FLOWN.
"One flew away, and then there was none."
THREE LITTLE BIRDS.
Hoodie sat alone in the nursery, wrathful and sore. All the pleasure in
the little bird and the beautiful cage seemed to have gone.
"I don't love her neither, not now," she said to herself. "I don't
_think_--no, I really don't _think_ I love anybody, 'cos nobody loves
me, and ev'ybody thinks I'm naughty. Never mind--I'll go away some day.
As soon as ever I'm big enough I'll go kite away and never come back
again, and I sha'n't care what anybody says then."
There was some comfort though of a rather vague kind in this thought.
Hoodie sat swinging her legs backwards and forwards, while queer fancies
of where she would go--what she would do, once she was "big enough,"
chased each other round her busy little brain.
Suddenly a sound in the passage outside the nursery door made her look
up just in time to see the door open and Magdalen, leading tearful Hec
by the hand, followed by Maudie, Duke, and Martin, come in.
Hoodie looked up with some curiosity.
"Hoodie," said Magdalen, "Hec wants to tell you how sorry he is that you
have got blamed on his account. It was he that touched the basket and
knocked it over. He ran into my room to look at the bird without
Martin's knowing he had left the nursery, and he was so afraid that he
had hurt the little bird, by knocking it over, that he didn't like to
tell. Kiss him and speak kindly to him, poor little boy, Hoodie dear. He
has been so unhappy."
Hoodie gravely contemplated her little brother, but without giving any
signs of obeying her cousin's request.
"_I_ have been unhappy too," she said, "and it wasn't my fault. It _was_
Hec's."
"Well, then," said Magdalen, "it should make you the more sorry for Hec.
He has had the unhappiness of knowing it _was_ his fault, which is the
worst unhappiness of all."
Hoodie threw back her head.
"_I_ don't think so," she said. "I think the worst is when people alvays
says you're naughty when you're not."
"I am sorry you thought I said you were naughty when you weren't,
Hoodie," said Magdalen, "but you thought I meant more than I did. As
soon as I thought about it quietly I felt sure you hadn't touched the
basket--and even _more_ sure, that if you had been tempted to touch it,
you would have said so."
"'Cos Hec toldened you it was him," said Hoodie.
"No, before Hec said a word, I said to Martin I was sure it wasn't you."
Hoodie looked up with a new light in her eyes.
"_Did_ you?" she said, as if hardly able to believe it.
"Yes, indeed, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, "Miss King did say so. And very
kind of her it was, to trust you so, for you did look very funny when I
said you had been a few minutes alone in the room."
Hoodie flamed round upon her.
"It's vezzy nasty of you to say that, Martin," she exclaimed violently.
"_Vezzy_ nasty. You alvays think I'm naughty. I daresay I did look
funny, 'cos I was temptationed, awful temptationed to touch the bird,
but I wouldn't, no I _wouldn't_, 'cos I'd p'omised."
And at last her mingled feelings found relief in a burst of sobs.
The sight was too much for Hec, already in a sorely depressed and
tearful condition. He threw his arms round Hoodie, nearly dragging her
off her chair in his endeavours to get her shaggy head down to the level
of his own close-cropped dark one for an embrace.
"Oh Hoodie, Hoodie, _dear_ Hoodie, don't cry," he beseeched her. "It's
all Hec's fault. Naughty Hec. Oh Hoodie, please 'agive me and kiss me,
and I'll never, never touch your bird again."
[Illustration: "Please 'agive me and kiss me."]
Hoodie was quite melted.
"Dear Hec--poor Hec," she cried in her turn. "Don't cry, dear Hec," and
the two little creatures hugged and kissed and cried, all in one.
"Let's kiss Maudie's godmother too. She didn't think you was naughty,
Hoodie," suggested Hec, and Hoodie at once took his advice, so the
kissing and hugging were transferred to poor Magdalen, who bore them
heroically, till at last she was so very nearly smothered that she was
obliged to cry for mercy.
"And let us go back to my room now," she said, "and introduce the little
bird to its new house. It hasn't seen it yet, you know, Hoodie."
