"My back's a sight better, sir, wi' that stuff you said I was to get,
and I thank you kindly for it," said John Monnick, as the doctor seated
himself one day close by where the old man was busy weeding a bed in the
flower-garden--a special task that he would not entrust to any one else.
"I'm glad of it, Monnick--very glad."
"But master don't seem no better, sir, if you'll excuse me for saying
so."
"Yes, Monnick, I'll excuse you," said the doctor sadly. "As you say, he
is very little better if any. I'm afraid that pond emptying began the
work the accident finished."
"It frets me, sir, it do--it do indeed. For only to think of it: him so
stout and straight and hearty one day, and as wan and thin and bad the
next as an old basket. Ah! it's a strange life this here."
"True Monnick, true," said the doctor.
"I felt a bit cut up when his father died, sir, but thank the Lord he
aren't here now to see the boy as he 'most worshipped pulled down as he
be. Why, I were down in Sucksix, sir, in the marshes, for two years,
'twix' Hastings and Rye, and I had the ager awful bad, but it never
pulled me down like this. Do try your best with Sir James, do, pray."
"I will, Monnick, I will," said the doctor.
Monnick went on with his weeding, and the doctor sat watching in a
low-spirited way the motions of a beautiful little robin that kept
popping down and seizing some worm which, alarmed by the disturbance of
the ground, was trying to escape.
"What humbug popular favouritism is," he exclaimed suddenly.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Monnick, glad of an excuse to straighten his
back.
"I say what humbug there is in the world," said the doctor. "Look at
that robin, Monnick."
"Yes, sir; he be a pretty one too. There's lots on 'em here, and
welcome as rain."
"Yes," said the doctor, "but what humbug it is."
Monnick stared, and the robin hopped on the top of a garden stick and
chirruped a few notes.
"Just imagine," said the doctor, who was in a didactic mood; "try and
imagine a stout, well-built man, six feet high, a fine, handsome brawny
savage, seizing a boa constrictor in his teeth, shaking the, say,
eighteen feet of writhing bone and muscle till it had grown weak and
limp, and, by a complete reverse of all rule, swallowing the lengthy
monster without an effort. The idea partakes of the nature of the
serpent, and is monstrous; but all the same, that little petted and
be-praised impostor will hop up to a great earthworm three times his
length, give it a few digs with his sharp beak, and then--as the
Americans would say--get outside it apparently without effort or
ruffling a feather, after which he will hop away, flit to a twig, and
indulge in a short, sharp song of triumph over his deed. It is his
nature to, no doubt, and so are a good many more of his acts; but in
these days, when it has grown to be the custom to run tilt at no end of
our cherished notions; when we are taught that Alfred did not burn the
cakes; that Caractacus never made that pathetic speech about the wealth
of Rome: it is only fair to strip the hypocritical feather cloak of
hypocrisy off that flagrant little impostor, the robin."
"The robin and the wren be God's cock and hen," said John Monnick
solemnly, pairing according to old custom two birds of different kinds.
"Yes," said the doctor, "and terrible are the penalties supposed to
attach to the man or boy who takes the nest, steals the egg, or destroys
old or young of their sacred progeny. As a matter of course, no one
ever did take egg, nest, or destroy the young of this couple, inasmuch
as they are two distinct birds."
"Yes, sir, two of 'em," said John Monnick solemnly. "The robin and the
wren be God's cock and hen, and nobody never takes their eggs but jays
and magpies and such like, robins is always the friends of man."
"Friend of man, eh?" said the doctor. "Well, go where you will, there
is the pretty bird to be seen, with his orange-scarlet breast,
olive-green back, and large, bright, intelligent eyes. Winter or
summer, by the homestead, at the window-pane, amongst the shrubs of the
garden, or in the wood, there is the robin ready to perch near you and
watch your every act, while from time to time he favours you with his
tuneful lay. All pure affection for man, of course--so the unobservant
have it, and so poets sing; when the fact of the matter is that the
familiarity of the bird comes from what Mr Roger Riderhood termed
`cheek,' for, the sparrow not excepted, there is no bird in which the
sense of fear seems so small; while the motive power which brings the
pretty little fellow so constantly in man's society is that love which
is known as cupboard. Probably the robin first learned from Adam that
when man begins to garden he turns up worms; and, as these ringed
creepers are this bird's daily bread, he has attached himself to man
ever since, and will come and pick the worms from his very feet, whether
it be in a garden or during a botanical ramble in the depths of some
wood."
"Yes, sir," said John Monnick, "they follows mankind everywhere. I've
had 'em with me wherever I go."
