Christmas stories

CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.

It was Christmas morning, and everywhere the merry bells were ringing and telling again the story, which, though more than eighteen hundred years old, is always sweet, always new—the story of Bethlehem’s babe, for whose birthday we keep the Christmas-tide. All over the northern hills the December snow was lying, and the wind was sharp and cold as it went singing past the windows of the houses where so many eager, happy children ate their Christmas cakes, or counted their Christmas toys. But far away in the south land it was like summer still, and the orange-trees were fresh, and green, and beautiful, with the yellow fruit and the white blossoms showing among the leaves. Upon the highest branch of a tall orange-tree which grew upon the bank of the river St. John, a Red-bird was sitting, and listening to a Paroquet, which, on a magnolia near by, was dressing its bright plumage, and talking to his neighbor, the Red-bird.

After wishing him a merry Christmas, he said:

“And so, Mrs. Red, you are still alive! Why, we all thought you were dead, and Mr. Red wore mourning for a month, and then—but never mind. Have you been up to the old nest among the yellow jasmine? If not, I advise you to stay away; but say, where have you been this year or more? Tell me about it.”

It seemed strange to me, who was sitting on a bench beneath the magnolia-tree, to hear birds talking together after this fashion, and remembering the children at the North who had never seen a Paroquet, nor a magnolia, nor a Red-bird, nor an orange-tree, I said to myself, I will write down what these birds are saying, and sometime, perhaps, I’ll send it to the little ones at home.

And this, as nearly as I could understand it, was the story the Red-bird told.

“You may well ask me where I have been, Mr. Paroquet,” said the Red-bird, “but you can keep your Merry Christmas to yourself, for it is not a merry Christmas with me. My heart is as heavy as lead, and if it were not that I dreaded the cold so much, I’d fly to the North, where they are having a grand time to-day with their Christmas trees, and the children all so happy.”

“Fly to the North!” said Mr. Paroquet, with a shudder. “Fly to that horrid place where they have ice and snow the year round, with nothing green or bright, unless it’s that Christmas-tree you speak of! Pray, may I ask what kind of a tree that is? Is it like this magnolia, or that palm across the river, waving its fans in the breeze, or that orange-tree where you are sitting? And what kind of fruit does it bear? Icicles, or what?”

“Icicles!” And Mrs. Red laughed a merry, rippling kind of laugh which did me good to hear, for there was something very sad in the expression of her face, as if she had lost every friend she ever had. “Little you know of the North and what they have there. I’ll wager now you never heard of the place before.”

“Haven’t I, though?” Mr. Paroquet returned. “Didn’t one of those men from the North shoot the first Mrs. Paroquet one morning, just after breakfast, when she had gone out to take the air, and I was watching the three little birds in the nest? And didn’t he take her away to that place they call New York, and didn’t I hear afterward from a robin who comes down here every winter that they stuffed her, and put glass eyes in her, and strung her on a wire frame, and set her up in somebody’s parlor for an ornament, to be admired? My dead wife stuffed!—and such a time as I had with the little ones, who kept tumbling out of the nest, and who had such appetites that I was almost worn out with hunting things for them to eat, and was obliged to get another Mrs. Paroquet to help me do the work. Of course, I know about the North; but pray go on and tell me how you happened to be there, and why you are here again.”

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Red, “I’d like to tell some body. You remember my old home up the river, where the stream is so narrow that the boats almost touch the shore as they pass. There’s a splendid mass of yellow jasmine there, with lots of white dogwood, and Cherokee roses, and orange-trees, and palms, and magnolias, and water oaks, and there I had my nest, all covered up with flowers and leaves.

“I was very happy in my soft, warm nest, with Mr. Red, and four of the prettiest little birds you ever saw just hatched and wanting a mother’s care so badly. But one morning I saw coming down the river one of those big boats, full of people, who kept firing at the poor alligators sunning themselves in the warm spring air. At last the boat stopped, and some of the men got out and began to look around and fire at anything they saw; and one shot hit me under my wing, so that I could not fly, but dropped to the ground, half dead with pain and fright, but still having sense enough to be glad that it was I who was hurt instead of Mr. Red, who flew away to the top of the very tallest palm-tree in sight, where he sat and watched while a man picked me up and said:

“‘See, she is not dead; she is only wounded. I shall take her to my wife at the hotel. She has wanted a Red-bird so much.’

