At last the fallen timber was burned away, and the ground was ready for
planting. One morning Coora saw her father and mother making ready to go
out together. "Oh, where are you going, Father and Mother?" she asked.
"We go to the planting of the rice," answered her father, slinging a big
bag over his shoulder.
"But you promised that I should go with you when that time came?" cried
Coora wistfully. "Please, please may I not be your little helper?"
"No, no, Coora," answered her mother impatiently. "Do not tease us so.
You must stay at home to take care of your little sister. Be a good
girl this time, and when the rice is well grown we will all go together
and harvest it. That will be great fun!"
"Shall I really go? Do you promise, Mother?" asked poor Coora hopefully,
for she felt sure that her mother would not deceive her.
"I promise," said the mother, not looking her in the eyes; and the
parents went away through the forest to plant the rice.
Time went by until the rice had grown tall and was ready for the
harvest. Now Coora heard her parents talking of the matter, and she was
very gay, for now she expected a happy, happy day. She dressed herself
and made ready to go to the harvesting, as her parents had promised. But
when she joined them, smiling joyfully, they turned upon her frowning
and bade her return to the house and take care of everything until their
home-coming. Then poor little Coora burst into tears and said, "O my
Father and O my Mother, I have obeyed you without a word every time you
broke your promise to me. And still you continue to put me off from day
to day, when this is the thing I long to do so much that it seems as if
my heart would break. Think of it! The clearing has been made, the
timber burned, the rice planted and grown, and now it is ready for the
harvest. But I have not even seen the place where all this has
happened. O Father and Mother, why are you so unkind to me?"
"There, there!" cried her father and mother together, "do not make a
fuss over so small a matter. You cannot go to-day; but wait until the
rice is gathered and it is time to tread it out. Then we will let you
help us, you may be sure. We promise, Coora, that you shall really and
truly go."
"You promise!" echoed Coora bitterly. "You have promised me before and
nothing came of it." But even while she spoke the unkind parents were
gone.
Then Coora fell to weeping most sorely, for she knew that she could not
trust the word of her father and mother; and that is a most terrible
thing. At last she rose and wiped away the tears and looked about the
little cottage where she had been patient through so many
disappointments. And she said to herself, "I can bear it no longer. It
is not right that I should be made to suffer like this when a little
thing would make me so happy. I must see the rice field; I will go
to-day."
Coora tidied the cottage, putting everything in its place and making it
look as beautiful as she could. Then she took up the little sister who
had fallen asleep on the floor, and kissing her tenderly placed her in
the hammock which swung from wall to wall of the hut. Lastly Coora took
off the golden bracelets and earrings and the tinkling anklets which she
wore like other little Malay girls, and left them in a shining heap
behind the door. But she kept her necklace about her pretty little neck.
Now Coora had learned a little magic from a witch, just enough magic to
serve her turn. She went out and picked two palm leaves which she
fastened on her shoulders and changed herself into a bird, a bright,
beautiful Ground-Pigeon, with many-colored metallic feathers. But the
necklace still made a band about her pretty little neck, as you may see
on every Ground-Pigeon to this day.
Coora the Ground-Pigeon fluttered away through the forest until she came
to the rice plantation where her parents were at work. She alighted on a
dead tree close by them and called out, "Mother, O Mother! I have left
my earrings and bracelets behind the door and have put my little sister
in the hammock."
Astonished at these words her mother looked up, but saw no one, only a
Ground-Pigeon perched on the tree over her head. "Father," she cried to
her husband who was at work beside her, "did you not hear Coora's voice
just now?"
"Yes, I thought so," answered the father angrily. "The wicked girl must
have disobeyed me and have followed us here after all. I will punish her
if this is so." They called to her, "Coora, Coora!" until the forest
reëchoed. But no one appeared or answered.
"I will go home and see if she is there," said the mother. "Either I
heard Coora speak or there is some magic in the forest." And she
hastened back to the cottage. There she found the baby in the hammock
and the bracelets and earrings in a shining heap behind the door, as the
voice had said, but there was no Coora anywhere. Surprised and anxious,
once more the mother ran back to the plantation.
"Coora is gone, husband!" she cried. "It must have been her own voice
which we heard just now. Hark! She speaks again!"
Again from the tree they heard a sweet voice calling, "Mother, O Mother,
I have left my earrings and bracelets behind the door and my little
sister in the hammock. Good-by, Coo-o-o-ra!" As she spoke her own name
Coora's voice warbled and crooned into the soft _coo_ of a
Ground-Pigeon's note, and her parents glancing up saw that this bird
must be their child, their Coora, magically changed.
"Let us cut down the tree and catch the wicked girl!" cried the father.
And seizing his axe he chopped away lustily until the tree fell with a
crash. But even at that moment the Pigeon fluttered away to another
tree, crooning again the soft syllables which she has spoken ever since,
"Coo-ra, coo-ra, coo!"
From tree to tree about the rice plantation the distracted parents
pursued the Pigeon; but it was in vain to try to capture her. Ever she
escaped them when they seemed about to lay hands upon her soft feathers.
After following her flight for many miles they were obliged to return
home, sad and sorry and repentant. For they knew now that it was their
own unkindness and their broken promises which had driven their daughter
away from the cottage, never to return.
The beautiful Ground-Pigeon still lingers near the rice plantations
which she had so longed to visit. Still she plaintively calls her name,
and still she wears the necklace about her pretty little neck. And the
little Malay maidens love her very dearly because she was once a girl
like them.