insult; and flying straight ahead while he meditated on his wrongs, he
passed over several miles of open country before he found himself
hungry, and descended on a juicy-looking meadow to look about for food.
He had not been there long, when, happening to look round, he saw that
there was another rook in the field; only one, walking slowly about in a
far corner. Flying quietly a little nearer, he perceived by her ways
that she was a young maiden of scarce a year old. Every moment he
expected to hear the caws of her companions, and prepared to fly for his
life; but none came, and she continued to walk about with a pensive air,
turning her head from side to side, and wholly unconscious of his
presence. But forced by curiosity, he came nearer and nearer, and now
she could not help noticing that she was not alone.
“Oblige me, sir,” she said, “by retiring from this corner. I have not
the honour of your acquaintance, and am at present engaged in reflecting
on the problems of life.”
“So,” said Jetsom, “am I; allow me to ask what you make of them?”
“I can make nothing of them,” she replied; “I run my bill against a
pebble everywhere, and cannot get hold of a single worm. Perhaps you
have been more fortunate. For my part, I find the ground everywhere hard
frozen; I can make no impression on it. Excuse my putting my ideas in
this vulgar way.”
“Your field of thought may be hard,” he said, “but your words are soft
and sweet as the juiciest grubs. I am an outcast, because I think; and I
find comfort in listening to an alien voice. But destiny surrounds us,
as the hedge surrounds this field; we rooks are bound by eternal and
immutable laws; and one of them forbids us, as you have reminded me, to
have anything to do with an alien. I must apologize for my intrusion,
and retire to my life of misery.”
“Stay,” said she; “we are alone and unseen. Your presence is not
disagreeable to me. Destiny, if it keeps aliens apart, has at least
brought you to me. Day changes to night, summer to winter; old trees
wear out (so my grandmother tells me) and we are obliged to take to new
ones. Can it be that the nature of our race never changes too? Is there
not a future to be realized when the narrowing bonds of our society may
be relaxed, and when in ever-widening circles our race may stir the
world with a new life? And may it not be you--you the outcast and
philosopher--who are destined to lead the van in this glorious
movement?”
“I!” he replied. “Can it be so? But not alone--not alone.” And he
glanced at her curiously.
“Hush,” she hurriedly whispered; “I heard a distant caw. Meet me here
again to-morrow when the sun is at its highest.” And so they parted, to
meditate on the destinies of the ages, and the enfranchisement of
rook-society.
When Jetsom returned to his rookery he found that his absence had not
been noticed, so occupied was every one with the business of wooing and
stick-collecting; and he kept his appointment next day without much
misgiving. What fears he had were easily overcome by the thought that
there might be a great and happy future in store for him if he could
induce his new acquaintance to become his partner, and to help him to
carry out in practice the ideas that were floating through their minds.
He little knew, poor bird, what was really in store for him. Though he
had not been aware of it, one eye had all this time been upon him. Old
Gaffer, who was always on the look-out for his chance of revenge, had
seen him leave the meadow, and noticed his late return; and when he made
quietly off again the next day, Gaffer as quietly followed him. From a
tree near the trysting-place he saw Jetsom meet his friend, and knew in
a twinkling that his chance had come. He watched them for a while as
they walked about the meadow together, deep in philosophic converse; but
when they flew up into a tree (luckily it was not Gaffer’s) with some
little serious attempt to play with each other, he felt he might go home
safely and consider what was the best plan to bring this wilful pair to
shame and ruin.
Slipping warily out of his tree he flew slowly homewards, and before he
reached the rookery had made up his mind as to what should be done. He
mentioned to a few old friends, the ancient dignitaries of the
settlement, that he wished to consult them at once on an important
matter; and a meeting was accordingly held on a tree hard by. An aged
and highly respected bird, with two white feathers in his wing, was
voted into the chair, who, taking his perch on a prominent bough,
requested Gaffer to open his mind.
“My friends,” said Gaffer, turning his one eye with an evil look round
and round upon the assembly, “you will perhaps remember that last spring
I was asked advice about a certain egg, and that my advice was not
taken. I will ask you whether that egg has been a credit to our
rookery?”
A chorus of cawing encouraged him to proceed.
