"A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME."
It was a pretty drive to Dove's Nest, even though the summer and early
autumn beauty was past, and some of the trees that bordered the road
were already bare. But when they had turned a corner of the road they
came into clear view of the forest, and then Mary felt perfectly happy.
For a moment or two she did not speak, then she turned to her godmother
and said rather shyly--"It's like some of my fairy stories--the forest,
I mean; isn't it, godmother?"
Miss Verity smiled, and by the look in her eyes Mary saw that she
understood.
"Yes," she said. "I think that is why I like to live close to a forest.
It seems full of fairy stories." Mary gave a little sigh of pleasure.
It is very nice to feel that big people know what you mean, even though
you cannot say what you are feeling in very clear words. Then she sat
silent again, gazing before her and feeling that she was already
enjoying herself very much.
Magpie trotted along in her usual placid way; now and then pricking up
her ears and switching her tail, though there were no flies about.
"What does she do that for?" asked Mary.
"I think it is just a little sign of friendliness," said Miss Verity.
"We know each other so well, you see--Magpie and I, I mean; we often jog
along together like this for hours and hours. And now and then I talk
to her a little, and she answers me in her way. So perhaps when she
hears my voice talking to you, she thinks it is to her."
Just then Magpie gave a very big switch Mary laughed.
"Do you know," she said, "I believe she means to be very polite to _me_.
I think that is why she switches her tail and cocks her ears to-day,
and she wants us to know."
Miss Verity laughed too.
"I daresay you are right," she said. "And now, Mary," she went on,
"keep your eyes open even wider than usual, for Dove's Nest comes in
sight all of a sudden."
Mary's face sparkled with eagerness. She glanced about her from side to
side, and at last there came in view a stop in the hedge at the left
side, which, as they got quite close, proved to be the entrance to a
fairly wide grassy lane; and a little way farther on a white gate was to
be seen, or rather the white posts at each side, for the gate itself was
hooked back among the green bushes, so as to leave the entrance open.
"Here we are," said Miss Verity, and as Magpie turned in, her mistress
allowed her to go slowly, which the piebald never objected to, even at
her own door, so as to let the little guest have a good first sight of
the house and garden.
It--the house, I mean--really was rather like a nest. The stone it was
built of was a soft browny-grey colour, and the carefully-trained ivy
had grown over it so prettily that even the colour of the walls was
shaded and in some places hidden by the rich dark green. And as Mary
gazed, a funny fancy came into her head that the windows, which were
always kept very bright and clean, were like kind twinkling eyes looking
out to welcome you. There was a cosy-looking porch, the roof of which
was thatched in a queer fancy way; it looked like moss, and made one
think still more what a good name Dove's Nest was for the house.
"I think it's lovely," said Mary, after she had taken a very good look
at it all, "lovely and sweet."
Miss Verity seemed pleased. I think it is very nice to say pleasant
things to our friends when they want to please us. It is a stupid,
selfish kind of shyness that makes children--and big people, too,
sometimes--keep back from saying something pretty and admiring, even
when they really feel it and would like to say it. And afterwards,
perhaps, when it is too late, or the chance is gone, one wishes one
_had_ said the pleasant little thing.
Yes, a great deal of the sweetness of life depends on very little
things. A smile or a loving look, or a word or two of pleasure and
admiration are like roses and honeysuckle in the hedges.
"I hope you will like it inside as much as outside," said Miss Verity.
"I'm sure I shall," Mary replied.
And so she did. It would be difficult to describe the whole house, of
course, but I must tell you how pretty the drawing-room was. It was
almost quite round, with windows at one side, and the fire-place, in
which a nice bright fire was burning, underneath the middle window, so
that while sitting in front of it and feeling as warm as a toast, you
could glance up to the sky, and see the trees moving in the wind and the
birds flying across, while the creepers, twined round the panes, nodded
at you in a friendly way.
Below the other windows, which were not so high up, were cushioned
seats, very tempting, as from them one could see the prettiest parts of
the garden and the many birds, who at all seasons of the year had been
encouraged by Miss Verity's kindness to look upon Dove's Nest as a home
of pleasure and safety. The rest of the room was very pretty too,
though just a little old-fashioned. There were not quite so many sofas
and low chairs and cushions as one sees in drawing-rooms nowadays, for
when Miss Verity was young such things were considered only suitable for
quite old people or invalids, and Mary's godmother was certainly not an
invalid, and did not feel herself _very_ old either, though her hair was
so white.
But Mary's eyes travelled at once to the windows, and she darted across
the room to look out.
"Oh, how nice!" she exclaimed. "What a lovely lawn, and what dear
little birds hopping about!"
"I am so glad you like it," said Miss Verity, "for your room at one side
looks out the same way. My own room is over this, the birds and I say
`How-do-you-do?' to each other every morning. Shall we go upstairs at
once for you to take off your hat and jacket, and then we can have tea."
