those gooseberries and currants would be sufficient to feed scores of
blackbirds for several weeks together. Think of what is here lost to the
world through the meanness of Man!
“The raspberries indeed are not netted; but, friends, I would ask you,
if you can control your feelings for a moment, to look in the direction
of the raspberry canes. There you may see--I can hardly bear to mention
it--the dead bodies of two cousins of mine, who lost their lives through
the meanness of Man, in the exercise of their natural rights and
appetites. Shot, cruelly shot, by the farmer’s son, and exposed to view
to frighten us!”
Here the speaker was overcome by emotion, and paused for a few moments.
“Go on,” said the Robin, “or you’ll never get to the end of your speech.
Why do you want to eat fruit? Caterpillars are much better.”
“Order, order,” cried the President. “Trrrrr-lira-lira-trrr.” The
Blackbird resumed the thread of his argument.
“I do not care,” he said, “to notice unseemly interruptions at a moment
when such painful thoughts have obtruded themselves on my mind. I will
proceed in the next place to show that man is _mischievous_. I need not
dwell on this point; the fact is known to you all. The word is far too
mild. Which of us has not lost a nest, or seen our young caught and
killed, either by man himself, or by his parasite the cat? They are the
only two animals who kill for the pleasure of killing. Of the two, as
you know, man is far the worst; he is more cruel and more awkward than
a cat. A cat is agile, nimble, even beautiful to look at, terrible as
she is; and she does not steal the nests which we have taken such
infinite pains to build. A kitten is a pretty and even a harmless little
creature; but the young of man is horrible to contemplate. What dreadful
noises he makes! What a contemptible object he appears! Though compelled
by nature to keep to the ground and go along on two stumps, he will
sometimes climb trees if he can but see a chance of doing us a mischief.
You hear the awkward creature crashing through the branches; you are
forced to fly for your life, and to leave your young and eggs to the
monster’s mercy! I will not harrow your feelings further, but will
content myself with the simple assertion that cats are far better.
“I now come to the third point. Man is _malevolent_. Man, that is (as
some of you may not understand the word), is evilly disposed towards us.
His evil deeds are the result of an evil will. I see you are getting
impatient, so I will only give you a single instance of this, which
shall at the same time be a crushing proof. As I was enjoying myself in
a gooseberry bush a day or two ago, before the meanness of man displayed
itself in those malicious nets, I heard the farmer’s wife singing to her
baby as she sat on the seat under the pear-tree close by me. I kept very
quiet, as you may imagine, and heard all she said. Fancy my horror when
I heard her begin--
“Four-and-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.”
Thus you see from his earliest years--from the egg, I might have said,
had Fate destined him for a higher sphere than that he occupies--is Man
taught malevolence towards the birds. His mother whispers the poison
even into his baby ears; he grows up thinking of baked blackbirds; and
though no doubt in later life he prefers what he (luckily for us) calls
bigger game, the malevolence of his mind towards us singing-birds is
ever on the increase. Such then is Man: mean, mischievous, malevolent; a
creature that might indeed, in many ways be our equal if he could but
restrain his evil instincts; but as he is, degraded, demoralized, and
dangerous.”
This burst of eloquence took the company by surprise; they never
suspected the Blackbird of possessing such genius. There was general
applause, which was broken in upon however by an unlucky incident. The
Robin, when the Blackbird stopped, had instantly taken possession of the
orator’s bough, a prominent one directly below that of the president.
The Sparrow, seeing this, and being always ready to pick a quarrel with
the Robin, had flown to the bough with angry screams, and was trying to
turn out the new orator. Robin fought as might be expected of him, the
other birds were preparing to join in, the President was calling for
order, and whistling his very shrillest, when up came the Swallow once
more. She preferred to be absent during the speeches, but looked in, she
said, to see if their wits were getting sharpened.
“What!” she exclaimed, “quarrelling already! Ah, I see, no wits to
sharpen, so try claws and beaks instead!”
“Where’s your repartee, Philip?” said the Blue Tit. But before the
repartee was forthcoming the Swallow was gone again.
