see, you might have heard the answer yourself in a chimney.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said the jackdaw gravely. “But, my dear child,
what would be the use of knowledge if we were always giving it away,
like the lecturers we hear from these Oxford chimneys? No, no; you go
and listen in chimneys (you’re black and gray, like us, and it wouldn’t
spoil your feathers), and when you find out the answer to your question
keep it safe and don’t part with it. That’s the way to get wise.”
The jackdaw made a grave bow, and flew up to the college tower. Kelpie
flew on to the college roof, perched on a chimney, and looked down. It
smelt very nasty and was quite dark; however she tried to descend a
little way, but she got so frightened that she came up again directly,
and gave up the attempt for good.
“I must give it up,” she thought; and with a deep sigh she joined her
family at their breakfast on the lawn. She found them in a state of some
excitement, for after breakfast father Wagtail was to make an important
announcement.
“My dears,” he said, when they had all gathered round him, “the summer
is almost over; you are all old enough to shift for yourselves, and our
little party must now break up. We may very likely meet again, but your
mother and I, having brought you up as well as we can, will not be
responsible for you any longer. You are free to go when and where you
like. Some of you may like to cross the sea, and visit foreign
countries; some may prefer to take the chance of a mild winter here. Do
just as you like: but we advise you all to travel more or less, and get
acquainted with the world. Now good-bye, and good luck to you all.”
Kelpie was overjoyed at hearing this news. She had not been happy for a
long time; now she could go out into the wide world, and try to find out
the answer to the question that so weighed on her mind. She bade adieu
to the rest at once, and started off by herself in high spirits. She
would be very careful, she thought, as to whom she questioned, and would
try and find some really friendly and open-hearted adviser.
She was so occupied with all the new and strange things she saw--the
rivers, the ploughed fields, the hills and downs she passed over, and so
determined not to be put upon any more by thrushes and jackdaws, that
autumn had set in before she ventured to address a single bird on the
subject she had at heart. But one day in September she was enjoying
herself by the side of a rapid little brook which ran through pleasant
meadows, when she caught sight of a very long tail going up and down, up
and down. The bird it belonged to was hidden behind a stone in the
stream. She watched, and saw a gray wagtail come from behind the stone,
and fly with graceful curves a little further on, then she saw another
bird join him, and stood in speechless admiration of these beautiful
creatures, so slender, so gentle-looking, and so beautifully covered
with gray above and yellow beneath. But what most fascinated her was the
motion of their long tails, which were never for a moment still.
She went up and introduced herself. They received her kindly as a
distant connection, and said she was welcome to the brook; and in their
company she remained for the greater part of the day, before she
summoned up courage to open her heart to them.
“You are very kind and good,” she said at last, “and I think you must be
very clever too. Would you mind telling me, as I see you wag your own
tails so constantly and so nicely, why you do it, and why all our family
do it too? If you only would, I should be so happy and grateful; you
can’t think how it’s been troubling me!”
The gray wagtail looked at his wife, and she looked at him, and they
seemed to nod to one another in rather an odd way.
“Dear, dear!” said the wife,--“what a sad pity!”
“Oh, dear me, dear me!” said the husband, “how sad! And such a nice
young creature too! What can we do for her?”
The wife shook her head silently; Kelpie felt dreadfully ashamed of
herself. What could be the matter?
“Please tell me if I have done anything wrong,” she said.
“My dear,” said the wife very kindly, “I fear you are not very well. If
I were you I should
[Illustration: “Would you mind telling me, as I see you wag your own
tails so constantly and so nicely, why you do it?”--P. 170.]
get advice as soon as possible. I strongly recommend the kingfisher, who
lives yonder up the brook; I believe he is very clever in cases like
yours, and he eats fish, which is very good for the brain, you know.
You’ll be sure to find him if you wait about a little. I am very sorry,
my dear, but we must go away, for they say it’s extremely catching.” And
followed by her husband she flew away down the stream.
Kelpie was now quite frightened. Something seemed to be altogether wrong
with her. She began to think she must have eaten something that fatal
day on the lawn, which was growing up inside her, and causing her all
this trouble. She hastened away up the brook, and after searching for a
while, she found the kingfisher sitting on a bough overhanging the
stream. She addressed him without any apology, for she wanted dreadfully
to know what was the matter with her; and she poured out her whole sad
story from beginning to end. The kingfisher sat quite quiet on his
bough, and listened with great attention.
