“Bob White’s carrier pigeon has lost its mate,” said the boy
named Billy. “He won’t eat or take any notice of anything--just
sits humped up making queer little sounds as if he were grieving.
Do you suppose that he realizes what has happened to the little
mate?”
“Perhaps not, in so many words,” said Somebody, “but he misses
her and realizes that things are different. It’s a well-known
fact that carrier pigeons never replace a lost mate, which
reminds me of a story I heard about pigeons, out in Washington
State, which might interest you.”
“Is it a _really-so story_?” asked Billy.
“Yes indeed,” said Somebody, “a really, truly-so story. It was
this way. There was a pigeon fancier in Seattle, who, during the
great war, raised carriers for the government, and in order to
train the young birds for use in the battle-fields, he used to
take them on the engine of the Shasta Limited train, which is the
fastest one going south out of Seattle, down as far as Centralia,
a small town on the line, where no stop is made by the limited,
and then to liberate them and let them make their way back home.
“One particularly beautiful and promising pair of black and white
birds had been in training for some time in this way, when, in
returning to the loft the little lady bird was lost.”
“Some spy had shot her very likely,” said Billy.
“Well, as to that of course they never knew, it might have been
a hawk you know,” said Somebody, “but her mate would not return
home without her. He just flew between the two places searching
for her, but at last returned to the place where he had seen her
for the last time, at Centralia, where a kind-hearted farmer who
lived near the railroad track fixed him up a cote, hoping that he
might forget his loss.
“The pathetic part of the story is in the fact that every day
when the Shasta Limited came along the little fellow would fly to
meet it, dropping until he was on a level with the engine, and
flying along with it for as long as he could keep up, hoping that
from the window of the engine his little mate would come to meet
him. Then he would return to the farm house to wait until the
next day.
“The train men were much interested in him, and always gave him
the signal that they were coming. He paid no attention to any
other train, but for a year, at the time I was there, he had been
meeting the Shasta every day.”
“Poor little fellow,” said the boy named Billy. “Did you see him
yourself?”
“Yes, I did,” said Somebody. “I chose that train on purpose
because I had heard the story in Seattle. When it was time for
the bird to appear the conductor of the train came and told me
about it and I watched for him. He came straight as an arrow
through the tree tops, and his flying was beautiful to see, as he
accommodated himself to the swift flying train and its suction.
At one time he was not more than six inches above the track, but
gradually gained until he was on a level with the engineer’s cab.”
“Poor little fellow,” said the boy named Billy. “I hope he forgot
after awhile.”
“So do I,” said Somebody.