent Freckles, who had given up his designs
upon the gravel walk at her approach, and was pecking frantically at her
shoe-buttons, evidently under the impression that they were good to eat.
"Oh, he's healthy enough," she replied. "It begins to look as if he'd be
all I'd have to show for my poultry raising experiment, and I had it all
planned out how I'd spend the money for the whole eighteen chickens."
Peggy joined in the laugh against herself before she added cheerily:
"Well, even if air-castles tumble down, it's fun to build them."
"And to build them over again," suggested Aunt Abigail with a smile.
"Like castles little children build out of blocks."
It was fortunate that Peggy was able to take so philosophic a view of
the situation, for, before night, two of the little sufferers had
succumbed to their malady, and the yellow fowl, who could not wholly
disclaim responsibility for the misfortunes of her family, was left a
hen with one chicken.