“Yours is a very curious case,” he said when she had done; “a very
interesting case indeed. I should strongly recommend constant change of
scene; a tour on the Continent, now, would be very likely to do you
good. Frequent application of cold water could hardly fail to be useful;
keep to your usual insect diet, but vary it a little with the small
crustaceans you will find in the stream; I can speak warmly of their
value from my own experience; they are an excellent tonic. This is what
I advise you to do; but if you should find yourself still troubled, I
should go to some one who has made a special study of these cases, which
I have not.”
“Whom would you recommend?” said Kelpie nervously. She felt quite sure
that she would have to go to the specialist, because the kingfisher had
told her to do exactly what she always did. She changed her scene, she
dabbled in the water, and she lived on flies and anything she could get
in the brooks.
“You might consult a crow,” said the kingfisher. “They are the most
highly developed of all birds, and are nearest to man. There is one who
lives in a wood a mile or two higher up. You can mention my name if you
like.”
“Thank you very much,” said Kelpie; “but would you be so very kind as to
tell me what is the matter with me?”
The kingfisher sat still for another moment as if in deep reflection;
then he made a dart downwards into the water, dived, brought up a fish,
and glided with it in his beak round a turn of the stream and
disappeared.
Kelpie went at once in search of the crow. She felt that whatever came
of it, she must find out what was wrong with her. After a long search
she found the crow sitting on the dead branch of a hollow old oak-tree.
The bones of a young rabbit, which he had been dissecting, doubtless
with a scientific object, lay on the ground below. Kelpie felt very
frightened when she looked at this huge black bird, with his enormous
black bill, curved into a sharp hook at the end. But there was no help
for it; she felt she must go through with it. As she approached, he gave
a low hoarse croak.
“What do you want here?” he said.
“The kingfisher recommended you, sir,” said Kelpie, “as a--”
“The kingfisher _recommended me_, did he?” said the crow. “The impudence
of these small practitioners! But never mind the kingfisher: pray go on,
my time is limited.”
“I have been greatly troubled,” said the trembling Kelpie, “with a
desire to find out--”
“I see,” said the crow decisively. “Yours is a very simple case. What
did the kingfisher say about it?”
“He said I was to have change of scene, and cold water, and--”
“Exactly,” said the crow. “He’s quite wrong. You would certainly have
died if you hadn’t come to me. You are suffering from a _tumor
inquisitivus esuriens_ of a very virulent kind. I can take it out for
you.” And he began to sharpen his beak on the bough.
“Is it a very--a very dangerous operation?” asked Kelpie.
“One and a half per cent survive it,” said the crow.
“I think I would rather not have it done,” said Kelpie.
“Very well,” said the crow; “but you won’t live through the winter. And
if you don’t make haste and go,” he added fiercely, “I’ll do it whether
you like it or not!”
Kelpie flew away as fast as she could, and never stopped till she was a
good mile away, and she left that part of the country the very same day.
She resolved to ask no more questions, but to pass the rest of her life
as well as she could, and die contentedly in the winter. As for foreign
travel, that was plainly no good now; so she thought she might as well
return to the pleasant place where she had been brought up, try and find
some of her relations, and get a little help and comfort before she
died.
Slowly and sadly she made her way towards Oxford. It was now getting
towards November, and the country was growing sad with falling leaves
and creeping mists; but that was quite in keeping with her own feelings,
and she did not notice the absence of the sun, or feel any sorrow at the
browning of the trees and fields; only just one little gleam of sunshine
brought her a moment’s pleasure, when she saw the spires of Oxford
catch it in the distance, as she came flitting up the river-bank from
the point where she had struck the Thames.
About two miles below Oxford she met a boat coming easily down stream,
with two human beings in it; one was sculling, the other steering. She
stopped on the towing path at a safe distance from them, and waited till
they should pass. They were within a few yards of her, and she was just
going to take flight again, when the one who was steering called out to
the other in a voice she remembered only too well,
“Easy a moment, Poet, I want to look at that bird.”