“What a hotel was, or where he meant to take me, I did not know, and for a time I must have been unconscious, for the next I knew I was on the boat covered over with a kind of wire screen, which kept me a prisoner. I could not get away, though I beat my head against the screen until it ached almost as hard as the place under my wing.

“Oh! what a change it was from my lovely nest among the oranges, and magnolias, and jasmines, to that dreadful wooden box in which they put me at the hotel, and which they called a cage. I think my new mistress meant to be kind to me, for she stroked my feathers very gently, and called me a ‘poor little thing,’ and brought me so many things to eat. But I could touch none of them, I was so home-sick and lonely, and my heart was aching so for the dear home up the river, and the little birdies there, who were sure to cry for me when the dark night came on and I was not there to shelter them. Would Mr. Red do it? I wondered, and I was afraid he wouldn’t; for, though the very best of all the Red-birds on the St. John’s, he did not always like to be bothered with the children, especially when he was tired and a little cross.”

“But he did, though,” interrupted Mr. Paroquet. “He took care of them for quite a while after you went away. I used to see him hunting worms, and seeds and things; and he’d go every day to the top of that palm you spoke of, and watch to see if you were not coming back. After awhile—well, you remember old Mr. Red, whose nest was near yours on a sour orange-tree, and whose pretty little grand-daughter, Spotted-Wing, with the shining feathers and so many airs, you did not fancy much?

“Yes, I remember her,” Mrs. Red answered very sadly, I thought, and Mr. Paroquet continued:

“She used to fly up to that palm, too, and balance herself way out on the very tip of the longest green fan, and help him watch for you, because she was so anxious for you to come back and relieve him of his family cares, and then her eyes were younger than his, and could see farther, you know.”

And as he said this Mr. Paroquet rolled both of his eyes quite out of sight in what I thought a very disagreeable, insinuating manner. But Mrs. Red did not seem to notice, and went on with her story:

“I am glad if he was good to the children, and missed me a little, for I was so home-sick for him, that I could neither sleep nor eat, and I heard my mistress say she was afraid I would starve to death. And I was afraid, too, for had I been disposed to eat I could not have touched what she brought me—sweet potato, cake, and bread and sugar, as if that were proper diet for a bird. I had a great deal of attention from the guests of the hotel. It was the St. James, I heard them say, and it was full of people who did nothing but eat, and sleep, and dress for the parlors or the piazzas, where the young ones used to walk sometimes of an evening. At last, one morning very early, before anybody was up except a few of the servants, I was sitting on my perch in a new cage, with my head down, thinking so hard that I heard nothing until suddenly I was startled by a strange voice with a decidedly foreign accent, close to the bars of my cage.

“‘Halloo, Miss Red-top,’ it said, ‘seems to me you are down in the mouth this morning. Guess you didn’t sleep well. What’s the matter with you? Look up and speak to a fellow, can’t you?’

“So I looked up and saw a big round fat robin, with a breast red and shining, and a very good-natured face, and eyes which were very curious and inquisitive, as if he meant to know everybody’s business, and help them attend to it, too.”

“I’ll bet that’s the very robin who brought me news of my stuffed wife,” interposed Mr. Paroquet. “He knows everybody, and can trace their family back to the time when Mr. Noah let the first bird out of the ark. He comes here every winter for his health, he says, and he stops along by the way, and so gets all the news.”

“Maybe it was the same,” Mrs. Red replied. “But he was very kind to me, and asked me a great many questions, and when he heard my story, he said if it were not so warm he’d go up the river and find Mr. Red, and tell him about me. I thanked him and said that would do no good as I could not get out of prison, and should die there very soon.

“‘No, you won’t,’ he answered, cheerily. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

“Then, after eyeing me awhile, he continued:

“‘Why, Miss Red-top, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. You are starved! Look at that sweet potato and frosted cake. You’ll have dyspepsia sure. What you want is a good fat bug, and seeds of some kind. Just keep up your courage, and I’ll fix you.’

“So saying, he flew away to a neighboring garden, while I thought how good he was to me, an entire stranger, though I did wish he would not call me miss. It made me feel ashamed when I remembered Mr. Red and the nest among the jasmine.

