Tales of the birds

Then he went on again slowly, to the corner where the ledge passed into the cleft and out of Molly’s sight: and now she first began to wonder whether he would after all be able to reach the nest. The corner projected sharply, and in rounding it, the ledge seemed almost to come to an end; no grass grew on it at that point, and the rocks above and below were cut sharply and steeply. She saw him stop for a minute or two when he came to this corner, and put his foot forward to try the footing; her blue cap dropped out of her hands into the boat, and she sat up gazing with eager eyes and parted lips. Then she saw him rest his left foot on the jutting bit of rock he had tested, kneel down on his right knee, and slowly work himself along with the help of his hands. As he turned the corner, he seemed to get into easier quarters, for he rose to his feet again, and passed in a moment out of her sight into the dark cleft.

A few minutes later she heard the cries of the young falcons, and a loud shout from Harold told her that vengeance was being done for Snowdrop’s death. Sticks and rubbish began to fall down the rocks; he was razing to the ground the falcon’s rockbuilt refuge. And then he emerged again, with a young bird in his hand, which he proceeded to tie up in his pocket-handkerchief, and button inside the breast of his shirt. When all was ready, he again knelt down, this time with his left knee, using his right foot to support him below wherever it could find a firm support. Molly watched her hero now impatiently; she wanted him to come down quickly and show her the young falcon.

The difficult part was almost over, when some bit of stone on which he had rested his right foot gave away, and rolled down the precipice. He had nothing now to hold by except his left knee, and Molly, now standing up in the boat in real anxiety, saw him keeping his balance with difficulty by pressing his unsupported leg hard against the rocks. Then she saw him make a spring – such a spring indeed as one can make with nothing to spring from but one’s left knee – and try to catch at a big red knob which lay just at the end of the perilous part of the ledge. His hands caught the knob, and he turned with his face to the rock struggling to bring his feet up once more to the level of the ledge. But the stone was treacherous and gave way, and the boy, after another moment’s effort to save himself, fell after it down the steeper part of the rocks, till he was caught by another ledge below, and there lay quite still.

Molly uttered an inarticulate sound as she saw him fall; she did not cry or scream, but she trembled all over. A cold feeling went down her back, and her heart beat so violently that for a moment she was obliged to sit down panting. She looked all round to see if any boat was in sight, but the fishermen did not often come so far at that time of the year, and the sea was unbroken by an oar. Only far out in the offing lay the huge form of the ironclad; and for an instant there flashed through Molly’s mind the picture of Harold in his young strength sitting opposite her with his oars, turning to watch the firing of the big guns, then holding her face in his hands, and bidding her not be silly. Something told her that now an effort was needed from her, such as she had never had to make in her life before; and, strong and healthy as she was, she felt her faintness passing, and her will growing strong. She was quite alone; she must act; what should she do?

At first she thought of rowing back for help, but she knew that the tide had not yet turned, and that she would be a much longer time getting back than they had taken in coming. And then she would have to leave Harold all that time, and he perhaps dying, or at least badly hurt. He might indeed be dead; but at none of these possibilities did she quail again, now that she had fully nerved herself for action. She must climb and reach him; and she set about it instantly. With a woman’s instinct she took what was left of the cold tea that they had brought with them, tied Harold’s blue jersey round her neck by the sleeves, stepped firmly out of the boat, and after marking the spot where he fell, began to climb.

Once at the top of the easier rocks, she found herself not far below the shelf upon which he must be lying, and called to him. No answer came. Panting with effort and excitement, but with firm limbs and steady head, she began to ascend the steeper rocks, and presently reached what seemed to be a faint track, made perhaps by some animal, which led her easily upwards to the shelf. When she reached it her strength failed for a moment, and her eyes seemed dim; but mastering herself again she advanced, and suddenly came upon Harold, lying on his back in a little bed of rough grass and samphire. She saw in an instant that he was alive, and spoke to him, but he did not answer. Then she knelt down beside him, folded up the jersey and put it under his head; opened the bottle of cold tea, and moistening her fingers with it, rubbed his temples and wetted his nostrils. She gave his forehead one kiss; but there was work to be done, and this was no time for kisses: she felt half ashamed even of this one. She searched for wounds, but could find none; only she feared that one arm on which he was lying must be badly hurt. But she could not move him, and must wait till he came to himself; and she went on rubbing and chafing, yet sparing the tea till he should wake and be able to drink some. It was quite an hour before he came to himself.

