“So many birds live in the tree,
We do not want for fun.”
Tuesday morning dawns brightly, and Tuesday’s sun soon dries up
the gravelled garden walks and shady croquet ground of Aunt Emma’s
pleasant, roomy garden, where the merry party of young folk are
feasting, like the bees, tasting the various cups of pleasure which
nature offers, in most tempting freshness, to little city children in
their visits to the country.
The Funny house on Funny street, though almost in the centre of the
city’s trade and bustle, is surrounded by a large, old-fashioned
garden, where still may be seen those grand floral sentinels, the gay
hollyhocks and the rich golden lily, whilst their lowly companions,
the larkspur, sweet pea, and marigold still grace the garden borders,
disdaining the urns and hanging baskets which confine their modern
sisters.
The humming-bird and the golden butterfly still hover about this
festive spot, and the fattest of scarlet-vested robin gentry still sing
out their siren song, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,” from the great cherry
and old pear-trees which have escaped the woodman’s axe.
Did you ever notice, children, how pert the robins are in such old city
gardens?
They seem to think they are indeed privileged guests.
Aunt Emma, sitting under the shady arbor, with its drapery of clematis
and honeysuckle, told the children that, one June morning, she had
discovered that the robins were greedily devouring her choicest
strawberries, so she told Hugh to hang a bell on a stick planted in the
midst of the strawberry-bed, and fasten to it a long cord which should
reach to her sitting-room window.
The next morning she laughed to herself as she heard the “Cherry ripe,
cherry ripe,” of the early morning pillagers, saying--
“Ha, ha! my gay visitors. For your naughtiness you shall lose your
dainty breakfast. Stealing my finest berries without so much as ‘By
your leave, ma’am.’”
Presently a whole flock of birdies descended upon the bed.
“‘Tinkle, tinkle,’ sounded the bell, and then such a fluttering
of wings and spreading out of scarlet vests, and away flew the
frightened birdies, far out of sound and sight of bells and berries.
[Illustration: Robin’s Nest in the Old Pear-tree. Page 89.]
“I was quite satisfied with my plan,” continued Aunt Emma, “and the
next morning seated myself with my work at my window.
“‘Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,’ sounded out their notes, but I fancied
less boldly this time. The bell tinkled, and away flew my gay visitors,
but this time they perched themselves on the old pear-tree, and chirped
and twittered loudly, evidently complaining of their treatment, and
studying, from their high perches, their enemy’s ground.
“I told my tale triumphantly to some of my friends, and the next
morning they came to visit me and see the fun themselves.
“‘Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,’ sounded out loud and clear, and oh! what a
bevy of birds had come for the morning’s visit!
“‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ sounded the bell, and would you believe it?
The knowing birds turned toward the window, bobbed their saucy heads at
me, and went on helping themselves with easy manners indeed.
“‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ pealed the bell, and again
the saucy fellows dived and dodged, winked and blinked their little
bright eyes, and nodded ‘It’s all right.’
“I was completely conquered; so now I let them take _their_ breakfast
first, and then I feast on what they leave behind. Very often I find
marks of their little beaks in the ruddiest berries on my plate, but
they, in return, cheer me with their fullest, choicest notes, give
life and brightness to my quiet garden, and guard my young plants from
the ravages of devouring insects, and attract other birds, with their
richer notes, to their banqueting spot.”
“Aunt Emma,” said Artie, “do you think those little thieving fellows
knew you?”
“Indeed, I flatter myself, Artie, that they consider me their best
friend. There is scarcely a morning, from the time when the last
snow-flakes of Winter melt away, that some one or more of these gay
fellows do not come to the window-sill of my sewing-room, chirp about
me, and tell a long story of joy or grievance. Sometimes I fancy it’s
a complaint of some fickle Jenny Wren who has left her true love for
a gay English Sparrow, and again another has won for his mate a saucy
Mattie Martin, and comes to me for my best wishes and the promise of
my ends of thread and bits of wool to furnish the snug little home he
is going to build for his little bride, up in the branches of my apple
tree.”