“When my mistress came to see me, after breakfast, bringing the usual sweet potato, and broiled fish and bits of bread, she found a part of a bug in my cage, and a piece of fig which my new friend had found near one of the dining-room windows and brought to me. Great was her wonder as to where it came from, but as I could not talk to her, though able to understand all she said, I do not suppose she ever knew about the robin who came to see me every morning before there was much stir in the hotel, and kept me so well supplied with such things as I liked, that I began to recover my health and my spirits, too, though my heart was always aching for the nest up the river, and the babies I left in it. Gradually, too, I began to have a great liking for Mr. Red-Breast, as I called him at first, though he insisted that I should say Robin, as that was more familiar. At home they all called him Robin, and no one ever mistered him, he said, except Mrs. Robin, when she began to help him build the nest in the mountain ash, which he told me grew in the garden where he lived at the North.

“One morning when he came to see me as usual, complaining of the heat, and saying he should soon be starting for home if the weather continued like this, he found me very sad and anxious, for only the night before I had heard my mistress say that she intended taking me North with her, and should, perhaps, give me to a friend who had asked her to bring her a bird from the South. This was a deathblow to all my hopes, for as day after day I had watched the piles of baggage and the crowds of people which left the hotel, and heard the waiters say they were starting for home, I thought to myself the day will come when my mistress will go, too, and then she will surely set me free, and I fancied the surprise and joy of Mr. Red and the little ones, when I flew down upon them some evening.”

“About how long was this after your capture?” asked the Paroquet, and Mrs. Red replied:

“Three, or four, or five weeks. I don’t quite remember.”

“Ah!” and Mr. Paroquet nodded very knowingly. “I reckon he might have been surprised to see you, and glad, of course, very glad, and Miss Spotted-Wing, too, for she was at the jasmine nest every day by that time, helping take care of the children, and must have been pretty well tired out.”

“Yes,” and Mrs. Red spoke sorry-like, as she always did when Spotted-Wing was mentioned, but if she understood the Paroquet’s meaning she gave no sign, and went on with her story.

“All my hopes were blasted now, for if my mistress took me away with her that was the end to my dream of freedom, and I was feeling so wretched and heart-sick when Robin came, as usual, and to him I told my trouble, asking what the North was like, and if, as I had heard, it snowed there all the time, though what snow was I did not then know, any more than you knew what icicles were when you asked if they grew on Christmas trees.

“‘Snow all the time!’ and Robin laughed so loudly that I was afraid he would awaken the lady on whose window-sill he was sitting. ‘That is one of your mistaken ideas of the North. Snow all the time! No, nor half the time, though we do have some pretty heavy north-easters when the wind blows enough to shake your feathers off; but that is in the winter, when such as you are in the warm house, hanging by the windows, where you can look out and see the snow drifting down through the trees, as the leaves of the dogwood and Cherokee roses fall in high wind. But it is the summer that is just glorious up there! Do you see that patch of green?’ and he nodded toward a yard not far away, which I had before noticed, and thought very fine.

“‘Well, the people who live there have sowed some kind of grain to make believe it was grass, but, dear me, it is no more like the turf at the North than your sand is like our clay. I wish you could see our beautiful lawns and meadows; they are just like a piece of green velvet. There is grass everywhere, and such flowers as we have in the summer time; such roses! No Cherokees, to be sure, but all the other kinds, with names I cannot begin to pronounce. And there is some smell to the lilacs, and honeysuckles, and the June pinks, and the English violets, and I can’t begin to tell you what else, except that the beds and borders are one blaze of beauty and brightness from early June till the frost comes in the fall.’

“‘Do you have magnolias there?’ I asked, and he answered slowly, ‘Well, now, Miss Red, we don’t have magnolias, nor orange blossoms, nor jasmines, and such like, but we have pond lilies, which to my mind beat everything else in the world. I wish you could see my home, or rather the garden where I was born, and have lived all my life. It is so lovely, with its grass and evergreens, and mountain ash and horse-chestnuts, and so many crooked little paths winding here and there, and arbors covered with woodbine, and grape-vines, and roses, and in the summer so many baskets and tall white things filled with flowers; and, oh my, if you could just see the cherry-trees! It makes my mouth water now to think of the luscious fruit of which we robins can have all we want. There is one tree which my mistress says belongs to the boys and birds, and such squabbles as we have over it. I don’t much like the boys, for they will leave cherries any time to break up a bird’s nest, and I’ve seen some sad sights in my time; though in the garden everything was peaceful and quiet, for my mistress takes care of the birds, and sometimes in spring, when the snow comes late, and we cannot find any worms, she gives us bread crumbs to eat, and we are not afraid of her, though she comes very near to us. My nest was up under the eaves, and near a chamber window, where I felt so safe and secure, knowing that nothing could ever touch the pretty blue eggs which Mrs. Robin laid every spring and summer. Neither boy nor cat could reach us there.’