"For worms, Monnick, and in winter they will come for crumbs to the
window sill, or pick pieces of meat and gristle from the bones inside
the dog's kennel; while in autumn time, when the flies grow sluggish and
little spiders fat, where is there a better hunting-ground than the
inside of a house where there is an open window, or, best of all, a
church? What other bird, it may be asked, would take delight in making
its way into a country church to flit about as the robin will? A
sparrow would awaken at once to its sacrilegious behaviour, and beat the
window-pane to escape; a robin never. On the contrary, he seems to take
delight in making the little boys laugh, in impishly attracting the
attention of people from the `secondly' and `thirdly' of the sermon."
"Yes, sir, I've seed 'em pick the dog's bones often, and I _have_ seen
'em in a church."
"Seen them, Monnick? Have seen them? Why, but the other day, in an old
church with a regular three-decker pulpit, I saw a robin perch upon the
cushion just over the parson's head as he read the lessons, and
mockingly begin to preach in song, indulging afterwards in a joyous flit
round the church, out at the open door, and back again, to make a sharp
snap with its bill at the flies. If, you might say, the robin bore love
to man he would not play tricks in church."
"I don't quite see what you're a trying to sow on me, sir, but, you
being a doctor, I suppose it's all right," said Monnick.
"John Monnick," said the doctor bitterly, "I am trying to give you a
lesson on humbugs. Robins do not pair out of their station--out of
their kind. Men do when they are wed, but the wisest do not. Robins
pair with robins, not with wrens."
"Well, sir, I never seed 'em," said Monnick, "but that's what they say--
the robin and the wren be God's cock and hen."
"Stuff! Robins pair with robins. Should I, being a sparrow, pair with
a swallow that flies high above me--three mullets on a field azure--
flying across the blue sky."
"Well, no, sir," said Monnick thoughtfully; "I suppose not."
"It would be humbug, John Monnick, humbug; and the robin is a humbug,
John. As to his behaviour to his kind, it seems grievous to have to
lift the veil that covers so much evil; but it must be done. What do
you say to your belauded robin being one of the most sanguinary little
monsters under the sun? Not merely is he a murderer of his kind, but he
will commit parricide, matricide, or fratricide without the smallest
provocation. Put half-a-dozen robins in an aviary, and go the next
morning to see the result. I don't say that, as in the case of the
celebrated Kilkenny cats, there will be nothing left but one tail; but I
guarantee that five of the robins will be dead, and the survivor in
anything but the best of plumage, for a gamecock is not more pugnacious
than our little friend."
"That be true enough, sir," said John, rubbing his back softly, "I've
seen 'em. But you must ha' taken a mort o' notice of 'em, sir. I
didn't know you ever see such things."
"You thought I dealt only in physic and lotions, John, eh? But I have
noticed robins and a few other things. But about Cock Robin. It might
be thought that this fighting propensity would only exist at pairing
time, and that it was a question of fighting for the smiles of some fair
Robinetta; but nothing of the kind: a robin will not submit to the
presence of another in or on its beat, and will slay the intruder
without mercy, or be slain in the attempt. It might almost be thought
that the ruddy stain upon its breast-feathers was the proof-mark of some
late victory, where the feathers had been imbrued in the victim's blood;
but I will not venture upon the imagery lest it should jar. It is no
uncommon thing to see a couple of robins in a walk, flitting round each
other with wings drooping and tails erect: they will bend and bow, and
utter short, defiant notes, retreat, as if to take up more strategic
positions, and, after an inordinate amount of fencing, dash in and fight
till there seems to be a sort of feathery firework going off amongst the
bushes; and so intent are they on their battle, so careless of man's
approach, that they may at times be picked up panting, exhausted,
bleeding, and dying, holding tightly on to one another by their slender
bills."
"Yes, sir, and I've picked 'em up dead more'n once."
"Ah! yes! _Pace_, good Doctor Watts, birds do not in their little nests
agree, nor yet out of them. The old country idea is that in the autumn
the young robins kill off the old: undoubtedly the strong do slay the
weak. It can be often seen, and were it not so, we should have robins
in plenty, instead of coming upon the solitary little fellows here and
there, popping out silently like spies upon our every act. Come late
autumn and wintry weather, the small birds can be seen in companies,
sparrows and finches mixing up in friendly concourse; but the robin
never seems to flock, but always to be comparatively scarce. He never
joins their companies, though he comes in their midst to the window for
wintry alms of crumbs, but when he does, as Artemus Ward would say,
there is `a fite.' He attacks the stranger birds all round, and
audaciously takes the best pieces for himself, robins do not remain
scarce from not being prolific, for you may find the nest a couple have
built in an ivy tod, an old watering-pot, or in a corner of the
toolshed, with five or six reddish blotchy eggs in it. They have two or
three broods every season, while their brown speckled young ones,
wanting in the olive and red of their ciders, are a cry familiar
objects, hopping sedately about in the sunny summer-time."