The Swallow’s remark had the result of calming the troubled waters; and
as the Robin had been first on the bough, the President called on him to
speak.
“I do not pretend to eloquence,” said the Robin; “but I know what I
think, and shall say it as well as I can. Some things the Blackbird has
said I agree with; but birds who habitually eat fruit must expect man to
make war upon them. Now between my family and man there has been for
ages a treaty of peace--a treaty which man keeps up, because he knows
how much it is to his advantage; and which we keep up, not only for our
own benefit, but because we hope that in due time we may improve and
elevate man. He is powerful, but he is by nature vicious, as the
Blackbird has observed. Well, we hope we have done something in the
past, and may do something in the future, to rid him of his baser
qualities.
“You probably do not know how this treaty of peace came to be made. I
will tell you as shortly as I can. Long ages ago there was a king of
this island who married and had two lovely children, a boy and a girl.
These children went out one day to play in the wood near their papa’s
palace, and lost their way. Night came on, and they lay down to sleep;
they never woke up again, but lay there dead and cold. _We_ saw them
there; _we_ covered them with leaves, and paid a last tribute to their
beauty and innocence. The king and queen found us at the good work, and
then and there made a treaty with us, which has lasted in this island
ever since. By this treaty it was ordained--
“1. That man should not use his strength or his dreadful engines of
destruction to kill or molest any robin.
“2. That man should abstain from taking the nest of any robin; but that
he should be allowed to take one egg now and then, if he should feel his
evil desire for collecting getting the better of him.
“3. That man should put food outside his windows for the robins in the
winter, and should take care that it was not all eaten up by sparrows.”
(Here the Sparrow asked the President whether the speaker was in order
in introducing such offensive matter into his speech. The President
decided that as the Robin was quoting a historical document, no offence
could be taken.)
“These,” said the Robin, “are the most important clauses of the treaty.
On our side it was agreed:
“First, that the robins should abstain as far as possible from damaging
man’s property, _i.e._ his fruit or his corn, and should do him as much
good as possible by eating the grubs and caterpillars in his gardens.
“This clause has been faithfully kept by us, to our own lasting benefit
as well as that of man. I would advise all birds who insist on eating
fruit and corn to observe how excellent are the results of a grub and
caterpillar diet.” Here the Robin paused a moment, and displayed his
portly red waistcoat in all its glory to the audience. Then he went
on:--
“Secondly, it was agreed that the robins should take up their dwelling
as far as possible in the haunts and gardens of man, and should sing to
him, not only in the spring or the summer, but all the year round, as
often as they should feel able and disposed to do so. This clause has
also been faithfully kept by us, and the result is, in my humble
opinion, that we are now not only the most regular, but the most
versatile and accomplished singers who affect the haunts of man. I will
not however press that point, as I see some of you seem to dissent.
“Now you will observe that though, as was right and proper, this treaty
was framed much to the advantage of the robins, both parties to it have
certainly gained by it, and man, who has on the whole kept it fairly
well, has learnt from it to respect and to care for at least one family
of birds. I would therefore conclude by asking you to consider, before
you pass this motion, and commit yourselves to perpetual enmity to
mankind, whether it would not be wiser to follow our example, and make a
lasting peace with him. I am convinced that you would do yourselves no
harm; and I am still more firmly convinced that you would find a
pleasure in joining us in the good work of raising mankind to a higher
level of life, and a better appreciation of the superior creatures
around him.”
There was but faint applause when the Robin left the orator’s bough. He
was not popular, as has been remarked; and he was always posing (so they
thought) as a superior person. And now he claimed superior wisdom on the
ground of his intimacy with man! The Sparrow, who had listened very
impatiently to his speech, sprang up at once to the bough, and began in
loud and rather angry tones:--
“What rubbish people can talk! The motion itself is absurd, the
Blackbird’s speech was silly, and the Robin’s speech shows that his
whole race, from the beginning, have, as I always said, been the victims
of a delusion. You none of you know the least bit how to deal with man.