Kelpie stood quite quiet, except that her tail was moving up and down
with great rapidity. The Poet looked round and saw her.
“Aha, Chick,” he said (his friend was called Chick because he spent so
much time in studying the development of fowls in the egg), “do you
remember that hot afternoon when we lay in the garden and watched the
wagtail? I suppose you’ve found out by this time why they wag their
tails?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Chick. “Nor have you found out why Shakespeare
wrote no plays the last three years of his life.”
“Quite true,” said the Poet; “but then I don’t work at the Museum, where
they find out everything!”
“No, they don’t,” said Chick; “you’re quite out of it. Spare your irony
for once. I’ll just tell you what happened that afternoon. I kept
thinking of that bird all the way up to the Museum after I left you, for
when I came to think of it, that tail-wagging was rather an interesting
point. So when I got there, I asked the Professor about it. Well, he was
a bit bothered with his specimens that afternoon, and rather short in
his temper, and I was late, which made him worse; so he gave me a
lecture on the spot. He’s a good lecturer, you know, even when he’s
quite serene: but when he’s savage there’s no one like him. He comes out
with home-truths then, and blows you into little bits. I wish you would
come and let him demolish you, Poet, it would knock such a heap of
rubbish out of your poetic head.”
“Very likely,” said the Poet: “but what nonsense did he knock out of
_your_ head? Plenty there to operate upon.”
“I quite allow it,” said Chick. “That is a scientific view of education
which you poets would do well to act on. But the Professor growled at me
when I asked him why wagtails wag their tails, and said there would have
been some use in asking _how_ they do it. And then he took me into his
room, and showed me diagrams, and explained the muscular system of a
bird, which I never understood before; and he kept me a whole hour
there, till at last he got quite sweet again. And after that he said
he’d give me a piece of advice, which I’ll hand on to you, and I hope it
will do you good.”
“I’m sitting at your feet,” said the Poet, “go on.”
“Well, what he said was this: ‘You young fellows are a deal too anxious
to get hold of a reason for everything; and I dare say you think it a
fine thing to come and try to puzzle us with questions. Now what you
have to learn here at present is not reasons, but facts. Leave alone
for the present these questions that begin with the word _why_; there
are many of them that can never be answered, as far as I can see, or
they can only be answered by getting together and properly arranging a
great quantity of facts. Your wagtail question is just one of this kind.
You have no more business to be asking me such a question, than a young
wagtail has to be asking its parents why it wags its tail. You stick to
facts, and don’t ask _why_ a thing is, until you know altogether and
exactly _that_ it is and _how_ it is.’
“And I’ve been sticking to facts ever since,” added Chick; “and you’d
much better do the same. Pull on, Poet; and whenever you see a wagtail
think of what I’ve told you, and your poetic brain will be all the
better for it.”
“There she goes,” said the Poet: “I wonder why she stopped so long. I
really think she was listening to us.”
“I might have spared you the Professor’s sermon,” said Chick. “Pull on,
Poet; go ahead. Here we are running into the bank while you’re asking
questions that begin with _why_!” And they dropped slowly down the
stream.
The Poet was quite right. Kelpie had been listening--drinking in every
word of the Professor’s sermon. A delicious and soothing feeling grew
upon her at each sentence, and when it was over she sprang upon her
wings with a sense that a whole load of trouble had been taken off her
mind.
“They were all wrong,” she said to herself: “thrush, jackdaw,
kingfisher, and especially that wicked old crow. Why couldn’t they tell
me the truth? But that’s a question that begins with _why_, and I must
stick hard to facts.”
Kelpie kept hard to her facts, and found her happiness in doing so. She
kept to flies, beetles, and small crustaceans; she kept hard to her
husband when the pairing-time came, and to her eggs and young; she kept
to the laws of her kind, and left the questions that begin with “why” to
the Professor and his species.
THE LIGHTHOUSE.
It was a wild and gusty day early in April; a wet wind from the
south-east drove the waves into a little bay, where the sea had long ago
forced an opening in the great chalk rampart of the coast. The downs
rose steeply above this opening, their short sweet grass freshened by
rain and wind; down below in the hollow a little stream, clear as every
chalk-stream is, trickled through the long grass, still brown with the
sun of last summer, and nestled here and there under a fringe of dwarf
willows or alders. As it reached the shore, which was a huge bank of
rounded flints from the white cliff, the brook spread itself out for a
little space on a stony bed, and played with a few green weeds that had
fastened themselves upon the larger pebbles, then crept quietly into the
flinty bank, and vanished utterly before it lost itself finally in the
sea-waves.