“‘Cat?’” I said. “‘Cat! Pray what is that? I never heard of a cat before.’

“‘Never heard of a cat?’ Mr. Robin repeated, and now he laughed so loudly that the lady in the room upon whose window-sill he was sitting turned the shutter, and looked out to see what all the chattering was about.

“‘Seems to me the birds make a great noise this morning. They have been at it more than an hour,’ I heard her say, and then she went on with her dressing, while Robin continued:

“‘Never heard of a cat! Why, where were you raised, that your education was so neglected? But I forgot that you Red-birds lead a kind of Bohemian life apart from civilization, and so fail to learn a great many things which we robins, who are in society all the time, take naturally.’

“I had before observed that Mr. Robin, though given to a good deal of slang, sometimes went off into strains which I could not understand, and this was one of them, for I had not the remotest idea what he meant by civilization or Bohemian either, and I said so to him, whereupon he laughed again, and told me that the free and easy life I led up the river with Mr. Red and the little Reds, and the jasmines, and Cherokees, and alligators was Bohemian, while it was the very top of civilization and society to be shut up in a gilded cage as I was, with no chance of escape. At the risk of seeming very vulgar and ignorant in his eyes, I told him I liked Bohemian best, even if I had never heard of a cat, and then I questioned him again of that creature, was it a bird, or a beast, or what?’

‘A beast most decidedly,’ he said; ‘a vile, ugly beast,’ and by ugly he meant bad, for he said cats looked well enough, and he had even heard his mistress call one she had ‘a darling little beauty,’ but he did not see it. They had fur instead of feathers, four legs instead of two, with a long streamer behind which was called a tail, and which was anything but handsome. Then they were the natural enemies of birds, which they caught and ate whenever a chance occurred.

“‘Eat birds! Eat my little Reds!’ I exclaimed, in horror, and he replied:

“‘Yes, quicker than wink if they could get at ’em; and they are so sly and creeping-like that they are upon you before you know it, and they keep us in a constant fret when we are teaching our young ones to fly.’

“‘Then there is something bad even at the North, which you describe as so perfect,’ I said, a little maliciously.

“‘Why, yes,’ he answered, slightly crestfallen. ‘We have cats there, but then there’s no place just exactly right, you know. There’s a cat or something everywhere.’

“I knew that ‘by cat or something,’ he meant an annoyance of some kind, and I thought of the yellow jasmines up the river, and said to myself, ‘There’s no cat there;’ and then, when I remembered how Mr. Red had sometimes troubled me with his indolent habits, and his familiar way of talking to that pert Miss Spotted-Wing, I thought that might perhaps have been a cat, or at least a kitten, as Robin said the little cats were called.

“And then he told me of a kitten which came to his mistress’ door one wintry day when the snow was blowing, as he said, great guns, and the mountain ash almost bent up double before the driving wind. His mistress heard the cry, and saw the kitty looking in at the window and begging to come in; and as both she and the master were fond of cats he waded out into the snow and brought the kitty in, and gave it milk in a china saucer in the parlor, and petted it more than they did old Fanny, a highly respectable cat, who had lived with them a long time, and who did not at first take kindly to Jim—that was what they called the intruder—but spit at him, and boxed his ears, and growled if he came near her. But Jim was not to be repressed, and cared nothing for Fanny’s growls, or spits, or boxes, but seized every opportunity to jump at her from under chairs and tables, and to spring at her tail, until the old cat’s life was almost a burden to her. At last, however, Jim conquered, and the two were the best of friends, Fanny treating him as if he had been her own, giving him more than half the milk, and even waking him up when the dinner-bell rang, if he happened to be sleeping in the easy-chair near the fire, where he took his usual nap.

“‘After a time,’ said Robin, ‘old Fanny died, and was buried in the garden, under the plum-tree, and then Jim was really the master of the house, for I never knew a cat petted as my mistress petted him. And for a cat he was very handsome. He did not grow tall and long, as cats usually do, but was short, and fat, and round as a ball, with fur which shone like satin, and a white spot under his chin. I did not wonder my mistress liked him, he was so playful and affectionate; but it used to make me sick sometimes when she actually kissed him and called him a darling. But when one morning he caught a little striped snake, and carried it to her in triumph, and persisted in keeping it and tossing it in the air in spite of all her efforts to make him drop it, I noticed that she did not fondle him for a week; and I think she put him in the bath-tub, for I saw him lying in the sun, looking very wet and forlorn. But his fur was soon dried, and he raced about the grounds like a mad creature, catching grasshoppers and flies, and worrying almost to death a highly respectable toad, who lived near the cellar door, outside.’