We Sparrows found out the secret ages ago, and look how we have
prospered! Talk of treaties! why in the name of all that’s feathered
should any one want to make a treaty with man? I say it’s ridiculous.
That isn’t the way to do it. Only idiots would do that.”
“Order, order!” said the President. “I really must call on the
honourable speaker to control his feelings and modify his expressions.”
“Very well,” said the Sparrow; “but really when one hears such
blathering nonsense talked--”
“Order, order!” called the President, and whistled his loudest. “The
honourable Sparrow must positively address himself to the point, and not
be rude, or I shall call on him to retire.” Thus admonished, the Sparrow
continued in milder tones:--
“Well really, you know, what I was going to say was, when the President
interrupted me, that man is here to be made use of, not to be made
treaties with. We found out long ago how to make use of him, just as we
found out long ago how to use the martins’ nests. (Loud cries of
‘shame.’) Shame, indeed! Rubbish! If you want to prosper, take what you
can get, and don’t go to make treaties about it, or fight for it more
than you can help; lay your claws into it when no one’s looking, and
make sure of it. You’ll be the better, and no one else the wiser. Man
sows corn: we take it; thousands of us live on it nearly all the year
round. Man sows peas: we take them--at least all the juicy young
ones--he can have the old ones for himself. Man plants crocuses: we
found out that there was good food inside the blossoms, and we take
them. Man puts bread-crumbs outside his window, in fulfilment of his
treaty with the robins, no doubt: we take it nearly all. Man does no end
of other things, and we take advantage of them all. And see how it pays!
We sparrows are the rising race. We increase every year by thousands; we
go everywhere; we despise nothing; we eat anything; and we have a good
time of it. All you other birds will disappear in time; there’ll be no
room for you, and nothing left for you to eat. Man will remain, but only
to support us; we must have peas and corn, so man must remain. And may
he ever remain,” added the orator, in a burst of eloquence, “the
infatuated slave that he is now!”
“Bravo!” said the twittering voice of the Swallow, who had returned
again, attracted by the Sparrow’s loud tones. “Capital! and how pleasing
to think that there’s one animal in the world who’s a greater blockhead
than a Sparrow!”
“Now then, Philip,” said the Blue Tit, “here’s your chance; where’s that
repartee?”
The Sparrow ruffled his feathers, and pecked at them, as if half
expecting to find the repartee there; but not succeeding, he was just
about to fly at the Swallow and drive her from her perch, when lo! a
little maiden of seven years old came running and dancing into the
orchard, and made for the very tree on which the birds were perching.
The Blackbird went off instantly with a loud cackle; the Sparrow
chattered excitedly and went off too; the Robin departed very quietly to
another part of the orchard; and the Starling, Chaffinch, and others
made off as fast as they could go. Only the Swallow and the Wren were
left; neither of them were a bit frightened.
“Now by the salt wave of the Mediterranean, which I have so often
crossed,” said the Swallow, “I am glad we were spared that repartee.”
“Now by the sweet juices of a green caterpillar, which I have so often
sucked,” said the Wren, “I am glad we have come to the end of this
folly. Good-night; the sun has set. There’s a bat; I really must get
home.”
The Swallow was left alone. “Well,” said she to herself, “once is
enough; I’ll not ask them to have another debate. I’m glad I didn’t hear
the speeches. We swallows trust in man, and he loves us; but we cannot
understand him, nor he us. But we live all our lives by love and trust,”
said she, as she opened her wings to fly; “as for understanding, that
must wait.”
She was gone, and the orchard was silent again.
A TRAGEDY IN ROOK-LIFE
It was a fine day early in February, and the rooks, after roosting on
the elm-trees in the village, and surveying the remnants of the nests of
last year, were assembled, some on the moist pastures, some on the
ploughed land, hard at work searching for grubs and worms. The bachelor
rooks were also looking out for partners, and some of them were already
settled in life--for that season at least.