At last his eyes opened slowly, and his lips moved a little, but without a sound. She held the bottle to them, and he swallowed a little of the tea; then the eyes closed again, and he seemed to sleep. Presently she saw a fisherman’s boat passing at some distance from the shore. She stood up, waved her handkerchief and shouted; but the boat was too far off, and she was neither heard nor seen.

Her shouting woke Harold again, and in a faint voice he said, “What’s the matter, Molly?” and then, after a pause, “Where’s the young falcon?”

She looked in his shirt; the handkerchief was still there, and the young bird was in it, though dead. “Here it is, Harold,” she said; “and now you must try and get up and come down with me to the boat, and I’ll row you home and take care of you till you’re all right again.”

“Dear old Molly,” was all that Harold answered; but they were words that Molly never forgot.

He tried to get up, but the pain in his arm was so great that he fainted away again; and Molly had to sit, now silent and sad, and watch for some boat coming round the headland, chafing his temples from time to time with fingers as gentle as a lady’s. When he came to himself once more, it was getting towards evening; the sea was cold and gray, and the mist began to creep again around the cliffs. Molly had been thinking of what was to be done; her mind seemed stronger and clearer than it had ever been before, and she spoke to Harold firmly, like a mother talking to her little boy.

“Harold dear, I must leave you and go and get help; you will die of cold if we have to stay out all night. But first I must make you as comfortable as I can. Which pocket is your knife in?”

He told her, and she succeeded in getting it out without hurting him. Then she took the jersey from under his head, cut off the sleeve that belonged to the injured arm, and contrived to slip the warm garment over his body and right arm; took off her own jersey, and laid it under his head, gave him a kiss and stroked his fair hair, and told him to lie still and go to sleep, and she would be back soon. And then she started down the rocks, marking her way carefully that she might recollect it when she returned, and stepping into the boat, pulled westwards as fast as she could. The sun was setting when she reached the village.

Her news spread like wildfire. Her father borrowed a horse, and rode off to the nearest town for a doctor; her mother put on her bonnet and went to break the news to Harold’s mother. By the time Molly, still steady of purpose though stiff and tired, had eaten such a meal as she could get down, and put up some more provisions and some brandy for Harold, four stalwart fishermen were ready with a big boat and lanterns, and were waiting for her on the beach. Tired as she was, Molly would have liked to have taken an oar, and even asked to be allowed to do so. She could not bear to be doing nothing; she was in a state of restless activity and energy. One of the men laughed, and bade her lie down in the boat and go to sleep. But an older man, who saw her dark eyes sparkling in the moonlight with a strange wildness, did Molly a good turn.

“Give her the tiller, Dick,” he said: “don’t you see the lass must be at something? Come, Molly, lass, steer us straight, and tell us all about you and the lad.”

So Molly took the helm, and went over the story with them again, and kind old Martin kept asking her to describe this or that once more and once again, and they pulled so strongly and quickly that they were at the Red Cliffs long before she expected. Then she asked them to shout, and held her hands to her ears in hopes of catching an answer from the cliff, and after the second shout there came a feeble answer.

She led the way up the rocks in the moonlight. They found Harold very cold and in pain; but the brandy soon revived him, and he even contrived to eat a little.

“Dear old Molly,” he said once more. And Molly kissed him again, and stepped downwards with the lantern, to show them the best places for their feet, while they lifted the boy, groaning sadly with pain, laid his injured arm over his chest, and began to carry him slowly down the rocks. She guided them safely down, though the work took a long time, and was perilous for men who could not use their hands, and terribly painful for Harold: but it was over at last, and he was laid safely in the bottom of the boat, and made as comfortable as possible with the rugs and pillows which Molly’s mother had provided. Molly sat in the stern again holding the tiller; but she soon began to droop over it now the tension was taken off her, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Old Martin took the tiller from her hand, laid her down by Harold, and covered her with his own rough pilot-coat. When they reached the village, where the beach was crowded with eager faces, and lanterns were moving about here and there, he took her in his arms and carried her to her mother’s cottage.

