The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

“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.

Chapter Three.

“One on her Shoulder, One on her Outstretched Hand.”

Late the next evening a tall boy in midshipman’s uniform ran upstairs and into the drawing-room of Mary’s home. His mother was sitting there alone. She looked up brightly.

“I thought it was you, dear Mike,” she said. “No one else comes with such a rush. I am so glad you have got off again; but I suppose it is only for two nights?”

“Only,” he replied; “but it is lucky to have got even that. May I have some tea, mother, or is it too late?”

“Of course not. Ring, dear, and you will have it at once.”

“And how’s Mary?” said Michael, as he drank his tea.

His mother looked a little surprised.

“Mary?” she repeated. “Quite well. Indeed I think she is scarcely ever ill.”

“Oh, I don’t mean really ill,” said the boy; “but don’t you remember what you were saying – you said nurse had been speaking of it – that Mary is getting fanciful and dreamy, and all that sort of thing, and more like that since I’ve been so much away. And the other day I did think she seemed rather down in the mouth.”

His mother looked thoughtful.

“I am sure she misses you a great deal,” she said. “The others are so much younger. And then the change from the country to living in a town. I daresay she misses country things.”

“I expect she does – lots,” said Michael; and though he did not speak of it – as he had a feeling that Mary had trusted him with what she counted a sort of secret – his mind went back to what she had told him of the wood-pigeons and their nest. “It must have been all her fancy,” he thought; “but it shows how her head runs on country things like that.”

“She enjoyed the seaside, I think,” his mother went on, “though not as much as the little ones did. She is too big for digging in the sand and paddling, and so on. And the place we were at was bare and uninteresting – not a tree to be seen – what people call an excellent place for children. Yes, perhaps poor Mary has not been quite in her element lately.” And Mary’s aunt looked rather distressed. Suddenly her face cleared.

“By the bye, Mike,” she exclaimed, “how stupid of me to have forgotten. I had a letter lately from Mary’s godmother – old Miss Verity; she lives at Levinside, near the forest, you know. She wrote to ask how Mary was getting on; and she said she would be delighted to have the child for a visit if ever we thought she would be the better for some country air. It is very charming there, even in late autumn or winter. If Mary seems very dull after you go, I think I will write to Miss Verity and propose a visit.”

Michael gave a sort of grunt.

“I shouldn’t think it would be very lively for her,” he said, “going to stay with an old maid like that, all by herself. Better be here with you, mother, and Fritz and Twitter.”

“Ah, but you don’t know Miss Verity,” said his mother. “She’s not like an old maid, or rather she is the very nicest old maid that ever lived. She is full of spirits and very clever and very kind, and I am sure she would be just the person to understand a rather fanciful child like Mary. Mary has scarcely seen her, but I am sure they would get on, and she knew Mary’s own mother so well. And her house is so pretty and so prettily situated.”

“It might be a good plan,” said Mike, “but if I were you, mother, I’d see what Mary herself thinks of it before you settle anything.”

“Yes, I will,” she replied. “It would certainly do Mary no good to go there against her own wishes. For she has decided ideas of her own, though she is a gentle obedient child as a rule. But I think I hear her coming, Mike, so take care. I don’t want her to think we are talking her over. Nurse is not always careful enough in that way; she forgets that Mary is growing older.”

The door opened almost as she said the last word, and Michael could not help smiling to himself as he thought how very easily his little cousin might have overheard her own name, though his mother meant to be so thoughtful. He looked up brightly, the smile still on his face, and he was pleased to see an answering-back one on Mary’s as she caught sight of him.

“Oh, dear Mike,” she exclaimed, “it is you! Oh, you don’t know how glad I am you’ve come. I thought I heard you running upstairs, and I wanted to come to see, but nurse said I must be dressed first Auntie, I wish you’d tell nurse sometimes to let me run down to speak to you without such a fuss. I’m not as little as Twitter, you know.”

Her aunt glanced at her and smiled, and Michael smiled too.

“Yes, mother,” he said, “I think nurse does treat Molly rather too babyishly now.”

Mary glanced at him gratefully, and her face brightened still more. Michael seemed quite like himself to her again.

“I rather agree with you,” said his mother. “I will give her a hint. Have you been wanting to see me for anything special to-day, Mary dear?”

“Oh no, it was only that I was so hoping Michael would come,” she replied; and a moment or two later, when her aunt happened to have gone to the other end of the room to write a letter, the little girl turned to her cousin.

“Mike,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper, “have you settled what you are going to do to-morrow, exactly?”

“Well, no, not quite. It depends on mother. I have not much to do, myself. I did all my shopping last week, you see. I thought it would be nice to have the last two days pretty clear. Mother,” he went on, raising his voice a little, “what would you like me to do to-morrow – I have kept it quite free for you – and Mary,” he added quickly.

“Darling,” said his mother. “Well, I was thinking we might go out together in the afternoon, you and I. I want you to say good-bye to your godmother – and if you and Mary can think of anything you would like to do in the morning, that would suit very well,” and then she went on writing.

“What would you like to do, then, Moll?” said Michael. “I’m sure you’ve got something in your head.”

Mary clasped her hands in eagerness.

“Anything you like, Mike,” she said. “The only thing I want you to promise me is that you will come up to my room to-morrow morning at twelve o’clock to see something. I won’t tell you what it is, but when you see, you will understand.”