Early in the morning of that April day you might have seen a tiny bird
fly in from the sea, and settle, more dead than alive, upon the top of
the bank. Here the strong wind, coming now from behind it, blew up its
feathers and made it so uncomfortable that in a minute or two it
fluttered down the stones to the wider bit of stream beyond; and then
again, seeing still better shelter a little further on, it struggled
along the brook till it reached the first little group of fringing
willows, and there, close to the water, in a little hollow under the
bank, where the willow-roots were thick and close, and where a turn in
the brook gave respite from the gusts and rain, it felt itself safe and
tolerably warm, began to preen its feathers, and at last put its head
under its little brown wing and slept.
It was a willow-warbler; olive-brown on head, back, and tail, but with
just a tinge of yellow too; whitish-gray on throat and breast, and with
a faint light stripe over the bright hazel eyes. It was very small, not
more than five inches from point of beak to end of tail; but it had that
night crossed the sea from France, and in the last few days it had made
a journey of some thousand miles from the north of Africa where it had
passed the winter. It had not travelled alone; it had left the coast of
Normandy with a company of tired friends; but in the night the wind rose
howling in the south-east and scattered the weary but hopeful little
band. Many a time in that trying night it would have sunk upon the waves
if the thought had not ruled its soul of the cool moist and of varied
sunshine and showers, where it had first learned to fly, where the next
summer it had learnt to use its voice and to woo a mate, and had brought
up its young without disaster. Driven northward by the burning heat of
the south, which had dried up the streams, and killed the juicy insects
it loved, it had made its way steadily with its comrades to the green
moist land of its birth, and its heart was full of ardent hope for
another long summer of love and song and happiness.
After a while the clouds passed and the sun came out; then the little
bird woke up, and realized that it had eaten nothing since it left the
coast of France. In a moment it was stealing up the willow, searching
every twig for insects, and finding very few, for the pelting rain had
washed the boughs clean; it made its way slowly up the brook, and
presently coming to a bit of treeless marsh land, whence the stream was
fed, it took a longer flight across a ploughed field, and stopped at a
likely-looking spot--a small round pond, closely shut in by willows and
hazels. Hardly had it alighted on one of these, when it recognized the
faint voice of a bird of its own kind, and returned the single cheep by
another like it. In a moment the two birds were together, and recognized
each other as having been in company all the way from Africa, until the
storm separated them at sea.
“I’m very glad to see you,” said our friend; “but where are the others,
and how did you come here?”
Just then it saw an insect on a twig hard by, and went off in an
instant to seize it; then another and another; and in its hunger forgot
all about the answer to its question.
“Well, you had better catch your fill of insects, and then I can answer
your questions,” said the other. “I have been here ever since the sun
came out, and though I thought I could hardly have eaten anything after
the loss of poor Pipi, I managed to make a good meal as soon as I got my
feathers in order.”
“The loss of poor Pipi! What _do_ you mean? Is he only lost or is he
dead?”
“Dead as a thrush’s snail!” was the answer of the other bird, who seemed
a little put out by his long journey. “I’m very sorry of course, but it
was all his own fault. You know how Pipi was always ready for any game;
always for prying and poking his beak into anything strange, just like
any vulgar sparrow.”
“Don’t talk like that, please,” said our friend whose name was Flip.
“Pipi was my particular friend and if you insult him you insult me.”
“Well, don’t get angry,” said the other, “but wait till I tell you how
that foolish Pipi came by his end. We started, as you know, at
nightfall; Pipi was near me. He was as lively as ever, and was making
fun of old Blossom because he had only half his tail feathers--you
remember that sunny garden by the Mediterranean, where the cat got hold
of Blossom and we thought his last hour had come?--Blossom couldn’t fly
quite straight, and Pipi, that mischievous Pipi, said he wondered what
sort of a _tale_ Blossom would have to tell when he got to land!”