“All this time I had felt no fears for the pretty blue eggs in our nest under the eaves, and with Mrs. Robin I was very happy watching them until the shells cracked open and four little birds appeared. They were our first, and we were so proud and fond of them, and nursed them with so much care, until one beautiful summer morning when we thought them old enough to begin to learn to fly. I shall never forget that day, and it all comes back to me now so vividly, the bright sunshine, the shadows on the grass, the ripe cherries on the trees, and our little ones hopping about on the walks, and then flying a few feet. I had taken the precaution to see that Jim was asleep in his chair, and so had no fear of him. Three of our children were sitting on the branch of a tree; but the fourth, who had never seemed quite as bright as the others, and whom we called Stupid, was in the grass pecking away at a cherry, while I was hunting about for more, when suddenly Mrs. Robin gave a terrible scream, and darted past me so swiftly that I felt kind of dizzy like and frightened, and flew up into a honeysuckle, where I was out of danger, and could look around and see what Mrs. Robin was so excited about. I never thought of Stupid, and my blood curdled in my veins, and I went a little higher up in the honeysuckle, when I saw that Jim had him in his mouth, and was bounding through the grounds with Mrs. Robin in hot pursuit, uttering such dreadful cries that out came my mistress with her parasol, and the cook with the broom, and the housemaid with the duster, and all took after Jim, on whose back Mrs. Robin finally pounced, pecking him so with her beak that he dropped his victim and turned to defend himself. But it was too late; poor little Stupid was dead, and that night there were only three little birds in our nest, and Mrs. Robin never spoke to me but once, and that was to call me a coward for hiding in the honeysuckle, instead of fighting as she did. If there was anything she despised, it was a sneak, she said, and for a whole week she was very cool and distant toward me, and would not believe me at all when I told her how sorry I was for my apparent want of courage, and that I stood back to look after our other young ones, and see that no harm came to them, while she, and my mistress, and the cook and the housemaid did battle with Jim.

“‘That was our first quarrel and our first sorrow, and I may say our last, for before we had any more eggs in our nest the horrid Jim was dead. Just what ailed him I never knew, but Mrs. Robin said he had been fed too high, and possibly she was right. At any rate he grew very thin, and sick, and weak, and we watched him anxiously, feeling glad to see him suffer when we remembered Stupid, but sorry for our mistress, who nursed him so carefully, and cried that morning when they found him dead on the grass, with the rain falling heavily upon him. They buried him under the plum-tree, by the side of Fanny; and there’s not even a kitten about the house now, for they made such work with the lace curtains, jumping at each other through them, and scratched up the flower-beds so, that my mistress grew tired of them, and there’s nothing in that garden to trouble us birds. But our nest is not now up under the eaves, for they have torn the house down over our heads two or three times, and our home is in a big horse-chestnut, where the leaves are so thick that not a boy in the neighborhood has ever suspected where we live.’

“Here the robin stopped to rest, for he had talked so fast, and used so many large words, that he was quite out of breath; and as by that time the people began to come out on the piazza for the fresh morning air, he flew away to a live-oak-tree, and began to sing merrily.”

Here the Red-bird paused, and from my seat beneath the magnolia I looked at the Paroquet just in time to detect him trying to hide a yawn, as if he were slightly tired with Robin, and Stupid, and Jim, and cats generally. But perhaps I was mistaken, for after a moment he asked:

“Where is Mrs. Robin now? Do you know if she is dead or alive?”

“Dead,” answered the Red-bird. “Robin told me that she was with him two winters ago, near Tallahassee, and that they built a nest there—almost the first in Florida, for as a general thing robins do not nest here; but they did, and were very happy, too, until poor Mrs. Robin was killed—shot by one of the soldiers who used to be so thick in those parts.”

“It’s the same fellow I know,” returned the Paroquet, “a great gossip; but go on—you certainly have more to tell.”

