"Ay, cobbling and tinkering too. The forest birds liked to hear me just the
same as those canaries. Especially the tinkering. They'd crowd about and
sing fit to burst their throats--wood-thrushes, finches, and all sorts.
Then, I used to stop at village fairs and take in a nice bit of silver. For
my missus could play the concertina, and I had a cage of lovebirds that
could tell fortunes and do tricks."
A strange voice spoke from the passage behind the shop.
"Ay. Comical tricks lovebirds do. And cruel tricks, love. I've been tricked
by 'em."
"Better lie down, Ada," said Martindale. "Or make tea. That'll quiet ye."
He rose and went to the door, closing it softly. But he had barely seated
himself again, when there came a scream from the passage.
"Look what you've did, you villain, you've shut me in the door! Oh! oh! I'm
trapped in this comical passage! Loose me quick!"
Martindale sprang to the door, where a strip of red petticoat showed that
his wife was indeed caught, and went out into the passage, speaking in a
soothing tone, and leading her away.
"I fink I'll go," whispered The Seraph.
"Don't be silly," I assured him, "the cobbler will take care she don't hurt
us."
"She's a character, isn't she?" said Angel, borrowing a phrase from Mary
Ellen.
Martindale returned then, sat down on his bench, and, smoothing his leather
apron, resumed his work with composure.
"I fink," said The Seraph, "I hear Mrs. Handsomebody calling. I better be
off."
"Bide a little while," said Martindale, "and I'll tell you a first rate
story--about birds too. Then you'll forget your fright, little master, eh?"
The Seraph moved closer to him, and the canaries burst into a fury of song.
"It's wonderful what birds know," he began. "News flies as fast among 'em
as wind on the heath, and if you do an injury to one, the others'll never
forgive it. For though they may fight among themselves, they'll all join
together against one wicked cruel man."
The canaries ceased their singing, and fluttered against the bars.
"Just look at Coppertoes," said the cobbler, pointing to a large ruffled
bird, "he's heard this tale often afore, yet it always excites him. He'll
peck at his perch; and beat his wings for hours after it. Won't you, my
pet?"
Coppertoes crouched on his perch, his beak open, making little hissing
sounds.
"Well, there was a man," went on the cobbler, "a student fellow he was, who
was always making queer messes with chemicals, and fancying he was about to
discover some wonderful new combination. He lived in a top room in a high,
narrow house, well on towards three hundred years ago. And all those years,
a family of song-sparrows, and their descendants, had nested under the
eaves directly above his window. Hatched out their young; fed them; and
taught them to fly. Very well. This student fellow was all in a fever one
morning because he believed that, at last, his great discovery was all but
perfect. Just a few hours more and he would have it in the hollow of his
hand. But he could not rightly fasten his brain to work because of the
constant cheeping of the young sparrows under the eaves. Every time the
mother bird brought them a moth or worm they raised a chorus of yells; and
when she flew away, they cheeped for her to come back again.
"The student-fellow shut his window, but it did not keep out the noise.
Then he flung open the window and waved his arms and shouted at them. But
they only cheeped the louder. Now a dreadful rage took hold on him. With
his heart full of murder, he fetched a basin in which he had put some
poisonous drug. He set fire to this and set it on the window sill just
below the nest. Then, with a triumphal smile, he shut the window fast,
leaving the fledglings to perish in the fumes that rose, thick and deadly
from the basin.
"For hours he worked, and, at last, to his great joy, he figured out the
amazing problem that was to be a gain to the whole world. He was so tired
that he clean forgot the little birds, and flung himself, face down, on his
bed to rest. He did not wake until the next morning at seven. It was so
dark that he had to strike a light to see the face of his watch. Now he
knew that it should not be dark at either seven in the morning or seven at
night; and he felt very strange. The room was full of the unclean smells of
his chemicals, and he groped his way to the window to get air. But the
outdoor air was murky and he saw that a heavy cloud had settled just above
the chimney pots. This cloud seemed to palpitate, as though made of a
million beating wings. Down below he could hear the clatter of wooden clogs
on the cobble stones, as people were running in a panic to the Town Hall.
The big bell of it began to ring, but in a muffled way as though borne down
by the cloud. The student guessed that a meeting was being called.
"He remembered the sparrows then, and he craned his neck to see the nest.
There was the little mother-bird sitting in the nest with her wings
outstretched to protect the nestlings from the deadly fumes. Her beak was
wide open and she was quite dead."
The Seraph's breast heaved and his tears began to drop on the cobbler's
leather apron. Coppertoes squatted beneath his swing, striking it angrily
with his shoulders so that it swung violently. All the other birds were
silent.
Steadily working at the shoe the cobbler proceeded: "The terrible truth was
borne to the student then, and he knew that the cock sparrow, on finding
his mate and her young ones thus foully murdered, had flown swiftly to the
king of all the birds, and told him of the deed. The king had summoned
great battalions of birds, from fierce eagles and owls (these last rushing
from their dark hiding places) down to fluttering little wrens and tomtits.
'Twas of those that the great cloud was made, and it hung just over the
town like a dark wave that would soon smother the townsfolk.
"The student caught up the paper where he had writ the great discovery and
made for the street, running along with the rest of the folk, and ready to
drop with fear of the great press of wings above them. When he got to the
Town Hall, he found the whole town huddled together there, even new mothers
with their babes, like young birds; and, in a moment the beadle had swung
the great doors shut. In there they could scarce see each other's fearful
faces; but the student clumb up on the council table, and he told out
bravely enough how it was all his doing, and since he had brought it to
pass, he was prepared to go out and face the birds alone.
"But first he handed over the paper to the Mayor, and charged him to guard
it stoutly, for it was about the most precious thing on earth. Then he
called--'Good-bye! friends,' and went, since there was no time to spare;
for the birds were beginning to hammer like hail on the windows with their
beaks, especially the cranes and flamingos.
"When the door had clanged behind him the women mourned aloud, for they
knew they would never see him again. A great tumult rose outside as of a
hurricane, and it grew pitch dark. After a spell, the noise ceased, and the
cloud lifted, and a shaft of sunlight slanted across the hall. The village
tailor opened the door, for the mayor and the beadle were sore afeared.
There was not a bird in sight, though the ground was inches deep in
feathers they had dropped. As for the student, no one ever saw him again.
Whether the birds had carried him off bodily to some secret place, or
whether they had torn him piecemeal, no one knew."
The Seraph sniffled. "It's nice and twagic," he said.
"What became of his great discovery?" asked Angel.
"Ay, you may well ask that. Why, the mayor said it was bewitched and held
it in the flame of a candle till there was naught left of it but
cinders.... Now, here is your boot, little master, good as new, and the
cost but one shilling."