"_Hasn't_ it?" said Hoodie.
"Of course not. The cage is yours--your very own. I waited for you to
come before putting the bird in it."
"That was _vezzy_ good of you," said Hoodie, approvingly; and as happy
and light-hearted as if no temper or trouble of any kind had ever come
near her, she took Hec's hand and trotted off with her cousin to help in
the installation of the bird in its beautiful cage.
"What funny creatures children are," said Magdalen to herself, "and of
them all surely Hoodie is the funniest."
It would be impossible to tell the pleasure that the possession of the
little bird gave to Hoodie, and the devotion she showed to it. For some
days its cage remained in Miss King's room, that Cousin Magdalen herself
might watch how the little creature got on, and there, as Martin said,
"morning, noon, and night," Hoodie was to be found. It was the prettiest
sight to see her, seated by the table, her elbows resting upon it, and
her chubby face leaning on her hands, while her eyes eagerly followed
every movement of her favourite. She was never tired of sitting thus,
she was never cross or impatient, nor did she ever attempt to touch the
greenfinch without Magdalen's leave. And finding that the little girl
was so gentle and obedient, and that the bird gave her such pleasure,
Magdalen kindly did her utmost to increase this pleasure. She taught
Hoodie how to tame and make friends with her pet, to call to it with her
soft little voice--for no one could have a softer or prettier voice than
Hoodie when she chose--always in the same tone, till the bird learnt to
recognize it and to come at her summons. And oh the delight of the first
time this happened! Hoodie was holding out her hand, the forefinger
outstretched to the open door of the cage, half-cooing, half-whistling,
in the pretty way Magdalen had taught her, when birdie, its head cocked
on one side as if half in timidity, half in coquetry, at last mustered
up courage and hopped on to the fat little pink finger.
Hoodie _nearly_ screamed with delight, but recollected herself just in
time not to frighten the bird.
"Oh, Cousin Magdalen," she whispered in the most tremendous excitement,
"Him is pouching, him's pouching on my finger. Oh the darling,--look,
look, Maudie's godmother."
But before Maudie's godmother could get across the room to look, Mr.
Birdie had hopped off its new perch, and the experiment had to be
repeated.
"Come and pouch, birdie, dear birdie; _do_ come and pouch on my finger,"
said Hoodie, beseechingly.
"Call it the way I taught you," whispered Magdalen.
Hoodie did so, and at the sound of her well-known call, the greenfinch
cocked its head, looked round on all sides, appeared to consider, and at
last condescended again to hop on to its little Mistress's finger.
"Isn't it _sweet_?" said Hoodie ecstatically, though scarcely daring to
breathe for fear of disturbing it.
"If you take care never to startle it," said Magdalen, "it will get in
the way of coming regularly whenever you call it. _Never_ let it hear
you speaking angrily or roughly, Hoodie. That would startle it more than
anything."
"_Would_ it?" said Hoodie, regarding her pet with affection not
unmingled with respect. "Would it know I was naughty? Cousin Magdalen,"
she added, looking up into her friend's face with considerable awe in
her bright green eyes; "Cousin Magdalen, do you think _p'raps_ my bird's
a fairy, and that God sent it to teach me to be good?"
Fortunately by this time Magdalen's intercourse with Hoodie had taught
her the necessity of great control of herself. Whatever Hoodie said or
did, she must not be laughed at--not even smiled at, if in the smile
there lurked the slightest shadow of ridicule. Once let Hoodie imagine
she was being made fun of and all hope of leading her and making her
love and trust you was over.
So Magdalen's face remained quite grave as she replied to Hoodie's
question,
"I think that _everything_ nice and pretty that comes to us is sent by
God, dear. And He means them all to teach us to be good. But I don't
think you need fancy your little bird is a fairy."
"It's _so_ clever," said Hoodie. "Fancy him knowing when I call. Do you
think some day it'll learn to speak, Cousin Magdalen?"
Cousin Magdalen shook her head.