“Oh, yes, a great deal more,” said Mrs. Red; “but my story takes me now to the North, for my mistress left Florida a few days after my long talk with Robin; and after a three days’ voyage by sea, during which I was so sick that I hoped I should die, we reached a place they called New York, and there I changed owners. It seems my mistress lived very far to the West, and as she had found it some trouble to travel with me, she gave me to a friend of hers whom she met at the hotel, and who took even better care of me than she had done, for sometimes she had forgotten to give me any water for an entire day, and had otherwise neglected me. But my new mistress was very kind, and petted me a great deal, and called me some of the names Robin had said his mistress gave to her cat Jim. I missed Robin, and wondered if I should ever see him again. It was not likely, I thought, for of course his home and mine must be miles apart.

“We were going home very soon, I heard my mistress say, and one morning we left the noisy city, and when we stopped it was so late and so dark that I could not see where we were, or what the house was like. It was very quiet and still, and I was so tired and worn with the journey that I slept soundly until morning, and was only awakened by the housemaid when she came to open the shutters. It was a funny kind of a house, unlike anything I had ever seen before, which was not strange, perhaps, inasmuch as I had only been in big hotels. Still I think it was different from most houses, for the rooms all opened into each other, with no doors to shut, if one had wished to shut them; and there were queer nooks and corners, everywhere, and pleasant places to sit, and read the books upon the shelves. I really began to feel quite literary and learned myself, there were so many books, and pictures, and curious things from foreign parts, the names of which I did not then know, but I learned these afterward from hearing the people, who came to see my mistress, talk about them. There were Madonnas, and saints, and angels from Florence, and Rome, and Dresden, and dancing girls from Pompeii, and Apollos, and Venuses, and vases, and shells, and tables, and more things than I can remember now. I think my mistress wrote books, for there used often to be ink spots on her fingers, and a very tired look on her face when she came from a room upstairs which they called the library, and where she spent most of her mornings.

“It must have been April when I went to my new home, and one morning I saw what a snow-storm was for the first time in my life. My cage was hung in such a pretty little nook off from a bay window where a great many flowers were kept, and there were windows on three sides, so that I could look out into the yard, and see the big snowflakes sifting down through the trees, until the ground was completely covered with a soft carpet of white, and the little birds which had been flitting about for several days, hid themselves in the evergreens, and I heard my mistress say she must throw them some crumbs if the weather continued so cold. And that made me think of Mr. Robin, and what he had told me of his mistress feeding the birds. Where was he, I wondered, and where was his home, and I wished so much that I might see him again, if only to ask if there was any news from the South, where I left all that made life pleasant to me. I was always thinking of the old home among the jasmines, and it was especially kept in my mind by a stuffed bird which hung on a shelf in one corner of the nook where my cage was hung. My mistress brought it and put it there one morning, and said to me very friendly-like: ‘There, little Reddy, that will remind you of home, and who knows but poor Greenie came from the same place with yourself?’ It was a Paroquet, with such lovely green and golden feathers.”

“With a brownish tinge on the breast?” Mr. Paroquet asked, somewhat anxiously, and Mrs. Red replied:

“Yes, I noticed that particularly—the mottled appearance of the breast, where there was a spot of bright yellow.”

“My first wife, I’ll wager my head!” exclaimed Mr. Paroquet, very much awake now, and excited, it seemed to me, for he flew from the magnolia, where he had been sitting in a sleepy kind of way, to the orange-tree, where he alighted close to Mrs. Red, and continued: “My wife, from your description; the one they carried away and stuffed, so Robin said. Do you think she was stuffed—think she was really dead, or will she be coming back some day when I don’t expect her?”

“Dead? Of course she was dead,” returned Mrs. Red, rather scornfully. “She never spoke nor moved, all the time I was there, but just stared at me with those dreadful glass eyes, which made me feel so uncomfortable. You need have no fears of her coming back.”

“Oh, well,” returned Mr. Paroquet, brightening up a little. “Not that I shouldn’t be very glad to see her; very glad, of course, but then, you see, there’s the present Mrs. Paroquet, who might not be so glad, and that would make it rather awkward. Nobody can be dead a year, and come back, without being a very little in the way, for they are sure to find their places filled, or at least bridged over.”

To me, who, you will remember, was sitting on a bench listening to the conversation of these birds, the Paroquet’s assertion was startling, and for a few moments I forgot what the birds were saying, while I asked myself:

“Is it true that if I were to die, and go away into the darkness and silence of the grave, and then after a year could come back to the friends who had wept so bitterly when I left them, is it true that I should find myself in the way—my place filled, or bridged over with new loves and interests, which my sudden return would disturb and mar?”