Mary was delighted to follow Miss Verity, for Pleasance's description
had made her eager to see her own corner of Dove's Nest. Her godmother
crossed the square hall and opened a door which led into another little
hall or anteroom, from which a wide shallow-stepped staircase led to the
next floor.
Here they found themselves in a long passage--Miss Verity walked on
quickly, passing two or three doors, and stopping for a moment at one
which was slightly open.
"That is my room," she said, and Mary, glancing in, saw the same round
shape with windows at one side as downstairs, "and yours," Miss Verity
went on, "is _really_ almost next it, though I daresay you would not
have guessed it, as it seems a long way off."
Then she opened another door, a little farther on, and to Mary's
surprise and pleasure a second staircase came in sight. This time it
was a narrow "twisty-turny" one, leading up into a kind of turret at one
end of the house. This turret was so covered with ivy and other
evergreen, or almost evergreen, creepers, that from the outside it was
scarcely to be distinguished from the mass of trees in the background.
The staircase was not high, as the house was really only a two-storied
one, but when Miss Verity got to the top there was another door to open,
then a short passage, at one end of which were a few steps leading to a
small landing, nearly all window, and at the other end two or three
steps down again into another little landing, almost like a room, and
across this at last, Mary's own "nest."
A charming nest it was--no little girl could have helped being delighted
with it Miss Verity was rewarded for the trouble she had taken to make
it nice for Mary by the look on her god-daughter's face, and the cry of
pleasure that she gave.
There was a little bed in one corner, with pink and white curtains at
the head, a dressing-table to match, and a wicker-work chair with
cushions covered with the same dimity. And all the furniture was light
and small, so as to leave plenty of room for moving about Mary's trunk
had already been brought in, and when she had time to notice it Mary
wondered how the servants had got it up the tiny staircase. But just at
first, _the_ thing that caught her eyes was the view from one of the
windows. No, one can scarcely call it a "view," a "look-out" is a
better word, for, as Pleasance had told her, it was really _into_ the
trees. Standing there you almost felt as if you were living in a tree
yourself. And after a happy glance round, Mary flew to this window.
"It is all lovely," she said, "but this is the nicest of everything."
The window was half open. Miss Verity followed her to it, and laid her
hand on Mary's shoulder.
"Listen," she said.
And then from the depths of the dark green shade came, what to Mary was
almost the sweetest sound in the world,--"Coo-coo," and again "Coo-coo,"
as if in reply.
"It is the wood-pigeons," said Miss Verity, and the little girl smiled
to herself at her godmother thinking she did not know. "Isn't it sweet?
I have never heard them so near as the last few days. Just as if it
was to welcome you, Mary!"
And at this Mary's smile almost turned into a laugh.
Then Miss Verity opened a door in a corner which Mary had not seen
before, and again there was a short flight of steps, leading downwards.
"This is the near way into my room," said her godmother, "so you will
never feel lonely. If you tap at the second door," for there was one at
the foot of the steps as well as at the top, "I shall always hear you.
Sometimes the door is locked, but I will keep it unfastened while you
are here. It is so now, as your trunk has been brought through this
way. Now, take off your things, dear, and come down to tea. You will
find it and me waiting for you in the drawing-room."
And so saying she went on into her own room. Mary ran back and took off
her things as quickly as she could. But before she went downstairs, she
could not resist standing a moment at "the forest window" as she had, in
her own mind, begun to call it.
"Cooies," she said softly, "dear Cooies, if it is you--_my_ Cooies--that
I heard just now--do you know that I have come?"
And from a little distance, a little farther off than they had seemed
before, came the reply--at least Mary felt sure that it was one,--
"Coo-coo," and again, "Coo-coo."
She could not stay longer just then, but she felt very happy indeed, as
she made her way down the cork-screw staircase and along the passages
and downstairs again to the drawing-room. She could scarcely help
singing as she went, and her face looked so bright as she came into the
room that her godmother thought to herself that it was quite a mistake
of Mary's aunt to have written to her that the little girl would most
likely be very grave and shy at first.
I don't think Mary ever enjoyed anything more than that first tea with
Miss Verity. She was very hungry, to begin with, and everything tasted
delicious, and the room was so cosy and yet fresh, with little flutters
of air and scent from the garden outside, as one window was a tiny bit
open. And there were pretty autumn posies here and there in china bowls
about the room, the faint fragrance from which mingled with that of
dried rose-leaves and lavender, which the house had never been without
since Miss Verity's grandmother had come to live there as a bride, long,
long ago.
All these things joined to make Mary feel very happy, though she did not
think of them all separately, but behind everything in her mind was the
looking forward to seeing her dear Cooies again. She gave one of her
little sighs of content, which her godmother quite understood, though
she did not seem to notice it.
When tea was over, Miss Verity proposed that Mary should go up to her
room again, to see Pleasance unpack her trunk, and explain about her
things.
"I have dinner at seven o'clock," she said, "which is of course earlier
than your uncle and aunt dine, so I have got leave for you to dine with
me, or at least to sit at table with me, though you will not care to
have much to eat."