"I'm afraid not. It isn't the kind of bird that ever learns to speak,"
she replied, as gravely as before. "But I shouldn't wonder if it learns
to know you very well--to come in a moment when it hears you call, and
to show you that it is pleased to see you."
"Oh how lovely that'll be," said Hoodie, dancing about with delight.
"Fancy it coming on my finger whenever I say 'Birdie dear, come and
pouch.' I'll _never_ let it hear me speak c'oss, Cousin Magdalen.
Whenever I feel _it_ coming I'll go out of the room and shut the door
tight so it sha'n't hear me."
"Whenever you feel what coming?" asked Magdalen.
"_It_," repeated Hoodie, "c'ossness, you know. It must come
sometimes--_all_ chindrel is c'oss _sometimes_," she added
complacently.
"Well, but suppose some children were to make up their minds to be cross
_no_ times," said Magdalen with a smile. "Wouldn't that be a good thing?
Suppose a little girl I know, not very far from here, was to set the
example."
Hoodie laughed.
"Cousin _Magdalen_," she said, with an accent on the name that she
always gave when amused. "Cousin _Magdalen_, how funny you are! I know
who you mean--yes, I do, kite well. But she couldn't, that little girl
couldn't help being c'oss _sometimes_."
She shook her head sagaciously.
"Well, any way," said Magdalen, "try and let the 'sometimes' come as
seldom as possible. Won't you do that, Hoodie?"
Just then there came a tap at the door.
"Miss Hoodie," said Martin's voice. "Come to tea, please. It's quite
ready."
Hoodie gave an impatient shake. Fortunately the bird was no longer on
her finger, otherwise its nerves would have been considerably startled.
Hoodie had been on the point of putting her hand into the cage to entice
it to hop on to her finger and thus to lift it out when Martin's summons
came.
"I don't want any tea," she said; "do go away, Martin. You _alvays_
come for me when I don't want to go."
"Hoodie," whispered Magdalen, "the bird will be quite frightened to hear
you speak like that."
Hoodie looked startled.
"Oh dear," she said. "I quite forgot. You see, Cousin Magdalen, it
_will_ come. There's no good trying to keep it away."
"Yes, there is," said Magdalen. "There's good in trying to keep it away,
and there's good in trying to send it away even after it's come. You're
sending it away now, Hoodie, I think."
"Am I?" said Hoodie, doubtfully. Then with a sudden change of tone,
"Well, I _will_ then. I'll go goodly with Martin. Martin," she said
amiably, turning to her nurse, "I'm coming. I'll go out of the room kite
goodly and quiet, and then perhaps birdie won't remember about my
speaking c'oss."
"I daresay he won't," said Magdalen encouragingly. "I'll give him some
fresh seed to eat, as it's rather low in his box, and that will give him
something else to think of. But I won't speak to him, Hoodie. I never
do, because I want him to learn to know your voice."
"That's out of the Bible," was Hoodie's parting remark, as she went off
with Martin, quite "goodly," as she had promised.
Day by day Hoodie loved her bird more and more, and her love was repaid
by great success in taming the little creature. It grew to know her
wonderfully well, to hop on to her rosy finger when she called to it,
adding always, "Birdie, birdie, come and _pouch_," with a soft clear
note of delight that it was quite a pleasure to hear. Its cage was
placed in the window of a little ante-room, out of which Miss King's
room opened. There had been some talk of putting it in the nursery, but
Hoodie pleaded against this. The cat _had_ been known to enter the
nursery, for Hec and Duke were rather fond of old pussy, and Prince was
a frequent visitor there. And besides this, Hoodie could not feel quite
sure that her little brothers might not be some day "temptationed" to
touch her favourite. It was pretty clear any way that birdie's residence
in the nursery would be a source of quarrels, so Mother and Magdalen and
Martin agreed that the ante-room window would be the best and safest
place.
"It isn't as if winter was coming instead of summer," said Magdalen. "In
that case a room without a fire would be too cold for it. But every day,
now, the weather is getting brighter and warmer. What are you looking
so grave about, Hoodie?"
Hoodie looked up solemnly.
