"Build away, birds; there's no chiff-chaff trickery this time. Spring
is here," said the thrush, "and here's all the company coming. All the
swallow family are over, and here's the wryneck been playing a tune upon
its comb all the morning; as for those sit-up-o'-night birds, they've
been sing-sing, till I'm almost tired of it, and wish they would set to
work and find something better to do. But what's the matter down
there?"
It was plain that something was the matter, for all the birds were
leaving their work on purpose to go and see what was wrong; for there
was the yard-dog, Boxer, loose in the garden again, barking, and
snapping, and snarling at something rolled up amongst the dead leaves.
The thrush flew up, and settling on a low branch, stopped to watch what
was the matter; and he soon saw, for there, causing all the noise, was a
tightly-rolled up hedgehog, with his sharp spines sticking up all over,
and looking for all the world like a sharp round hair-brush. As for
Boxer, he was sniffing and snuffing and pricking his nose in his efforts
to get Blacknose open; but the little spikey thing would not open the
least bit in the world, but kept himself rolled up snug and fast, with
nothing but spines and thorns sticking out all over him. The more Boxer
sniffed and poked at the round ball, the more he got pricked, and then
he held up his head and whined in so comical a way, that all those who
were looking on could not keep from laughing, which made the dog so
cross that he barked at the birds, and made believe to bite; only they
were all out of reach; and this made him all the more cross and
snappish.
At last Boxer got the prickly thing close to the bank, and over it
rolled right down into an old rabbit's hole, where the dog could not
reach it; so then he turned round and ran at the first thing he saw,
which happened to be the magpie, who stayed so long upon the ground
before flying up, that the dog got hold of one of his tail-feathers.
"Pull, magpie!" shouted the birds. And magpie did pull, as hard as ever
he could pull, and fluttered and flew, but he could not get his
tail-feather away, so had to leave it behind with Boxer, who quietly sat
down on the grass and began to gnaw and tear the beautiful glossy green
plume, until he had completely spoiled it, when he threw it away, and
began to look out for some more fun; whilst poor Mag's tail was so sore,
that he went home grumbling and half-crying at his misfortune.
Busier and busier the birds grew every day; there was no one idle in
Greenlawn in spring-time, but all hard at work, build-build-build from
morning, when the first rosy peep of day appeared, and the blackbird
cried out, "Wake-wake-wake," until the night closed in, and the pale new
moon peeped down from amid the light clouds, watching over the nesting
birds, with their beaks tucked snugly under their wings, and gently
swaying about upon the light branch that rocked them to sleep with the
easy motion of the soft spring breeze. Sweetly then used to sing the
nightingales, perched on the low boughs of the fresh-leaved bushes, and
whistling for their wives, not yet come over the sea; whistling and
answering one another from wood to wood, and from grove to grove, until
the night rang with the sweet sounds, and bird after bird would draw out
its head to listen to the sweet, strong-voiced warblers. But generally
the birds used to grumble at the nightingale, and say it was not fair of
him to make such a noise of a night. They wanted peace and quietness;
and one old greenfinch, who could not sing a bit, and had no ear for
music, used to say that the nightingale was as great a nuisance as old
Shoutnight, the owl, and that his noises ought to be stopped.
But one night there was such a shouting and hoo-hooing that all the
birds woke up in a fright. One asked the other what it meant, but no
one knew, and every now and then, ringing through the still night, came
the wild strange cry. Even the master of Greenlawn opened his window
and looked out and wondered, and at last crabby old Todkins, the
gardener, opened _his_ window, and even called the birch-broom boy up to
listen; but they could not make out what the noise was. Nobody knew,
and at last they began to be like the birds, rather frightened; for it
was such a wild, dreadful cry as they had never heard before.
"It's a wild goose," said Mrs Spottleover to her mate.
"You're a goose," said Spottleover, all of a shiver. "You never heard a
goose cry out like that. It's like a peacock, only ten times more
horrible; and--there it goes again; isn't it dreadful?"
The old owl said it was a rude boy trying to hoot; while the saucy
jackdaw said it was nothing to be afraid of, for it was only old
Shoutnight with a bad cold.
But, last of all, out came the old gardener with a lantern in one hand,
a stick in the other, and his red nightcap on, to look round the garden
and see what was the matter. No sooner was he out on the lawn than all
the stupid birds began to look about his light to see what it was made
of, and how it was that what they took for a glow-worm should be going
about the lawn; and still all this while the dreadful cry kept coming,
now higher, now lower, and the gardener could not find out what it was;
but at last he stood stock-still and scratched his head, until the
tassel of his red nightcap went jiffle-iffle, and danced up and down
like a loose leaf on a twig.
"There, I don't care," said the gardener; "I'm going home to bed again;
so ye may shout all night, whatever ye are, unless ye like to speak.
But, hallo, Boxer, boy! what is it?" he said, as the dog laid hold of
his leg and then ran on before him, turning round every now and then to
see if his master would follow; and at last he did follow the dog till
it stopped, barking and smelling, at the edge of the dip well, where the
water-grotto was, and the cresses grew under the trickling spring--a
little well-like place it was; and just as the old man came up the cry
seemed to rise out of the water so wildly and shrilly, that he gave a
jump and dropped his lantern.
Fortunately, however, the lantern did not go out, and so he quickly
picked it up again and held it down, and there, swimming round and
round, and unable to get out, was poor Blacknose, the hedgehog, getting
fainter and fainter, and nearly drowned, and crying out for somebody to
pull him out.
"Well, only to think of that little thornball making all that noise,"
said the gardener, helping the poor thing out and setting it on the
grass; when it was so grateful that it would have thanked him if it
could, but it could not, and so stopped there quite still while Boxer
put his cold black nose up to it, and stood wagging his thick stumpy
tail; for he was too generous a dog to meddle with anyone in trouble,
even a hedgehog; and piggy, feeling that he was in distress, and an
object of sympathy, did not even attempt to curl up, but lay quite
still, waiting for his visitors to go.
"Well," said the old man, "I suppose I am not going to hurt ye, for the
master won't have anything hurt; so come along, Boxer; and dinna ye be
fetchin' a chiel oot o' bed at sic a time o' nicht again, or ye may e'en
stop i' the water." And then the old gardener went off to his cottage;
and Boxer, after a run back and a scamper round the rescued hedgehog,
went to his kennel.
And so things went on at Greenlawn, year after year, and season after
season. It may perhaps seem a very wonderful place; but there are a
great many little Greenlawns all over England, where little eyes may see
the birds do many of the things that have been told in this little
story--a story thought of to please two little girls who were very fond
of leaning up against somebody's knee in the evenings before the candles
were lighted, and asking somebody to tell them a story.