"It is not a very good habit to get into--that speaking to yourself,"
she said. "It makes one seem silly-like."
"Perhaps I _am_ silly," answered Mary, half mischievously. "You know,
nurse, you are always calling me full of fancies."
"They's very nice fancies," said Twitter, "Maly tells we lubly faily
stolies, dudn't her, Flitz?"
Fritz's mouth was full, and the nursery rules for good behaviour at
meals were strict, so he only nodded.
"Fairy tales are all very well in their proper place," said nurse.
"What is their proper place?" asked Mary, and I am afraid she spoke
rather pertly.
"Pretty picture-books and such like," nurse replied, for she was very
matter-of-fact. "Just like nursery rhymes and songs--`Little Boy Blue'
and `Bo-peep,' and all the rest of them. But it would be very silly for
young ladies and gentlemen to go on with babyish things like that, when
they can read quite well and learn beautiful verses like `Old Father
William,' and `The Battle of --' no, I don't rightly remember the name,
but it's a fine piece of poetry if ever there was one, and I recollect
my brother Tom saying it at a prize-giving at our school at home, and
the squire's lady had her handkerchief at her eyes, and the squire
himself shook him by the hand, and Tom and me was that proud."
This was interesting, and Mary could not resist asking a number of
questions about Tom, as to how old he had been then, and how old he was
now, to which nurse was only too pleased to reply, adding that he was
now a schoolmaster himself, with little Toms of his own, whom she went
to see when she had her holiday once a year.
So the conversation turned into pleasant directions, and nothing more
was said about Mary's fancifulness.
When she woke the next morning Mary's first glance, as usual, was
towards the window. She never had the blinds drawn down at night, for
she loved the morning light, and it did not wake her: she slept too
soundly for that. And as there were, as I have told you, gardens--large
gardens--at the back of the house, where her room was, there was no one
to overlook her window.
Ah--it was a dull morning--a dull, grey, early autumn morning, and "I
hope it's not going to rain," thought Mary. "I'm so afraid the Cooies
wouldn't come if it did, though _perhaps_ they're not afraid of getting
wet."
There came into her mind, however, the old rhyme about "The morning
grey," and as she dressed she kept peeping up at the sky, and was
pleased to see that it was growing rather lighter and clearer. She was
very glad of this, for even if it had only rained for an hour or two, it
would have stopped the morning walk, and very likely the morning rest
for the little ones, and she would not have had the hour to herself "to
be quiet in," as usual, but all, happily, turned out rightly, and some
minutes before twelve o'clock Mary was standing by her window looking
out for her little visitors.
She had good eyes, and she saw them quite a long way off. There were
other birds flying about, of course, but none coming two together,
straight on, without making circles or dips or going the least out of
their path--two tiny specks they seemed at first, against the blue-grey
sky, flying onwards in a most business-like way. For the old saying had
proved true again; though not a brilliant day, it was quite fine and
mild, and the sky was a soft, friendly colour, with no storm signs about
it.
The two specks grew larger and larger, as they came nearer, and after
alighting for a moment on the familiar bough of their own old tree home,
apparently to smooth their feathers and take a tiny rest, the
wood-pigeons fluttered across to the window-sill.
"Oh, I am so pleased to see you," said Mary. "I was so afraid it was
going to rain. Aren't you tired and out of breath with flying so far?"
"No, thank you--flying never makes us out of breath. It is not like
your running--not nearly such hard work. Our wings get a little stiff
sometimes, if there is much wind and we have to battle against it. But
to-day is very still, and even if it had rained we should have come just
the same," said Mr Coo.
"Thank you," said Mary. "I have crumbled some nice biscuit all ready
for you, you see, and there is some water in the lid of my soap-box; it
is quite fresh."
"Many thanks," said Mrs Coo, "and all good wishes to you, my dear," and
as she spoke she bent her pretty head to take a drink. Mr Coo followed
her example, and then they picked up some crumbs in quite an elegant
manner--not at all in the hurried greedy way that some birds do.
"While you are having your luncheon," said Mary, "I will tell you why I
was so anxious to see you. You know my cousin--my big cousin--Michael--
no, perhaps you don't, but it doesn't matter. He is my favourite
cousin, and there isn't anything I don't tell him. He always
understands and never laughs at me--at least, he has been like that till
just now. He is a sailor, and he is very seldom at home. He's not been
to see us since we came to live here till the other day. I had lots of
things to tell him, of course, and one of the things I told him was
about you, dear Cooies, and how nice it was to have you living in the
tree close to my window. I thought he looked a _little_ funny when I
told it him, and now I'm quite sure they'd been talking to him that
horrid way about me being fanciful," Mary stopped a moment to take
breath, and Mr Coo, who had picked up as many crumbs as he wanted,
cocked his head on one side and looked up at her very gravely.
"Whom do you mean by `they'?" he inquired.
"Oh," said Mary, "everybody. I suppose I mean all the big people.
Auntie and uncle, for I daresay auntie talks about it to him, and Miss
Bray--no, I'm not sure about Miss Bray. She's my daily governess, but I
never see her except at lessons, and she never talks about anything
except lessons--she's rather dull," and Mary sighed. "And most of all,"
she went on again, "_nurse_. She is the worst of all, though she's
quite kind. She doesn't understand the tiniest bit in the world about
fairy stories, you see. She thinks they're just like nursery rhymes.
_Fancy_, putting fairy stories and nursery rhymes together!"