"I were just thinking," she replied, "what a pity it would be if winter
comed back again instead of summer, just when we've settled about my
bird so nicely--by mistake you know."
"But winter and summer don't come of themselves, Miss Hoodie," said
Martin. "You know God sends them, and He never makes mistakes."
"But _supposing_ He did," said Hoodie, "you are so stupid, Martin. You
might _suppose_."
"Hoodie!" said Magdalen, warningly.
Hoodie gave a wriggle, but said no more. Not that she was vanquished
however. She waited till bed-time, and then, after saying aloud as usual
her little evening prayer, added a special clause for Martin's
edification. "And p'ease, dear God, be sure not to forget to send the
nice warm summer for my little bird, and don't let cold winter come back
again by mistake."
"It'll do no harm to _'amind_ God, any way," she observed with
satisfaction, as she lay down in bed and composed herself for her
night's repose.
Weeks passed on and the nice warm summer came. Hoodie's devotion to her
bird seemed to increase as time went on, and so much of her time was
spent beside its cage that the nursery peace and quiet were much greater
than before its arrival.
One day, just after the nursery breakfast, she hastened to her pet as
usual. Rather to her vexation she saw that her two little brothers were
standing by the cage, of which the door was open, Miss King beside them.
Hoodie frowned, but did not venture to say anything.
"See, Hoodie," said Magdalen, "see how very confiding birdie has learnt
to be. He has actually hopped on to Duke's finger when he whistled to
him the way you do. It will do him no harm now to be friendly to other
people too--now that he knows you so well. Look at him."
"See, Hoodie," cried Duke in delight, holding up his stumpy little
forefinger, on which birdie was contentedly perched.
An ugly black cloud came over Hoodie's face. She darted forward, furious
with anger.
"I _won't_ have him pouch on your finger, Duke," she cried. "I won't
have _anybody_ call him but me. I won't. I won't--he's the only thing
that loves me and nobody's to touch him. Go away, naughty Duke; ugly
Duke."
She pushed Duke aside with one hand and with the other attempted,
gently, notwithstanding her passion, to take the bird. The window was
wide open, and the children were standing beside it. Magdalen, who was
at the other side of the table on which stood the cage, hurried forward,
but too late. Startled by Hoodie's loud voice, not recognizing in the
furious little girl its gentle mistress, and with some instinct of
self-preservation, the greenfinch, with a frightened uncertain note,
flew off Duke's finger, alighted for one instant on the window-sill,
from which it seemed for a moment to look at the group in the room, as
if in farewell, then, before Magdalen could do anything, before Hoodie
had taken in the idea of the misfortune that threatened her, raised its
pretty wings with another soft reproachful note, and flew away--away out
in the bright sunny garden, over the bushes and flowers, away--away--to
some leafy corner up among the high trees, where there would be no angry
voices to startle it, no quarrelsome children to frighten its tender
little heart--no sound but the soft brush of the squirrel's furry tail
among the branches, and the gentle flutter of the summer breeze. Away,
away! But what did that "away" mean to poor broken-hearted Hoodie?
She stood motionless with surprise and horror--she did not dart to the
window as one would have expected--ready almost to throw herself out of
it in fruitless pursuit of her favourite--she stood perfectly still, as
if turned into stone. But the expression on her face was so strange and
unnatural that Miss King felt frightened.
"Hoodie," she exclaimed. "Hoodie, child, don't stand like that. Come to
the window and call to your bird. Perhaps he will hear you and fly
back."
She said it more to rouse Hoodie out of the depth of her misery than
because she really thought the bird would return, for in the bottom of
her heart she feared much that it had truly flown away, and that once it
felt itself out in the open air its natural instinct of freedom would
prevent its returning to its cage.
Hoodie started.
"Come back? Do you _think_ he'll come back, Cousin Magdalen?" she
exclaimed, and rushing to the window, and leaning out so far that
Magdalen was obliged to hold her for fear she should fall over, she gave
the soft clear call which her cousin had taught her--over and over
again, till, tired and out of breath, she drew in her head and looked up
in Magdalen's face despairingly.