“But he helped on old Blossom, too,” said Flip; “and don’t you remember
how we all had to slacken pace halfway across, before the storm came on,
in order not to leave the old creature behind? Pipi would have it so!”
“Yes, I do indeed,” said Twinkle; “and it was a mercy that we ever got
here alive. I should like to know why we should risk our lives for old
Blossom, or why we should obey Pipi--Pipi of all birds.”
“Come,” said Flip, “don’t be so crusty. You have no cause to be angry
with Pipi. I remember very well, when we were among those cruel
Italians, how Pipi saved your life: I saw it with my own eyes. You were
in an olive-tree by a stone wall, and on the top of the wall sat a boy
with a bow and arrows, aiming at you; Pipi gave you our alarm-note, and
when you took no notice he flew right at you and made you move. The boy
shot the arrow, but seeing two birds he luckily missed both.”
“Well,” said Twinkle, “didn’t I say I could hardly eat because of Pipi’s
death? Now I am going to tell how it was. You know how even in our first
journey we were specially warned about those lighthouses, which we
always so much want to go to: I really don’t know how it is, but somehow
one does want dreadfully to go and see what that light is. Pipi was
always excited about it; he declared he would find out some day what
they are, and now he has found out with a vengeance. Poor old Pipi! He
and I and one or two more were together the greater part of the way, but
it was very hard to stick to one another. We had better have put off our
crossing a day or two. The wind changed to the south-east, and that is
very disagreeable; it comes behind you, and forces you on whether you
will or no, and it gets in among the feathers and ruffles them about,
and lays bare your skin, and blows the breath out of your body, and
bangs you about this way and that--I can feel it now,” said Twinkle, in
an injured tone, as he turned round his head and smoothed his feathers
with an air of great feeling and commiseration for himself.
“Now I didn’t ask him to tell about himself,” thought Flip. “Here he is
safe and sound anyhow.” But he held his tongue, and Twinkle went on:--
“After we had got half-way across, a sudden blast of wind broke up our
company, and for some time I was quite alone in the darkness. Every now
and then I could hear the voices of our comrades, and they must have
been close to me, for the wind howled so, that it would have been
impossible to catch them at any distance. I was high up, as we all had
been, but now it began to rain, and I flew lower down, to see if there
was any island or object on which I could rest and get shelter; but that
was hard work, I can tell you, for the wind seemed to come from below
whenever I opened my wings wide, and gave me such a lifting that I was
quite giddy.”
“Go on, please,” said Flip, as the other paused again to recall his own
discomfort. Flip felt much inclined to make unpleasant remarks, but
swallowed them down with a juicy green fly, which he found at that
moment. All this time they had been quietly working about the willows,
and eating what they found; for willow-warblers are seldom still, and
can talk very well as they search for their food.
“Well, don’t be in too great a hurry,” said Twinkle. “Consider what
self-denial it is to me to tell you such a story: it’s nearly as bad as
going through it all again. When I succeeded in getting lower down, and
could see the white foam of the waves, I suddenly saw a light below me,
and a little in front, twinkling like a great hawk’s eye, and--”
“The lighthouse!” cried Flip, with a pang, for he felt sure that the
worst part of the story was coming.
“No, not the lighthouse,” said Twinkle. “Don’t interrupt. You’re a most
unpleasant bird to tell a story to, stopping one just in the most
exciting part: it quite spoils the pleasure of story-telling.”
“Why, I thought--” Flip was going to have reminded him that it was such
_self-denial_, but he thought better of it, and swallowed his impatience
with another fly.
“And down I went,” continued Twinkle, “to get a rest; for where there is
a light, there must be something to perch on. Well, in a minute or two I
found myself clinging with all the strength of my poor claws--” (here he
looked at them compassionately for a moment, and gave them a peck or two
with his bill, to clear away some tiny particles of salt that still
adhered to them).
Flip could hardly help making an angry dash at him, and indeed ruffled
his feathers indignantly, but the other was too much occupied with
himself to see it.
“Clinging with my poor claws,” said Twinkle, slowly and sadly, “to the
rigging of a ship, and trying to get my breath. I hadn’t been there very
long, when I heard a voice I knew, and who should seize hold of the
same rope but Pipi himself!”
“Was Pipi very bad and tired too?” asked Flip.