“That’s a rare lass of yours,” he said, “and I never would have thought it of her. They two must make up together one of these days; and a fine pair they’ll be! Good-night, ma’am.”

Molly was put to bed, and slept an unbroken sleep till late in the morning. When she woke she was so stiff and tired that she could hardly turn round; but when she did so, she saw the two mothers, her own and Harold’s, standing by the bedside. The latter kissed her many times on the forehead, and told her how Harold had slept well and was now wide awake, and asking for her; and how he had sent her another pigeon, even more beautiful than the last.

“But, Molly,” she went on, “the doctor says his spine is injured as well as his arm, and he won’t be able to go into the Navy. He’s terrible vexed about it, poor lad.”

Molly sprang out of bed, in spite of her stiffness. She felt a real and lively pity for Harold, and she must go to him at once. All her childishness was gone; if she could have seen Harold that moment in his sailor’s dress, marching off to Portsmouth, she would have jumped for joy. There was work still left for her to do; she must comfort Harold.

The case was more serious than the doctor at first supposed. Harold had before long to be taken away to a London hospital, where he could get the benefit of constant attendance and all kinds of appliances. His mother went with him, and took up her abode in London, in the house of one of Harold’s uncles, who was a small dealer there, and Harold slowly recovered his strength, was apprenticed to a carpenter, learnt his trade with a good will, and began to make a start in life. It was full four years before Harold and Molly met again.

When at last he came to pay a visit to the old fishing-village, he found Molly a tall, strong and sensible-looking maiden of eighteen. It was she who proposed a row to the Red Cliffs, to see the scene of their adventure four years ago; and it was she who rowed this time, while he sat in the stern and steered. But it was he who, on their homeward way, just before they rounded the last headland into the little harbour, let go the tiller, took her brown face between his hands, and said once more,

“Dear old Molly!”

And they plighted their loves as the old thatched cottages came in sight under the curving embrace of the down.

A DEBATE IN AN ORCHARD

It was one of those midsummer evenings which to the discontented seem almost too long. In the orchard the old birds had finished finding the young ones their supper, and the long labours of the day were over. The swifts were flying, and screaming with delight as they flew, round the old church tower, and the swallows were gliding less noisily in and out of the long shadows of the apple-trees; but most of the dwellers in the orchard had taken a quiet perch, and were singing, or dallying in some pleasant way with the last half-hour of daylight, until it should be time to go to roost.

A blackbird, a robin, a sparrow, and a blue titmouse found themselves together on a single tree. They were old acquaintances, for they had lived together in the orchard and garden the whole winter; friends, in the proper sense of the word, they were not, for they differed a good deal in their opinions, and had quarrelled nearly every day in the winter over the crumbs which had been put for them outside the farmhouse windows. But they contrived to put up with one another, and had been so busy with their young of late, that all ill-feeling had passed away from their minds.

“Well,” said the sparrow, “here we are again. Upon my word I wish the sun would set; there’s nothing more to do.”

“Why don’t you sing?” said the robin.

“That’s a stale joke,” was the answer. “And your song is getting stale too, Mr. Robin; you’ll have to leave it off a bit soon.”

“One should not sing too much,” observed the blackbird. “I wonder you robins don’t get tired of hearing yourselves. It’s too hot to sing this evening: spring is the time for that. Let us do something else to amuse ourselves.”

“Let us see who can hang from a bough best with his head downwards,” said the blue tit; and he instantly performed the feat with great agility. The sparrow, being in want of something to do, tried to imitate him, but he couldn’t do it a bit, and made himself ridiculous.

“What a lubberly creature!” said a swallow, who had paused in her flight through the orchard to rest for a moment at the end of a dead bough of the same tree. “Are you so hard up for something to do? Why don’t you have a debate? There was a debate going on in my barn the other evening, and very amusing it was. Old Squire Wilmot was in the chair. He told the men and boys that they were going to have a debate once a month to sharpen their wits, and – ”

(“That’ll take a long time,” put in the blue tit.)