"He won't come," she said, "he won't come. P'raps he's flied away too
far to hear me. P'raps he can hear me but he doesn't want to come. Oh
dear, _oh_ dear, what shall I do? My bird, my bird--you always said he
would fly away if he heard me speak c'oss, and I did speak c'oss, dedful
c'oss. _Oh!_ what shall I do?"
Hoodie sank down on the floor--a little heap of tears and misery. Hec
and Duke flung their arms around her, beseeching her not to cry so, but
there was no comfort for Hoodie.
"It was my own fault," she kept repeating, "my own fault for speaking so
c'oss. The bird will never come back. Oh no, Hec and Duke, dear Hec and
Duke, it isn't no good kissing me. I'll never, never be happy again, and
it's my own fault."
It was impossible not to be sorry for her. Magdalen felt almost ready to
burst into tears herself. She took Hoodie up in her arms and tried to
comfort her.
"I don't think you should quite lose heart about birdie, Hoodie. He may
come back again, once he has had a good fly. We must keep the window
open, and you must keep calling to him every now and then, in the way he
is used to. And perhaps it would be a good plan to go out in the garden
and call--he may perhaps have flown up among the trees at the other
side."
Hoodie was only too ready. Patiently, while her cousin went down to her
breakfast, the little girl stood at the window calling to the truant.
Every now and then the sobs that would continue to rise, made a sad
little quaver in the middle, and once or twice poor Hoodie was obliged
to stop altogether. But she soon began again, and every now and then
between her whistles, she said in a beseeching, half heart-broken tone--
"Oh, birdie, _won't_ you come? Come, dear birdie, oh _do_ come and pouch
on my finger. I'll never, never speak c'oss again--never, dear birdie,
if only you'll come back and pouch on my finger."
It was very melancholy. Very melancholy too was the walking about the
garden in vain hopes that birdie might be somewhere near and would fly
down again. The whole day passed most sadly. Hoodie's eyes were swollen
with crying, and she could scarcely eat any dinner or tea, and her
distress naturally was felt by all the nursery party. It was one of the
saddest days the children had ever known, and they all went to bed with
sorely troubled little hearts.
Magdalen too was grieved and sorry.
"I blame myself," she said to Hoodie's mother. "Pets are always a risk,
and Hoodie is such a strange mixture that one shouldn't run risks with
her. I wish I had never suggested her keeping the bird as a pet, but I
thought it might be good for her to have something of her very own to
care for and attend to."
"And so it was," said Hoodie's mother. "It has done her a great deal of
good; it has softened her wonderfully. We all noticed it. And even this
trouble may do her good; it may teach her really to try to master that
sad temper of hers."
"I had no idea she would have been so put out at Duke's playing with her
bird," Magdalen went on, "or I would not have risked it."
"But she _should_ not have been put out at it," said Mrs. Caryll. "You
have nothing whatever to reproach yourself with, dear Magdalen. Hoodie
_must_ be taught that she cannot be allowed to yield to that selfish,
jealous temper."
"I know," said Magdalen. "But how are we to teach her? that is the
difficulty--the least severity or sternness which does good to other
children, seems to rouse her very worst feelings and only to harden her.
She is not hardened now, poor little soul, she is perfectly humble. Oh,
how I do wish I could find her bird for her!"
"Don't trouble yourself so much about it, dear. You really must not,"
said Mrs. Caryll, as she bade her cousin good night.
But unfortunately those things which our friends beg us not to trouble
ourselves about are generally the very things we find it the most
impossible to put out of our minds. Magdalen could not leave off
"troubling" about poor Hoodie. She slept little, and when she did sleep
it was only to dream of the lost bird, sometimes that it was found again
in all sorts of impossible places--sometimes that Hoodie was climbing a
dreadfully high mountain, or attempting to swim across a deep river,
where Magdalen felt that she would certainly be drowned,--in search of
it. And once she dreamt that the bird flew into her room and perched at
the foot of her bed, and when she exclaimed with delight at seeing it
again it suddenly began to speak to her, and its voice sounded exactly
like Hoodie's.