"Nursery rhymes are very nice sometimes," said Mrs Coo. "The verse in
`Cock-robin' about our cousins, the Doves, is lovely, only it is too
much for my feelings," and she really looked as if she were going to
cry.
"But they are only for babies," said Mary, "and I know that _some_ big
people are just as fond of fairy stories as I am. Michael told me so,
and he gave me a book of them, his very own self, on my last birthday.
Well--I must go on telling you what happened. The very next morning
after I had told him my secret about you, my dear Cooies, I made him
come up here to see your nest, though I told him you yourselves hadn't
been here for a day or two. And, _wasn't_ it unlucky?--there had been
lots of wind the night before, and the nest was nearly all blown away; a
branch had fallen on it, I think. It was already just like now--really
nothing to be seen, except by any one who had known of it before. And
_you_ were not there either. No sign of you. So Michael looked at me
very gravely and he said, `My dear Mary, you really mustn't let your
fancy run away with you. I can't believe there have ever been
wood-pigeons in that tree. You may have seen a pair of common pigeons
from the stables over there, flying about, but it is _most_ unlikely
that there ever was a nest there; there certainly isn't now.' And he
looked at me as if he really thought I'd been making up a story."
"Dear, dear!" said Mr and Mrs Coo together, "it's certainly very sad."
"I had no time to say much more to him," Mary went on. "He had to go
away again to Portsmouth or Plymouth, or one of those `mouth' places,
that very afternoon, and there was no time to say any more or to ask him
if he really thought I had been telling stories. But I'm sure he _did_,
and so after he'd gone, I just stood up here and cried."
And poor Mary looked as if it would not take much to make her cry again.
"I saw you," said Mr Coo.
"You saw me," exclaimed Mary, rather indignantly, "and you didn't speak
to me, or fly up for me to see you?"
Mr Coo cleared his throat.
"I did not know what was the matter," he said, "and--I thought it best
to hurry home, to--to talk it over, and then we both came the next
morning--yesterday morning."
"Well," said Mary, "it was very good of you, but all the same, I think
you might--" but after all, the question was how to put things right
with Michael, so she said no more, not feeling sure, you see, but that
even the gentle Cooies might feel hurt if she reproached them.
"Michael is coming back again," she said after a moment's silence, "the
day after to-morrow, to stay two nights."
"Ah!" said Mr Coo, in a tone which made Mary think to herself that if
he had been a dog he would have pricked up his ears.
And "Ah!" repeated Mrs Coo.
Mary was silent.
"Supposing," began Mrs Coo, "_supposing_ we could arrange to spend a
day here?"
"A _day_," repeated Mary; "you don't mean, you surely don't mean, dear
Cooies, that you are not coming back to live here any more."
Mr Coo bent his head gravely; so did Mrs Coo.
"Even so," they murmured.
"Oh!" cried Mary, the tears rushing to her eyes, "do you really mean you
won't count the fairy tree your home any more--that you won't build
another nest, and have new little eggs there next spring? Oh dear, oh
dear!"
Mr and Mrs Coo felt very distressed.
"My dear Mary," said Mr Coo, "it cannot be helped. We have been
intending to leave the Square gardens for some time past. It is no
longer the place for us: we require more quiet and fresher air, not to
speak of the risk of--" but here he stopped short.
"That's what Michael said," sobbed Mary. "He said it wasn't in nature
that cooies--I mean wood-pigeons--would stay in a town, and that's why
he couldn't believe I had seen you. And now--"
"Wait a minute, my dear," said Mrs Coo, "and let me explain. We were
both hatched here, you see. There were lots of nests in these trees not
so very long ago; but there have been so many human nests--houses, I
mean--built here lately that the air is no longer what it used to be.
The smoke of so many chimneys is too much for us; sometimes we can
scarcely breathe, and really our whole time seems spent in trying to
brush our feathers clean."
"And where are you going to live, then?" asked Mary, who felt interested
in her friends' plans, though so sorry to lose them.
"We have taken a branch in one of the finest elms in Levin Forest," said
Mr Coo. "A charming situation, and where we have a good many
relations."
"Yes," said Mary, "I daresay it is very nice for you--very nice, indeed;
but think of me. You don't know how I'd got into the way of looking out
for you and watching you and listening to you; and now that I can
understand what you say, it's ever so much worse to lose you.
Particularly just now, just as it really so matters to me. Michael will
always think now that I'd made up a story about you, and he will never
care for me again as he used to."
"Don't be so unhappy, dear Mary," said both the Coos together; "most
likely things won't be so bad as you fear."
"You say," Mr Coo went on, "that Michael is coming back again soon?"
"Yes," Mary replied. "Aunt told me that he has written to say he will
be here to-morrow evening, but only for two nights. Then he has to go
back to his ship, and I daresay he won't be home again for--oh, I
daresay not for a whole year."
"To-morrow evening," repeated Mr Coo; "well then, do you think you can
promise to make him come up here to your window the morning after, at
twelve o'clock?"
"Oh yes, yes," said Mary, her face lighting up, and looking ready to
jump with joy. "You mean that you'll come then for him to see you? Oh,
thank you, dear Cooies, thank you so much. How I do wish you were going
to stay, and not go off to that horrid forest!"
"It is a lovely place," said Mrs Coo, "and so you would think. And who
knows--some day you may see it for yourself."
"But for the present we must be off," said Mr Coo. "Good-bye till the
day after to-morrow, at twelve o'clock; and be sure you don't cry any
more."
"I'll have some nice crumbs and fresh water ready for you again," said
Mary.