“And the young squire was going to propose a motion himself that night.”

“What do you think it was about? Bird’s-nesting! He said it was cruel, I believe; and some one else said it wasn’t; and there they were chattering away all the evening. But I had young to attend to, and of course I couldn’t listen, even if it had been worth while. Why don’t you have a debate? I dare say you wouldn’t talk quite such nonsense. Good evening.” And off she went, without waiting for an answer.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the blue tit; “only I don’t much care to imitate Man. What a lumbering animal it is! However, if we are to have a debate, why not debate about him? We shall all have something to say on that subject, anyhow.”

“Very well,” said the Robin, who had a way of taking things into his own hands, “very well, we will discuss Man. But first we must elect a president. I am willing to be president, if you like. Our family has encouraged Man for many centuries, and we ought to know something about him by this time!”

There was silence for a minute. The Robin was not so popular in the orchard as to be elected at once by acclamation. At this moment the Swallow returned to her twig, just to see how they were getting on, and was informed of the difficulty.

“Oh, by all means elect Robin,” said she; “they always elect some respectable person president. They like some one who looks better than he talks. Presidents don’t make speeches as a rule; they sit and look grand, like the beadle in the church where I nested last summer. And now I think of it,” she added, “that beadle had a red waistcoat just like Bobby’s; so he had.”

And off she went again.

“Bother that bird,” said the Robin; “she’s like a wild-rose bush, all prickles and no caterpillars. I won’t be president if I am not to be allowed to speak. Let the Blackbird preside; it would just suit his capacity.”

“I don’t pretend to be better than I am,” said the Blackbird in his mellowest tones; “but we had better vote at once, it will soon be dark. Each of you imitate the voice of the bird you wish to elect. All the birds in the orchard shall be welcome and eligible: Starling, Nuthatch, Creeper, Wren, Flycatcher, Chaffinch. Now then, one, two, three – ”

A variety of strange sounds were heard, so strange and discordant that the farmer’s wife looked out at her back-door to see what could be going forward. But while it was still going on, there was heard at the top of all the din the clear shrill song of a Wren from a heap of old sticks by the wall.

“The very bird for you,” said the Swallow, alighting once more on her twig. “He’ll only have to turn on his loudest song to stop the speakers if they get tiresome or lose their tempers. He’ll be like the organ in that church I was telling you of; it was put there to prevent the singers being heard, and it did its business very well. Yes, yes, elect the Wren; he’s small, but he’s afraid of no one. And in some countries they call him king.”

She flew to the heap of sticks, and returned with the Wren, who took his station on a prominent bough, cocked his tail very high, and sang his very loudest.

“That will do capitally,” said the Swallow. “Turn on that whenever they make fools of themselves, and you’ll have the debate to yourself after all.”

And she was gone again, leaving them another pleasant little keepsake. But they were too eager for the debate to begin, to mind much what she said, and they all consented to accept the Wren as president.

“I appoint the Blackbird to open the debate,” said the Wren, who had been duly instructed in his duties by the Swallow. “Let the Blackbird state what motion he will propose.”

“I will propose,” replied the Blackbird, “that too close an association with Man is degrading to the race of birds.”

“I won’t speak on that motion,” said the Robin, “I consider it personal.”

“So do I,” said the Sparrow; “grossly personal and insulting.”

“What’s insulting?” said the Swallow, who was back again for the fourth time. “Oh, most insulting to birds who use men’s buildings for their nests! Look at me and the Sparrows, see how refined and elevated we have become through ages of association with man! One doesn’t like to talk of one’s self, but I put it to you whether the Sparrow’s charming, fairy-like grace, dainty appetite, and chastely brilliant colouring, can well be ascribed to any other cause? But dear me, I never meant to make a speech. Good-bye; don’t quarrel, and, above all, don’t be sarcastic; it’s a habit I abhor.” And she glided away once more.

“That’s one for you, Philip,” said the mischievous Blue-Tit to the Sparrow. “Let her have it back again next time, my dear boy; have a repartee ready. Make haste, you have no time to lose.”