And then I thought of a little blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, whom we called Nellie, and whose grave had been on the hill-side more than a dozen years. If she could come back again, would she not find a warm welcome from the mother who never mentions her without the hot tears springing to her eyes! Would Nellie be in the way? Oh, no, not the little Nellie who died that winter day so many years ago, the child Nellie, whose chair is in the corner yet, and whose picture looks down upon us from the wall. She could never be in the way, though the woman, the Nellie of twenty years, might be strange at first to the mother twelve years older now, with fuller and larger experiences of life, and habits of making plans with Nellie left out of them; but there could be no real jarring of new loves and interests; there could only be a deep joy and thankfulness for the Nellie alive again. So I reasoned—so I decided, and then turned back to the birds, who were still at their talk, and had passed from the snow-storm of April to the month of May, when Mrs. Red’s cage was first hung in a mountain ash which grew in the garden of her new home.

“The day was so bright,” she said, “and the grass so green, and the yard so beautiful, that for a time I could only look around me and admire the many pretty things scattered about the grounds. And as I looked it seemed to me I must have been there before, everything was so familiar, even to the iron deer with Southern moss upon his horns. Had I dreamed of all this, or what was it? I asked, and my head was beginning to ache with trying to recall something in the past, when suddenly a voice, which I remembered perfectly, called out:

“‘Halloo, Miss Red, if this don’t beat all. Here you are away up here on my own ground. How did it happen? And what do you think of the North now?’

“It was Robin, of course, and to my great delight I found that I was actually in the very garden he had described to me, that my mistress was his mistress, and that his nest was up in one of the tall horse chestnuts, which grew at the entrance of the grounds. And there was another Mrs. Robin now, a pretty little bird, who arched her neck so gracefully and looked so shyly at me from her bright eyes when Robin brought and introduced her to me. They were very happy together—Mr. and Mrs. Robin—and I in part forgot my own sorrows and loneliness in watching them day by day as they flew in and out of the nice soft nest in the chestnut tree, and made wide circles in the air just as I used to do away down on the river.

“At last Robin came to me with a very important air, and told me there were four blue eggs in the nest, and Mrs. Robin was sitting on them to keep them warm, and he was going to hunt worms for her from the mound of earth just turned up in the garden. They were Mrs. Robin’s first eggs, and she scarcely left them at all until the shells were broken and I heard there were four young birds in the nest. Oh, how proud little Mrs. Robin was! What care she took of her babies—more care, indeed, than Robin, who was growing old and fat, and indisposed for work, and who sometimes called her nervous and fussy, and told her that nothing could harm her children as long as they staid up in that tall tree. Still Mrs. Robin was very watchful and vigilant, and looked askance at every boy who passed on the walk, and even at Harry and Grey and Gifford, little boys who came sometimes to play in the garden, and who could no more have climbed to the nest than they could have gone to the steeple of the church just showing above the trees in the distance.

“At last, when the birds were old enough to be taught to fly, an event occurred which threw Mrs. Robin into a wild state of excitement. I had several times heard my mistress and the cook talking together of some people who were coming to spend a portion of the summer, and I had caught the names of Florence and Johnnie, but who Florence and Johnnie were I did not know or particularly care, for it mattered little to me who came or went. I was never molested, and my daily wants were supplied with great regularity. And still I did have some little curiosity with regard to the expected guests, on whose account the whole household was, for a few days, in an unusual commotion. On the afternoon when they arrived my cage was hanging in a little archway at the rear of the grounds, and so I heard and saw nothing until Robin, who had been absent for a few hours, came home, and stopped for a moment on a shrub near me to rest and chat awhile, as he was in the habit of doing. In fact, I had sometimes thought that Mrs. Robin, whom, since the birth of the birds, he had called little Motherdy, while she in return had called him Fatherdy, was more than half jealous of me because of Robin’s sociability. At all events he never sat near me long before she joined him and made some excuse to get him away. So I was not surprised to see her flying toward us from the cherry-tree, where she had been pecking away at a half-ripe cherry. As she came near I saw at a glance that something was the matter, and so did Robin, and he called out in his cheery, teasing way:

“‘Well, little Motherdy, what’s up now, that your feathers seem so ruffled, and you so excited? Anything happened to the young ones, or what is the matter?’