"That be all true as gorspel, sir," said Monnick. "Why, bless you,
they've built in my toolshed, in watering-pots, and even in my
shred-bag."
"Yes, Monnick, and now look here. I have shown what a murderer our
small impostor is, and how, under his pleasant outward appearance, he
has a nature that will stick at nothing for the gratification of self,
even, as I must now show, at such a despicable act as theft. There are
those who maintain that the robin's mission is all for good, and that he
is merely a destroyer of noxious insects, grubs, and worms; that he
relieves the garden of myriads of blights, and eating, boring, and
canker-producing pests. Granted: so he does, though it is very
unpleasant for the unfortunate little insect that happens to be dubbed a
pest to find itself within reach of that vicious bill and cavernous
throat. But why cannot our young friend--for, in spite of his
wickedness, we shall always call him friend for the pleasure he affords
our eyes and ears, just as we wink at the private life of a great artist
who gratifies the senses in his turn--but I repeat why cannot our young
friend be content to `cry havock' amongst the insect pests, and to peek
from the dog's basin, the pig's trough, and the chickens' food, and not,
sit on some bare spray, or under the shadows of a thorny bush, and watch
with those great earnest eyes of his till the ventilators of the
glass-houses are open, and then flit--flutter--dash headlong in for a
feast of grapes?"
"They do, sir, they're as bad as the wopses. Some gardeners say as
robins never touch fruit, sir, but they do."
"Yes, John, you are right; they do, and most unmercifully. They pick
out, as if by instinct, the ripest and best bunches of the great black
Hambro's, hang on to the stalks, and wherever these rich pearly black
grapes have been well thinned and petted that they may grow to an
abnormal size, dig dig go the wicked little beaks. If they would be
content with a grape or two, and begin and finish them, or even four or
five or six, it would not matter; but your robin is a sybarite in his
way: he treats a grape-house as visitors with tasting orders used to
treat the cellars of the docks. They did not want the wine, but they
would fee the cooper, who would broach a cask here and another cask
there, and all of the best, till the vinous sawdust was soaked with the
waste, and the fumes produced a strange intoxicating effect. Very
strange that, how intoxicating those fumes would be. Unfortunately,
this juice of the grape is not fermented, and the robin goes on upon his
destructive quest. Still there is one redeeming feature: he will brook
no companion. One visitor at a time; two means battle royal, and flying
feathers."
John Monnick scratched one red ear, for the doctor was taking him out of
his depth, and he looked more puzzled still as the speaker went on.
"To sum up, then, the robin is a compound of all that is audacious,
gluttonous, vicious, cruel, and despicable; but he can sing, and his
pleasant little note, mournful though it be, as it acts as harbinger of
falling leaves, is as much associated with home and our native land as
the bonny English rose, and that resource from chills and fogs, our own
fireside. Never mind the superstitious penalties! Who is there among
us who would kill a robin, or would take its nest? From earliest
childhood till the days when Time's hoar frost appears upon the hair,
one greets the ruddy-breasted little rascal with a smile, and feeds him
when his feathered friends and foes fall fast before the winter's
scythe. So loved is he, that in far-off foreign lands the nearest
likeness to him is called a robin still. We can forgive him, and wink
at all his sins, as he flits attendance where'er we go in country lane,
and gladly greet him even in some suburban square; and even as I speak,
I am fain to say--as his pretty little figure there greets my eye--what
a nuisance it is to have to speak the truth! There, John Monnick, what
do you think of that?"
"It's very good, sir, all as I could understand of it, but there's some
as wants hearing again and diegestin' like, to get it all well into a
man, as you may say. Going sir?"
"Yes, John Monnick, I'm going to your master."
"Ay, do, sir, and if I might make so bold to say so, if you'd talk to
him like you did to me about the robins and their taking his grapes, it
would interest him like, and may be do him good. I'd dearly like to see
Sir James himself again. It's my belief he 'as got something on his
mind?"
"I would give something to be able to ease him, Monnick. Well, I'll
take your advice."
"Do, sir, do. Bless me, I could stand all day and hear you talk, sir,
but I must be getting on. An'," he added, as the doctor strolled off,
"it's curious, very curious, but I s'pose it's all true, but I don't
kind o' like to hear a man, even if he be a gentleman, upsetting all
what you've been taught and cherished like."
He went on weeding for a few minutes, and then straightened himself once
more.
"The robin and the wren be God's cock and hen. Well, now I come to
think of it, I never see 'em together. P'r'aps the doctor's right."
Volume 2, Chapter VIII.