There was a certain young bachelor among them who had not as yet won his
way to the heart of any black maiden. Jetsom had certain ways about him
that were looked on with suspicion by his fellows. His father and mother
had had some doubt whether they ought to bring him up. His very egg had
been unlike the others in the nest; it was longer and narrower, and not
so thickly covered with dark spots. It was clearly an ill-omened egg. A
one-eyed old rook, famed for wisdom and foresight, had been consulted
about it, and was of opinion that no good would come of it. He sat on
the edge of the nest, and turned his battered old bill this way and
that, uttering now and then a hoarse inward caw. “I remember,” said he
at last, “an egg exactly like this; it was the year the new allotments
were made, long before you two were born. It was a lucky year in that
way, for those allotments are a great blessing to us all, though you
young folks don’t value them as you ought. But let me tell you (and here
he ruffled his feathers, and made a dab with his bill at the unlucky
egg), the chick from that egg became a scare-crow on those allotments!”
And overcome with his emotions, he gave several loud caws, and flew away
to his own tree, leaving the young parents in great anxiety.
“We’d better turn it out,” said the father; “it’ll never do to see his
body on a stake every time we go to feed in the allotments.”
“Let us hatch it first,” said the mother, “and see what it looks like.
That old Gaffer thinks himself too wise; if it turns out all right we’ll
proclaim him as a humbug.”
This was too tempting a proposal to be resisted. The egg continued in
the nest, and in due time it was hatched. There was no difference
between the chick of the queer egg, and those that came from the others.
The mother-bird was right, and on the strength of this she got her own
way in other matters. Her husband had loved and admired her, and now he
also obeyed her, because of her prudence and wisdom. When old Gaffer
came, uninvited, to look at the chick, she actually ordered her husband
to drive him away; which he did with such valour that the old gentleman
lost three of his tail feathers, and retired in great wrath to a
neighbouring branch to recover his breath. When he had got it he croaked
out a dismal prophecy for the chick, which struck terror into the hearts
of the rooks in that tree; and in fact the whole matter was the cause
of much scandal.
Old Gaffer did not venture to the nest again; his reputation for wisdom
had been shaken, and his damaged tail was secretly made fun of by the
younger birds. But he let it be known through a friend that there was no
doubt whatever in his mind that young Jetsom would be shot--and serve
him right--at the rook-shooting next month. It is only the oldest birds
that think of the shooting beforehand; they know it is coming and take
it as a matter of course. The colony must not be overstocked with young
birds, which are often impudent and annoying, and the old inhabitants
are not sorry to get rid of them.
When May came the young birds were one day perching on the edges of
their nests, and taking short flights to exercise their wings; Jetsom
was among them, as fine a young bird as any, and the peculiar pride of
his parents. Some men came under the trees with guns, the parent-birds
cawed loudly to their young, and all was noise and disturbance. Bang
went the guns; half-a-dozen young rooks fell dead or struggling through
the branches. The others took flight a short way, but thinking all was
safe again, returned very soon to their tree. Young Jetsom however, who
was stronger of wing than most, got carried on by a gust of wind, and
found himself very soon over a ploughed field, where a few rooks were
peaceably feeding. He dropped down on it, rather flustered and tired,
and seeing the other birds poking their bills into the ground, and
turning over the clods, began to do the same. Presently one of them came
near him, looked at him, cawed, flapped its wings, and said, “Who are
you? You don’t belong to us.”
Jetsom explained as well as he could.
“My young friend,” said the rook, “you had better make haste and go.
It’s my duty to hustle you to death for coming here, and I shall do it
if you stay another minute. Be off, before the others see you. Here they
come--”
Jetsom heard no more; he was off, and on the other side of the nearest
hedge, before the other rooks could come up; and there he lay for some
time, too frightened at first to think. When he recovered himself life
presented itself to him in a new aspect; it was evidently not all grubs
and wire-worms. It was rather a serious matter. There were other rooks
besides those of his colony, and they were not friendly. It was possible
to get hustled to death by them. How much there was to be learnt in the
world! You had hard work to keep the skin on your bones, to avoid being
shot, made a scare-crow of, hustled to death. Why was all this? Why not
live in peace with your neighbours? Why should men shoot at you when
they laid out allotments for your express benefit? All this was very
puzzling to Jetsom, as he lay still under the hedge; things were
certainly not as they should be. He could hear the shooting going on in
the distance, but at last it stopped, and he summoned up courage to take
flight homewards.