"I have come to say good-bye to you, Maudie's godmother," it said.
"Nobody loves me, and I am always naughty, so I'd better go away."
And as Magdalen started up to catch the bird, or Hoodie, whichever it
was--in her dream it seemed both--she awoke.
It was bright daylight already, though only five o'clock. Outside in the
garden the sun was shining beautifully, the air, as Magdalen opened her
window, felt deliciously fresh and sweet, everything had the peaceful
untroubled look of very early morning--of a very early spring morning
especially--when the birds and the flowers and the sunshine and the
breezes have had it all to themselves, as it were, undisturbed by the
troubles and difficulties and disagreements that busy day is sure to
bring with it, as long as there are men and women, and boys and girls,
in this puzzling world of ours.
Though, after all, it is better to be a child than a bird or a
flower--whatever mistakes we may make, whatever wrong we may do, all,
alas, adding to the great mass of mistakes and wrong--whatever sorrows
we may have to bear, it is something to feel in us the power of bearing
them, the power of _trying_ to put right even what we may have helped to
put wrong--best of all the power of loving each other, and of helping
each other in a way that the happy, innocent birds and flowers know
nothing about. Is it not better to be _ourselves_, after all?
Magdalen leant out of the window, enjoying the sweet air and sunshine,
but thinking all the time how much more she would have enjoyed this
bright morning but for her sympathy with poor Hoodie's trouble.
Suddenly a thought struck her. _Possibly_ the bird, chilled and hungry
after some hours' freedom, unaccustomed to be out in the dark, or to
find food for itself--_possibly_ he might have returned to his cage in
the night. Magdalen threw on her dressing-gown and hurried into the
ante-room. The window was open, the cage-door stood open too, everything
was ready to welcome the little wanderer--fresh seed in the box, fresh
water in the glass--Hoodie had seen to it all herself before going to
bed--but that was all!
There was no little feathered occupant in the cage--it was empty, and
with a fresh feeling of disappointment, Magdalen stood by the window
again, looking out at the bright morning, and wondering what she could
do to comfort poor Hoodie. Outside, the birds were singing merrily.
"Should I get her another bird?" thought Magdalen, "a canary, perhaps,
accustomed to cage life? No, I think not. It might only lead to fresh
disappointment; besides, I don't think Hoodie is the sort of child to
care for another, _instead_. No, that wouldn't do."
Suddenly a sort of flutter in the leaves round the window-frame--Mr.
Caryll's house was an old one; there were creepers all over the
walls--made Magdalen look up.
"Can there be a nest in the eaves?" she said to herself, for the flutter
was evidently that of a bird; and as she was watching, she saw it fly
out--fly down rather from the projecting window-roof, and--to her
amazement, after seeming for an instant or two to hesitate, it summoned
up courage and flew a little way into the room--too high up for her to
reach however, and not far enough into the room for her to venture to
shut the window. She stood breathless, for as it at last settled for a
moment on the curtain-rod, she saw what at first she had scarcely
ventured to believe, that it was Hoodie's bird.
It stayed a moment on the rod, then it flew off again--made a turn round
the room--"oh," thought Magdalen, "if it _would_ but settle somewhere
further from the window, so that I could shut it in"--But no, off it
flew again--out into the open air, and Magdalen's heart sank. Patience!
Another moment and it was back again, with designs on its cage
apparently, but it hesitated half way. Now was the critical moment.
Magdalen hesitated. Should she risk it? She stretched out her hand
towards the bird and softly and tremulously whistled to it in Hoodie's
well-known call. The wavering balance of birdie's intentions was
turned--it cocked its head on one side, and with a pretty chirp flew
towards Magdalen and perched on her finger! Slowly and cautiously,
whistling softly all the time, she slipped her hand into the cage, and
quickly withdrawing it the instant birdie hopped off he found himself
caught.
[Illustration: "Slowly and cautiously, whistling softly all the time"]
But he seemed quite content, and in two moments was pecking at his seed
as if nothing had happened.