"No, I couldn't be very hungry, so soon after tea," said Mary, gravely,
"but sometimes when auntie was alone, I have been at her dinner, and she
gave me a little soup, and pudding, and fruit."
"Yes," said Miss Verity, "that is just what I mean." Then Mary went up
to her turret, where Pleasance was already busy, and showed the maid
which were her best frocks, and sashes, and hair-ribbons, and
everything, and herself arranged the few books, and writing things, and
little treasures she had brought with her. There was a small bookcase
all ready, on which stood some tempting little volumes that Miss Verity
had looked out for her.
And through all the pleasant little bustle of the unpacking there came
to Mary's ears every now and then the sound they were so ready to hear,
of "coo-coo," "coo-coo."
But she was not alone in her room again at all that evening, for
Pleasance came to dress her for dinner, and to help her to undress for
the night--not at least, till after she was in bed. And she did not
dare to get up and open the window after the maid had gone, for
Pleasance had told her it was raining, and that she had therefore shut
both windows closely.
"It would never do for you to catch cold here," she said, "otherwise
your auntie would not let you come again."
So Mary had to console herself by thinking that most likely the Cooies
were fast asleep, and by hoping that the next day would be fine and
mild.
And so it was!
Mary slept very soundly. When she woke it was already full daylight,
and some bright though pale rays of sunshine were creeping in at the
side of the blinds and sparkling on the pretty flowery paper of the
walls. She rubbed her eyes and could not, for a moment or two, remember
where she was--you know the queer, rather interesting, puzzled feeling
one has, the first morning in a strange place? and then by degrees it
all came back to her, and up she jumped and ran to the window. But it
was cold, so she very wisely peeped out for a moment only, just to
satisfy herself that it was a fine day, and then hopped into bed again.
She had not long to wait before there came a knock at the door, followed
by Pleasance and a younger servant with a big can of water for her bath.
"Wide-awake already, Miss Mary?" said the maid, in her kind cheerful
voice. "Well, I am glad it is a nice morning for you; the rain last
night was only a heavy shower after all, for the trees are scarcely wet
and the birds are chirping away as if it was the spring."
"And are the pigeons cooing?" asked Mary.
"You may be sure of that," said Pleasance. "They are always the first
to be heard about here, though I've never known them to roost so near
the house as this last week or two. I'll unfasten the window bolt, so
that you can push it open a bit after you've had your bath, and listen
to them. It _is_ sweet, like wishing you a happy day."
"I'm sure I am going to have a happy day," said Mary, jumping out of
bed.
You may be sure her bath did not take very long that day. She was soon
dressed; at least enough to open the window as Pleasance had proposed,
and while finishing her morning "toilet," she listened for the familiar
sounds she was hoping to hear.
Yes--she was not disappointed--they came, the sweet caressing "coo-coo,"
ever nearer and nearer, till at last, just as Mary was fastening her
belt, a little flutter close at hand was followed by the alighting of
two feathered figures on her window-sill. One glance told her they were
her own Cooies.
"Oh, you darlings," she exclaimed, "how sweet of you to come the first
morning! How did you find out I was here?"
Mr Coo glanced round him cautiously, before he replied.
"Ah," he said, "we have ways and means of getting news that would
surprise you. There is more truth in the old saying, `a little bird
told me,' than the people who use it in jest have any idea of. Did we
not tell you, dear Mary, that we should meet again before along?"
"Yes, yes, indeed you did," said Mary, "and I believed you, you see.
Auntie would not have forced me to come, but when I heard of Levin
Forest, I felt sure you knew about my godmother living here, and so I
said I'd like to come."
"Just so," said Mr Coo, and "just so," Mrs Coo repeated.
"We would have flown here last night to welcome you," Mr Coo went on,
"but we thought you might be tired."
"And it came on to rain," added Mrs Coo, "and we did not wish to be wet
and draggle-tailed for our first visit."
"No, it would have been a pity," said Mary, "and you are both looking so
pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed
before, how _very_ white your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean
collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them."
Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be
admired.
"You have never seen us to advantage before," said Mrs Coo. "Near a
town it is impossible to keep one's feathers so fresh."
"Talking of white feathers," began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as
just then the breakfast-bell rang. "We will come again," he said, "we
have a great deal to tell you, Mary."
"We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself," said Mrs Coo.
"How kind of you!" said Mary. "And when will you come again?"
"I think," said Mr Coo, "the best plan will be for us to have a signal.
We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say `cooie,
cooie,' we are pretty sure to hear you."
"All right," said Mary, "and thank you so much. I wonder what you are
going to tell me about white feathers."
She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.
"I think," said Mrs Coo, "I think it would be best for the Queen
herself to tell Mary about the competition--that is to say if we succeed
in getting an invitation for her. So I was not very sorry that you were
interrupted, Mr Coo. I think you should consult me before speaking of
anything so important to the dear child."
Mr Coo seemed rather snubbed, but he was always ready to acknowledge
Mrs Coo's good sense.
"In future I will do so, my dear," he replied politely.