“I will not allude,” said he, “to painful circumstances connected with
that egg, and to personal insults which I suffered on account of that
egg. I may feel that I hardly received at that time the support which I
might have looked for from the older and wiser among us. But let bygones
be bygones. I have to tell you that the bird which was the ill-omened
result of that egg is about to bring home a wife who is not one of our
community. (Great disturbance, lasting several minutes.) I have watched,
and I have seen the guilty pair but an hour since, and we may expect
them at any moment. This is painful news to have to tell you, but I must
sacrifice my own feelings. I wish to know what line of action you would
propose that we should take?”
Almost before he had finished speaking, such a hubbub of indignation
arose, that the president had the utmost difficulty in restoring order.
“Friends,” said he at length, “let us take a flight to calm our spirits
after the terrible news which has been sprung upon us; then we will
deliberate on the case.”
Agreed. They all sailed about above the tree for a few minutes, and then
descended again, cawing so loud that a passing wayfarer looked up at
the tree in astonishment. The president then called on the oldest rook
in company to give his opinion.
“Kill her,” he said; “it’s the shortest way and the least trouble. As
for him, he’ll soon get over it.”
This proposal was received with a round of cawing, in which Gaffer did
not join. When it came to an end the President asked whether any one
else had a plan to propose. A worthy old rook flapped her wings and
said,
“I object to killing. It excites the young birds. When they have done it
once they want to do it again. We might be breaking up the very
foundations of society by encouraging this kind of punishment. Let them
build in a tree by themselves. Live and let live, I say.”
This plan found a few supporters, but more assailants: Gaffer prudently
held his tongue. Every one began to give his own opinion, and the two
opposing parties got so angry that the president felt obliged to order
another flight. When they returned, Gaffer spoke as follows:--
“I hope my worthy friends who have made their proposals, will not take
it amiss if I state my opinion that they are both open to serious
objection. If we kill this upstart’s bride, surely we shall be leaving
the real criminal unpunished. (Loud caws of approval.) If on the other
hand we let them build in a tree by themselves, they will bring up their
young, and instead of having two rebellious birds to deal with, we shall
have a whole family to keep aloof from. I ask you, is it likely, is it
possible, that we should be able to keep our young birds from
associating with them? Now what I propose is this: let them come and try
to build in our trees, as I know they will; let us tell our younger
birds, who will be very glad of the job, to take away every stick they
bring, and worry them till they are sick of it. If they get a few
bruises, or a broken leg or wing, so much the better; if they give up
the attempt, and go elsewhere, we shall have got rid of bad rubbish
(applause), and they won’t get on better anywhere else, depend upon it.
If any rook here thinks that I have a personal grudge against this young
Jetsom, I trust that the moderation of this proposal will undeceive
him. I request the President to put my motion to the vote without
delay.” (Much cawing.)
The President did as he was desired; and the motion was carried by a
large majority. Each old bird was then directed to tell his younger
friends that they might freely take any nesting materials collected by
Jetsom and his spouse; and the meeting broke up.
The victim of these hard-minded old birds brought his wife home that
night, and they roosted in one of the trees without being molested or
even noticed. Next morning early they set about choosing a place for a
nest, and while they were looking about, Gaffer sent a polite message,
by a lively young bird, that an excellent position was vacant in his
tree. The wily old gentleman wished to witness the success of his plot,
without taking part in the proceedings himself. Jetsom began to think he
was getting into Gaffer’s good books again, and gladly accepted the
offer. “That old fellow,” he said to his wife, “is a great authority
here, and if we can enlist him in the great cause, it will be the best
thing that could happen to us. Now, my dear, we will begin our labours
cheerfully.”
All that day they went backwards and forwards bringing sticks to lay the
foundation of the nest; and Gaffer sat on a high bough and looked down
on them benignly with his one eye. He even condescended once or twice to
give them a little advice as to how the sticks should be placed. In the
evening they went off to rest, bathe, and enjoy a little conversation
about the happy future of the race of rooks; and a happier or more
loving pair of birds were not to be found in all that large rookery. How
their hearts sank within them on their return when they found that every
stick they had laid had been taken away!
Gaffer was still sitting there, looking very wise: and Jetsom asked him
who had done them this bad turn, and why.
“My dear young friend,” said Gaffer, with an ill-concealed leer, “these
are little troubles that we have all had to go through. It’s only fun,
you may be sure. Some of those idle young birds have been amusing
themselves at your expense. Don’t be disheartened: begin again.”