“And does they tell you of the poor little Cock Robin that the naughty
Sparrow killed with his bow-arrow?” questioned Rosie.
“I will tell you, Pet, if you are not already tired of my stories, a
tale something like your Cock Robin.”
“Oh, do, do, please, Auntie, we’d never be tired of stories;” and the
children stowed themselves in a little heap on the grass, at their
Auntie’s feet, leaned their elbows on their knees, and rested their
chubby cheeks on their hands, ready for any given quantity of tales.
“One day,” continued Aunt Emma, “having a bad headache, I sat in the
part of my room farthest from the window, to be away from the light.
Presently I heard a mournful sort of song, which soon became quite
pitiful, and then came a quick, sharp pecking at my window-pane. I
could not resist that appeal, and as I opened my window a Robin flew
quickly in, fluttered in circles over my head, uttering pitiful cries.
I followed him out into the garden till, near the old apple-tree, he
disappeared under a bush. Carefully putting aside, with my hands, the
leaves and branches, I found a poor, tiny, half-dressed Robin baby,
uttering such little, sick, feeble peeps, I seem to hear them now. I
think from the twinkle I afterward used to see in his eyes, that he
was rather an adventurous young spirit, and very likely his Papa was a
widower, for I never saw but the one parent.
“I fancy Papa Robin had gone out that morning to do the day’s
marketing, after charging the younglings to stay quietly at home, and
this daring little spirit had taken advantage of his absence to step
out on their balcony and see the world for himself; then he must have
become giddy and fallen under the rose-bush, where his Papa had found
him, and not knowing what to do with his wee, wounded birdie, had flown
to tell me his trouble.”
“Oh! Auntie, what did you do with the poor little thing?” cried
tender-hearted Daisy.
“I made a soft cotton bed for it, in a little basket, and put it on a
chair near my window, in the sun, then fed it crumbs of bread wet with
wine.”
“Did it live, Auntie, dear?”
“Yes, children; and now for the wonderful part of my story. Every
morning the parent bird used to make a visit, bringing in his beak to
his sick birdie, a bit of caterpillar, a juicy worm, or a ripe berry.
I grew very fond of my pet, and that I might know it, if at some
distant day it should leave me, I wound a bit of silver wire about its
leg. Birdie grew stronger and saucier, and its peep fuller every day.
At last one bright morning--you may imagine my surprise--on entering
the little sewing-room, to find my pet gone; and as I thrust my head
out of the window, a loud burst of glad song, from the top of the old
apple-tree, told me that birdie was--
“Safe, safe, at home.”
“Did you ever see the bird again, Auntie?”
“One morning, weeks afterward, I was in my usual place, and suddenly a
bird appeared, from whose tiny leg dangled my thread of silver wire;
lower and lower he descended without uttering a note, then something
dropped upon the window-sill, and judge of my surprise, to find the
very ruby ring I had lost in the garden some days before. I had mourned
its loss, for it had been given me by your Papa’s own dear Mamma, on my
tenth birthday. I had, for years, worn it on my watch-chain, and lost
it whilst planting some seeds, as I supposed, in the mignonette bed.
It might have been that the saucy robins had watched me, as I stowed
away my seeds, winking their little eyes and bobbing their round heads
as they marked their larder for the morrow. What a surprise to them,
when, instead of a tiny seed, this bright jewel appeared. Some time
after this, in my garden-walks, I found a few red and yellow feathers,
a bird’s claw, and a bit of silver wire, which told the sad tale that
my pet had been sacrificed by a strange cat.
“My story is ended. You have been patient little listeners for a full
half hour, so, run away, dears, for a morning play.”
The merry children hasten off to welcome their little friend Charlie
Leonard, who was coming to spend the day with them.