DICKEY DOWNY'S MEDITATION
It hath the excuse of youth.
--_Shakespeare._
That night I pondered long upon what my mother had told me. Ever since
I left my shell I had been taught to respect my elders, and that it was
a mark of ill manners and bad breeding for children to question the
superior knowledge of those much older than themselves.
Notwithstanding this, in my secret heart I could not help thinking that
my mother was mistaken in her estimate of women when she called them
wicked. She had surely misjudged them. However, I took good care not
to mention these doubts to her.
I had heard from my grandmother, who had traveled a great deal from the
tropics to the North and back again, that women were the leaders in the
churches and were foremost in all Christian and philanthropic work;
that they provided beautiful homes for orphan children, where they took
care of them and nursed them when they were sick. She told me about
the hospitals where diseased and aged people were kindly cared for by
them. She said they were active in the societies for the prevention of
cruelty to children and to animals. They fed armies of tramps out of
sheer pity; even the debauched drunkard was the object of their
tenderest care and their earnest prayers. They held out a friendly
hand to the prisoners in the jails and sent them flowers and Bibles;
they pitied and cheered the outcast with kind words. They offered
themselves as missionaries for foreign lands to convert the heathen and
bring them to Christ. They soothed the sick and made easy the last
days of the dying.
On the battlefield, when blood was flowing and cannon smoking, my
grandmother had seen the Red Cross women like angels of mercy binding
up the gaping wounds and gently closing the glazed eyes of the expiring
soldier. In woman's ear was poured his last message to his loved ones
far away, and when death was near it was woman who spoke the words of
consolation and her finger that pointed hopefully to the stars.
Did not all this prove her to be sweet and tender and loving and gentle
and kind? Yes--a thousand times yes.
My grandmother once had her nest near a cemetery, and often related
pathetic incidents which had come under her observation at that time.
One in particular I now recalled. It was of a woman who came every day
to weep over the mound where her babe was buried. She was worn to a
shadow from her long watching through its illness, and when it was
taken from her, her grief was deep. The bright world was no longer
bright since she was bereft of her darling, and her moans for the lost
loved one were heartrending.
This incident was only yet another instance of the tenderness of
woman's nature, and I could not reconcile it with what my mother had
told me.
"No, no," I repeated as I cuddled my head under my wing, "never can I
believe that woman, tender-hearted woman, who is all love and mercy,
all gentleness and pity, never can I believe she is our enemy." And
resolving to ask my mother to more fully explain her unjust assertion I
fell asleep.
But a source of fresh anxiety arose which for a time caused me to
forget the matter.
The lindens which fringed the wood were now in full leafage, adorned
with their delicate ball-like tassels, and hosts of birds flitted among
them daily. Many of them were of the kind frequently known as indigo
birds, smaller than the ordinary bluebird. In color they were of the
metallic cast of blue which has a sheen distinct from the rich shade
seen on the jay's wings or the brilliance of the bluebird. Flashing in
and out among the hanging blossoms their beautiful blue coats made them
an easy target for the boys who attended the neighborhood country
school.
[Illustration: The Indigo Bird.]
To bring down a sweet songster with a shower of stones, panting and
bleeding to the ground, they thought was the best sport in the world,
and the woods rang and echoed with their whoops and cheers as each poor
bird fell to the earth. A mere glimpse of one of the blue beauties as
he hid among the leaves seemed to fire these cruel children with a wish
to kill it.
One half-grown boy, who went by the name of Big Bill, was noticeable
for his brutality. He encouraged the others in cruelties which they
might not have thought of, for such is the force of evil example and
companionship. A distinguishing mark was a large scar on his cheek,
probably inflicted by some enraged animal while being tortured by him.
I always felt sure Big Bill would come to some bad end. My mother said
that a cruel childhood was often a training school for the gallows, and
the boy who killed defenseless birds and bugs deadened his
sensibilities and destroyed his moral nature so that it was easy to
commit greater crimes.
So dreadful became the persecutions of the schoolboys that the indigo
birds finally held a council and determined to leave that part of the
country and settle far from the habitations of men, where they might
live unmolested and free from persecutions.