“Thank you, you dear, kind old bird,” said Jetsom’s wife. “How good of
you to take such an interest in us. May I have a little talk with you
some day about the problems of life?”
Gaffer was overpoweringly polite. “My dear,” he said, “you do me great
honour. I shall be delighted to discuss them with you. But perhaps you
will solve them for yourselves.” And he seemed to leer at her with his
vacant eye, while he winked the other at a friend in a tree hard by.
The work began again next day; the same thing happened again, and again
Gaffer encouraged them to persevere. Next day Jetsom stayed on guard,
while his wife collected sticks. Seeing this, Gaffer took himself off,
and only returned to find, to his extreme delight, his victim in a very
ruffled state, the other rooks in possession of all his sticks, and his
wife in very low spirits. She appealed to him to protect them.
“My dear,” said Gaffer, “this is one of the problems of life. You are
now beginning to face the facts of the world. Go on, persevere, and
sooner or later you will solve the problems.”
The luckless pair took his advice once more, and day after day went on
collecting their sticks, only to find them stolen directly their backs
were turned. If one remained on guard, battles ensued; and Gaffer could
hardly repress his delight when he saw Jetsom’s feathers begin to fall
off in these fights. Several times he had to retire by himself to a
distant tree, to enjoy his revenge in solitude.
At last the younger birds began to get tired of this game, and having
finished their own nests, were no longer in want of the sticks that
Jetsom collected. Gaffer began to get sulky and anxious. He sat on his
bough and saw the nest beginning to rise at last: something must be done
at once. He waited till both birds were away together; then down he went
on the nest and began to pull it all to pieces. But it was a long job
for one bill, and before he had done, back came the owners. Gaffer was
surprised, and was quite unable to persuade them that he was only
helping to arrange the sticks; it was all too plain. Jetsom fell into a
fury that frightened his poor wife out of her wits, and before Gaffer
could stammer out something about “the problems of life,” he was
attacked, pecked, driven from one tree to another, worried, pushed,
flapped at, till his one eye closed for ever, and he fell to the ground
lifeless. But the problems of life had been too much for Jetsom. He felt
a moment of glorious triumph as his enemy fell, and was just returning
to his wife and nest with pride and honour, with heart swelling with joy
and hope: when his senses gave way, his bill opened, his eyes grew dim,
and in the moment of victory he expired, falling to the ground by the
side of his conquered foe. He had solved his problem.
* * * * *
Half an hour later a gentleman walking down the road, stopped to watch a
strange assembly of rooks in an adjoining meadow. They were standing in
a large circle, making a great noise; in the centre of the circle stood
a single rook, ruffled and miserable-looking. As he watched, the noise
gradually ceased, and after a moment’s silence, the whole company rose
on their wings and rushed upon the victim in the middle. The noise again
became deafening, and nothing could be seen but a _mêlée_ of wings,
tails, and beaks, on the spot where the solitary bird had been seen a
moment before. The gentleman scrambled over the hedge, waving his stick
and shouting: the rooks flew away with loud cawings. When he reached the
spot, he found nothing but a mangled mass of feathers--the lifeless body
of one miserable bird.
It was the body of Jetsom’s widow. She too had solved the problem of her
life, and the rookery was no longer troubled with revolutionary ideas.
A QUESTION BEGINNING WITH “WHY.”
One warm summer afternoon two young men were leaning out of a window,
smoking their pipes, and enjoying a lazy half-hour. The window was one
of a long row in the garden-quadrangle of an old gray Oxford college;
and you looked out of it on a beautiful close-shaven lawn, bordered with
flower beds, and inclosed on one side by one of watery Oxford’s many
streams. This lawn, in the summer, is never without its family of
water-wagtails. Here there is no fear of bird-nesting boys, and
comparatively little peril of cats; and the turf is mown so often and so
closely, that even the youngest bird can find his food there without the
least trouble. And there they were that July afternoon, sometimes
running so quickly that you quite lost sight of their little black legs,
then stopping suddenly and moving their tails rapidly up and down for a
few moments, then pouncing upon some unlucky insect on the grass, or
perhaps pursuing it in the air with a quick fluttering of wings and
tails; and all the while uttering that contented little double-note of
theirs, which seemed to say to the occupants of the old panelled rooms
above them, “This is real happiness; we take what comes, and ask no
questions; _we_ don’t puzzle our heads over Philosophy, and Biology, and
Constitutional History, and Economical Science. Why, even _you_ wouldn’t
be trying to find out a reason for everything, if you weren’t afraid the
Examiners were going to ask you for it! Come down here and lie on this
beautiful lawn in the shade, and forget all about the why and the
wherefore. Take things as you find them; there are no Examiners about
just now!”