“At twelve o’clock,” said Michael, “twelve exactly?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“All right,” her cousin replied. “You’re a queer child, Moll. Well then, I think the best thing we can do is to go shopping for an hour or so about half-past ten. You’re to have a holiday, you know, and you like shopping.”

“Dreadfully,” said Mary, “especially with you. What sort will it be?”

“It’s some of my Christmas presents that are still on my mind,” said Michael. “Mother’s, and Twit’s – I never know about girls’ things. I’m going to leave them with you to give for me. Father’s and the little boys’ I’ve got all right.”

Mary’s face shone with pleasure.

“That will be lovely,” she said. “I know several things that Twitter would like, and I daresay nurse would help us to think of something for auntie. Nurse is very good about that sort of thing.”

“Isn’t she good about everything?” asked Michael. Mary grew a little red.

“She vexes me sometimes,” she replied. “P’raps she doesn’t understand. I’ll explain to you better after to-morrow morning. Oh Mike dear, I am so sorry you’re going away,” and her face got rather sad again.

“But you look ever so much jollier than when I went away on Tuesday,” said Michael.

“Well, yes, because I’m feeling so,” she answered.

“All the same, Michael, I know it’s going to be awfully dull till you come back again. They say it’s so gloomy and dark in the winter sometimes; not like the country. I shall always like the country best, Mike.”

“So should I,” said her cousin, “that’s to say if it was a choice between it and a town, though I like the sea best of all, of course. But don’t get melancholy again, Moll. Something may turn up to help you through the gloomy months.”

“I shall miss you so,” said Mary, “and there’s something else I shall miss too.”

She was thinking of the Cooies, and she was glad to feel that once Michael had seen them and knew about them, she would be able to tell him of their going away, and that they only came back out of affection for her now and then.

More than this she felt she must not tell him, as it was a sort of secret between her and them. There are fairy secrets sometimes which it would be almost impossible to tell to anybody.

The rest of that evening and the next morning passed very cheerfully, even though Michael’s time was to be so short at home. Nurse proved quite as kind and interested about the Christmas presents as Mary had expected. Indeed there was nothing she would not have been interested about if it concerned her eldest nursling, as big Michael was, and she was really fond of Mary too, and pleased to see her happy, though she had only had the care of her for a much shorter time than the others.

The two set off for their shopping quite early. They knew pretty exactly what they wanted to buy; which is always a great help when you go on such an expedition; for after a good deal of thought, nurse had decided that a new thimble was what “auntie” would like best. It was to be a really pretty one of a new pattern, and nurse was able to direct them to a jeweller’s shop where she had seen some beauties in the window, and it was to have his mother’s initials engraved on it, Michael said, and to be in a pretty case, lined with velvet. This important piece of business was quickly completed, as they found the jeweller’s without difficulty. Twitter’s present took rather longer; it was to be a set of toy tea-things, and as Michael liked china ones with tiny roses on, and Mary preferred some with forget-me-nots, they felt rather at a loss, till luckily the shopwoman, who was very good-natured, found a third pattern, of rosebuds and forget-me-nots together, which was a charming way out of the puzzle.

Then Michael proposed that they should go to a confectioner’s not far from their own Square, to get a little luncheon. They kept capital buns there, he said, and after eating two of them, and having a glass of delicious milk, Mary quite agreed with him, and they were sitting at the little round marble-topped table very happily, when she happened to glance at a clock hanging up on the wall, and started to see that it was already a quarter to twelve o’clock.

“Oh Mike,” she exclaimed, “we must hurry. It is nearly twelve.”

Michael glanced at his watch.

“Yes,” he said, “but if we’re not back quite – oh I forgot – you wanted to show me something in your room at twelve o’clock. But won’t it keep? It’s not likely to fly away.”

Mary’s face flushed.

“To fly away,” she repeated. “I never spoke of flying.”

“No,” said Michael, “it’s just a way of speaking,” but he looked at her rather oddly. “What are you stuffing into your pocket, child?” he went on.

“Only a bit of bun I don’t want to eat,” she replied, getting still redder, for it had suddenly struck her that she had got no crumbs ready for the Cooies, and that she would not have time to ask for any.

“And if they keep their promise to me,” she said to herself, “I must certainly keep mine to them.” – “Mike, dear,” she went on beseechingly, “do let us hurry. What I want to show you won’t ‘keep’ – perhaps,” in a lower voice, “it may fly away.”

Michael had already paid for their luncheon, and fortunately they were near home, and five minutes’ quick walking covers more ground than you might think. They were soon at their own door, and the moment it opened, up flew Mary to her room.

“Mike,” she had said as they stood on the front steps, “take out your watch and look at it, and when the hand gets to five minutes past twelve, run up to my room after me. Don’t rap at the door, but come straight in.”

Michael laughed, and repeated to himself, though he did not say it aloud —

“You are a queer child, Moll.”

He waited the few minutes, as she had asked, then made his way upstairs after her. It was a pretty and unexpected sight that met his eyes, as he quietly opened the door, without knocking. He felt very curious about this secret of his little cousin’s – half suspecting she had some trick preparing for him, and not wishing to be taken unawares, as what boy would!

But the moment he caught sight of her, and heard the gentle sounds from where she stood by the window, he “understood” – for he was very quick at understanding – and felt ashamed of the doubts he had had of Mary’s truthfulness.