When he reached the tree, and perched tired out on the first branch he
came to, all was hubbub and confusion: but above the din he could hear
the hoarse voice of old Gaffer, who had ventured himself quite close to
the nest, and was addressing his parents.
“Do you know what they do with the young birds they shoot?” said that
well-informed old bird. “They pull all the feathers out of their bodies,
put them all together into a big dish, and bake them over the fire. Then
they eat them, and the cat and the dog get the bones. I’ve seen it all
through the window. That ill-omened young Jetsom is in the pie-dish now.
Take advice when you can get it. The cook plucked him an hour ago.
Capital eating, you may be sure! You fed him so well with worms, you
know. So kind of you! Take advice when you can get it. I see the smoke
coming out of the chimney now; they’re baking down below. You’ll find
his feathers in the back-yard presently. Take advice--”
“Stop that, and go and look for your tail-feathers,” said the angry
voice of the mother. And she ordered her husband to drive the old wretch
away, but at that moment Jetsom flew into the nest. Great was the
delight and excitement of the parents; but seeing his exhausted state,
his mother sent her husband off on the instant for a cargo of worms, and
when she bethought herself next of old Gaffer, that prudent old rook was
not to be seen.
It was a great triumph. Gaffer’s fame as a prophet was at the lowest
ebb. But he knew the ways of the world, and the foibles of his kind; he
stuck to his point none the less for his defeat, and never ceased to
assert that young Jetsom was a mistake, and ought never to have been
hatched out. Some of the older birds shared this opinion, and as time
went on Gaffer began to notice with great satisfaction that Jetsom was
of a disposition likely to get him into trouble.
The fact was that his first adventure had caused him to reflect on the
nature of things; and, as we all know, that is a dangerous habit to get
into. He had told them of his adventure with the foreign rooks, and had
received most strict injunctions to have nothing to do with them
henceforward. He naturally asked why, but was sharply told to hold his
tongue. His mother told him ghastly stories of what happened to young
rooks who asked questions; and his father sat on a twig close by and
cawed his admiration of his wife’s wisdom and eloquence.
Old Gaffer watched them at a safe distance, and promised himself revenge
for the loss of his tail-feathers.
All these dreadful stories had their due effect on Jetsom’s mind, and he
asked no more questions, but he could not help reflecting silently on
the nature of things. And so it came to pass that he grew up a silent
and philosophical rook, and it was frequently remarked that he did not
make his proper contribution to that chorus of cawing which at certain
times of the day is so necessary to the happiness and comfort of a
rookery. He would sometimes, too, decline to accompany the others when
they wheeled about in the air of an evening before settling down to
roost; and from his solitary habits was often chosen to sit on a tree as
sentinel when the rest were at work feeding on a ploughed field. His
father and mother were quite content that this should be so, and so was
he, for it redeemed him a little from the suspicion that was beginning
to
[Illustration:....Deep in meditation on the problem which occupied his
mind.--P. 141.]
fall on him; and he would often sit on his perch by the hour, pretending
to keep a look-out, but really deep in meditation on the problems which
occupied his mind.
And so the winter passed; and with the first approach of spring the
young birds of the year began to find themselves mates, and to think
what tree they should select to nest in; but on that day in February
with which this veracious story began, Jetsom had not yet found a bride.
Yet he was too much of a rook to consider his spring complete without
the duty and honour of bringing up a nestful of young, as his fathers
had done before him.
That morning the billing and cooing (or rather cawing) of the lovers was
very distasteful to him; they played such silly games, and talked such
amorous rubbish. No one took any notice of him, until at last a flirting
pair came in playful pursuit of each other close up to the railing on
which he sat disconsolate, and he heard the young lady ask her lover not
to take her near that horrid Jetsom.
“He’s got an evil eye,” she said, “and if I marry you (which I probably
sha’n’t), depend on it all the eggs will be addled.” And off she flew,
with her admirer after her.