The two young men were not thinking of the wagtails; but neither were
they thinking of anything else in particular, and the invitation to go
and lie on the lawn found its way somehow into their temporarily vacant
minds. They put on their flannels and their boating coats and went and
stretched themselves at full length under the cool shade of an acacia.
There they lay quite quiet and happy, and were for some time so silent
that the wagtails ventured up quite close to them without any sign of
fear.
One was a poet; at least his friends thought him one, and as he himself
was not quite sure that they were right, it is not impossible that he
had a few poetic streaks in his nature. The other was a student of
science, and spent most of his time in cutting earth-worms and frogs
into beautiful little slices, and looking at them through a microscope.
They had a liking for each other, because neither fully understood the
other’s thoughts and ambitions; so there was plenty of room for
comfortable silence, and cosy human companionship.
At last the silence was broken by the poet. He spoke as much to himself
as to his friend.
“It’s very puzzling,” he said.
“Very,” said the man of science, without taking his pipe from his lips,
and not in the least knowing what the other was thinking of. At this
moment a young wagtail took a long run, and stopped, in all the innocent
fearlessness of youth, within half-a-dozen yards of them. There was a
pause again.
“I never can make out,” at last pursued the poet, “why Shakespeare wrote
no more plays during the last years of his life. He wasn’t old, and he
must have had plenty of time at Stratford.”
“He probably liked better to lie in his garden and think of nothing at
all,” said the other. “But I don’t see why you want to find out. Much
better to leave the poor man alone.--”
“Why, what do you do all day up at the Museum?” asked the poet. “I
thought you were always trying to find out something or other. I dare
say you’d like to find out why that bird wags its tail,” he added, as
the young wagtail made another little run forward, and stood there just
in his line of vision with her tail going gently up and down.
“Why it wags its tail?” said the man of science: “you just catch it and
bring it up to the Museum, and we’ll soon tell you why it wags its
tail. It’s only a matter of nerves and muscles, and spinal cord you
know, and all that sort of thing. The professor would soon put you up to
all that. But that reminds me that I said I’d help him with some
specimens this afternoon, and it’s past three o’clock.” And up he
jumped, and ran off to get his hat, startling the young wagtail, which
flew away to the other end of the lawn.
Little did these two lads know how much trouble and anxiety their
conversation was to bring upon the inhabitants of that peaceful lawn.
That young wagtail had heard what they said; for birds certainly
understand what men say. Do they not carry secrets? People should be
careful what they say in their hearing.
Now up to this time this young bird, like her brothers and sisters, had
never given a moment’s thought to what she did, or what she looked like.
Nor had she noticed what the others did, or what they looked like. She
wagged her tail, but she did it without thinking of it; as for asking
why she did it, that was very far from the mind of herself or any of the
family. And now she suddenly became aware, not only that she did it,
but that it was possible to ask _why she did it_.
She looked at the others: they were all doing it, every other minute or
so. Then she wagged her own tail, to see what it felt like, now she knew
that she did it. And now she began to feel very ill at ease.
“What can it all be for?” she said to herself. “Even that man didn’t
seem to know all about it. There goes my tail again! Really, it wags
almost without one’s knowing it. There can’t be any harm in it, I should
think, as father and mother are doing it too. But why do we all do it? I
don’t see any use in it. There it goes again, before I ever thought of
holding it still. I must really go and ask mother about it.”
She flew up to her mother, who was in a very happy and contented frame
of mind, having brought up her young so prosperously in the midst of
plenty and comfort.
“Mother,” she said, “will you please tell me why we all wag our tails?”
The prudent mother was rather taken aback; but after taking a little
run and flight, to collect her mind, she returned answer very decidedly,
“We don’t wag our tails. Who’s been putting such fancies into your
head?”