“All right,” said the Sparrow. “Don’t fidget so. I’ll think of my repartee during the Blackbird’s speech.”

“Silence!” called the president. “Trrrrrr-lira-lira-lira-la-trrr! I must call on the Blackbird to put his motion in another form, as it is considered personal.”

“Well,” said the Blackbird, “I move that Man is an animal as useless as he is pernicious. That’ll suit everybody, I hope.”

“Won’t do,” said the President. “You must

have three adjectives, and they must all begin with the same letter. It always is so, I assure you; the Swallow told me so just now, and she heard it all going on in the barn. The young squire proposed that bird-nesting was mean, mischievous, and malevolent; and a very sensible motion too.”

“Very well,” said the Blackbird, “then I move that man is a mean, mischievous, and malevolent animal. Will that do for you?”

“Excellent!” said every one. “Go on, and be quick.”

“Be as quick as you can,” said the Robin, “or there won’t be time for my speech.”

“Silence!” cried the president. “I call on the Blackbird.” And the Blackbird began his oration.

“Man,” he said, “is in the first place mean. This may be thought perhaps too obvious a proposition to need proof. I need but ask you to look over the orchard wall into the kitchen-garden yonder. What do we see there? Gooseberry-bushes, currant-bushes, covered with delicious fruit; I know it, for did I not try the flavour of every one of them daily till yesterday? And now, now, just as their juices are mellowing, each of those trees has been covered over with a most vile and treacherous netting! If time were not pressing I could easily produce statistics to show – ”

“What are statistics?” asked a Flycatcher deferentially.

“A new kind of earwigs,” said the Blue-Tit promptly. “Don’t interrupt. What a flow of eloquence!”

“I could produce statistics to show,” continued the Blackbird, “that those gooseberries and currants would be sufficient to feed scores of blackbirds for several weeks together. Think of what is here lost to the world through the meanness of Man!

“The raspberries indeed are not netted; but, friends, I would ask you, if you can control your feelings for a moment, to look in the direction of the raspberry canes. There you may see – I can hardly bear to mention it – the dead bodies of two cousins of mine, who lost their lives through the meanness of Man, in the exercise of their natural rights and appetites. Shot, cruelly shot, by the farmer’s son, and exposed to view to frighten us!”

Here the speaker was overcome by emotion, and paused for a few moments.

“Go on,” said the Robin, “or you’ll never get to the end of your speech. Why do you want to eat fruit? Caterpillars are much better.”

“Order, order,” cried the President. “Trrrrr-lira-lira-trrr.” The Blackbird resumed the thread of his argument.

“I do not care,” he said, “to notice unseemly interruptions at a moment when such painful thoughts have obtruded themselves on my mind. I will proceed in the next place to show that man is mischievous. I need not dwell on this point; the fact is known to you all. The word is far too mild. Which of us has not lost a nest, or seen our young caught and killed, either by man himself, or by his parasite the cat? They are the only two animals who kill for the pleasure of killing. Of the two, as you know, man is far the worst; he is more cruel and more awkward than a cat. A cat is agile, nimble, even beautiful to look at, terrible as she is; and she does not steal the nests which we have taken such infinite pains to build. A kitten is a pretty and even a harmless little creature; but the young of man is horrible to contemplate. What dreadful noises he makes! What a contemptible object he appears! Though compelled by nature to keep to the ground and go along on two stumps, he will sometimes climb trees if he can but see a chance of doing us a mischief. You hear the awkward creature crashing through the branches; you are forced to fly for your life, and to leave your young and eggs to the monster’s mercy! I will not harrow your feelings further, but will content myself with the simple assertion that cats are far better.

“I now come to the third point. Man is malevolent. Man, that is (as some of you may not understand the word), is evilly disposed towards us. His evil deeds are the result of an evil will. I see you are getting impatient, so I will only give you a single instance of this, which shall at the same time be a crushing proof. As I was enjoying myself in a gooseberry bush a day or two ago, before the meanness of man displayed itself in those malicious nets, I heard the farmer’s wife singing to her baby as she sat on the seat under the pear-tree close by me. I kept very quiet, as you may imagine, and heard all she said. Fancy my horror when I heard her begin —