“A big man on the other side of the lawn said he should like to know why
we wag our tails!”
“Men are blockheads,” said the mother. “Don’t you go near them, Kelpie,
on any account. They know nothing about us. I tell you we don’t wag our
tails, and I won’t be contradicted. Go away, child, and look for
beetles.”
Kelpie went away, but she could not throw herself into the
beetle-catching with the same ardour as before. Whenever she looked up
she saw some one’s tail moving, and she got more and more puzzled over
it. At one moment she thought she was rid of the puzzle: “Mother says we
don’t,” she reflected, “so of course, at least I suppose, it’s all my
fancy;” and she began to search for food. But the next minute she felt
that her own tail was going up and down, and back came all the puzzling
thoughts as lively as ever again. At last she lost all confidence in her
mother, and resolved to ask her father’s opinion.
“What does my little Kelpie want?” said he, as the young one came flying
up.
“I want to ask a question, father. Mother says we don’t wag our tails,
but a man I heard talking said we did. Which do you think is right?”
“Your mother’s sure to be right, my dear,” said he; “I never, never knew
her wrong. Never,” he said with warmth, and wagging his tail to
emphasize his words. “Believe all she says, and do everything she tells
you.”
“But father, dear, you’re wagging your own tail now as fast as you can!”
cried Kelpie.
“I do it sometimes when I am a little excited,” he said, taken by
surprise. “But don’t you think any more about it, Kelpie, there’s a
dear; it would vex your mother so, you know. And promise me you won’t
say anything about it to your brothers and sisters. Will you promise?
All sorts of dreadful things might happen, you know, if one went about
asking questions like that.”
Worse and worse for poor Kelpie! Her mother had plainly told her an
untruth; her father had half admitted it to be so, and had seemed quite
frightened at the idea of such questions being asked. What could the
mystery be? Kelpie’s little mind was all in a flutter.
She went on as usual however from day to day, and said nothing to the
rest of the family about the troubles of her mind. At last however it
struck her that she might question other birds, though it was clearly no
good consulting her own kith and kin. A thrush who frequented the lawn,
and always looked very wise, seemed likely to be a friend in need; so
she took an opportunity one day, when the others were out of hearing, of
asking him her question.
The thrush put his head on one side, and listened very attentively while
Kelpie was speaking. “Now,” thought she, “I shall get an answer. Oh,
what a relief.” She stood quite still and waited patiently.
“Ah,” said the thrush, quite suddenly, “I thought I heard it!” And he
made a quick dig into the earth with his bill, and pulled out a long
worm by the tail. Kelpie watched while he swallowed it,--it did not take
more than a few seconds--and then said timidly, “If you please, sir, I
don’t think you heard me, I--”
The thrush again put his head on one side, stood quite still in an erect
attitude, and seemed absorbed this time in Kelpie and her troubles.
“I asked you a question, sir,” said she again; “I’m very much afraid I’m
troubling you, but I do _so_ want to find out the answer.”
“I’ve found it,” said the thrush, as suddenly as before; and he darted
his bill into the ground again, pulled out another worm, and this time
flew away with it. Kelpie was left alone, a sadder but not a wiser bird.
She was greatly disheartened for a time. At last however she determined
to try once more. An old jackdaw, with a very gray head, used to come
very early of a morning on to the lawn when no one was about except a
few starlings. Kelpie didn’t think the starlings looked very promising,
they were so restless, and there were so many of them together. But the
jackdaw, she had heard her parents say, was the wisest bird in the whole
garden; so she watched her chance, and approached him one morning very
modestly.
“I fear, sir,” she said, “that you will think me very bold, but I have
heard of your great wisdom, and I thought you would be good enough to
explain something to me.”
The jackdaw looked at her, not unkindly. “Have you asked your parents?”
he said.
“Yes, sir, but they won’t explain it to me.”
The jackdaw shook his head. “Probably they couldn’t,” he replied.
“Wagtails are very ignorant birds. But I’ll give you a bit of advice. If
anything puzzles you, go and listen in chimneys. There are no fires
there now, and you can hear what men and women say. That’s how my family
has come to be so wise. But you must get into the habit of it, you know;
you must spend a good deal of time there; it may be years before you get
an answer to your question.”