“‘Matter!’ she repeated. ‘Matter enough. What do you think has come right into our midst to worry our birds to death?’

“‘Cats, maybe,’ he said; and she replied:

“‘Cats! No, something worse than that. Two children, boy and girl, and by the looks of the luggage they have come to stay, and there’s an end of all peace for us. Why, the boy has already spied me, and actually thought he could reach me, and I on the top of the Brockway house. You would far better have put our nest in the evergreens across the street, where I wanted it. But no, you must stay in that old place just because you used to live there with the other one, who I wish was here now. Such a time as I am going to have with those children! Afraid for my life and the babies every minute!’

“I had known before that Motherdy, though a nice little thing, had a temper, and that she was sometimes given to being jealous of the first Mrs. Robin, and that she had opposed the old nest in the chestnut tree, because Mrs. Robin 1st had lived there. But she was so pretty, and had such graceful ways, that Robin never lost his temper, no matter how unreasonable she might be, and now he only laughed good-humoredly and made light of her fears, saying his mistress would never allow any one to disturb the birds, and as for the evergreens across the street, where she had wanted him to build a new nest, she would have been no safer there, for was not Harry over there, and Grey, and were they not both larger than this Chicago boy who had so alarmed her?

“‘You are nervous, little Motherdy,’ he said. ‘You have boy on the brain. Hadn’t you better go home? Some boy may have stolen your babies, nest and all.’

“Motherdy was too angry to reply, and flew away rapidly, followed soon by Robin, who, I suppose, made his peace with her, for they were out together early the next morning, hunting for worms and grasshoppers, and talking lovingly in the language which birds understand. And still I could see that both were rather anxious for the appearance of the children, Florence and Johnnie, and so was I, for I had heard the sound of voices from the house—sweet, musical voices, such as children always have—and I thought I could tell which was Florence and which was Johnnie, for one I knew was two or three years older than the other.

“At last they came into the grounds with a laugh and a bound, and from the ridge-pole of the Brockway house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curiously at them. How pretty they were in their white dresses and gay sashes—Florence with her pale face and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see everything at once, and Johnnie with his great round blue eyes, the color of the robin’s eggs, and his beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his neck. ‘Black-Eyes’ and ‘Bright-Hair’ I named them at once, and I watched them as they started to run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose little feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of course, and bumped his nose and soiled his clean white dress; but he did not seem to mind it at all, but, man-like, got up again and started after Black-Eyes, who had spied a little arbor under an apple-tree, which she decided was just the place for the mud pies she was longing to make, as no child’s life in the country is complete without a trial of making and baking pies. Then she saw me next, and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair wanted to ‘take, take,’ and stretched his little hands toward me, and tried to climb the lattice, in the archway of which I was hanging. But I was far above his reach, and looked down upon him fearlessly as he tried in vain to get me.

“What lovely children they were, and those were very happy days when I watched them flitting about the grounds or making their mud pies in the grapevine arbor. I think the cook must have been very good-natured, for she gave up her muffin-rings, and sponge-cake tins, and iron spoons, and a pan and dipper for the bakery, and even brought a box of dirt, which little Florence called flour; and then the mud pie business began in earnest, and Johnnie’s fat white arms were besmeared above his elbows, and his face was covered with mud, and Florence was not much better, as in her long-sleeved gingham apron she worked industriously at her pies and cakes, which were made into wonderful shapes, and baked on a griddle in the sun.

“Sometimes Maggie and Harry, and Grey and Sophie and Louise came to help, but the girls were almost too old for mud pies, and Grey was afraid of soiling his clothes, and Harry fonder of chasing a kitten which had strayed into the yard the day after the children came, and which my mistress kept as a plaything for them, and so Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair had the pies mostly to themselves. It was difficult to tell which Bright-Hair liked the best—the pies or the kitten, which he called the ‘cart,’ or the little robins, which were just learning to fly, and who hopped about in a very stupid way, while little Motherdy watched narrowly and nervously to see that no harm came to them, either from the cat, or Bright-Hair, who always started for them when he saw them in the grass, and seemed greatly disturbed because they flew away just before he had reached them.

“One afternoon there was a garden party for the children, and I think I never saw a finer sight than it was to see all those little girls and boys in their best clothes, which did not look quite so fresh and nice when they went home, as when they came. Oh, what fine times they had playing upon the lawn, and in the different arbors, which were fitted up with dollies, furniture, and called by different names. There was the ‘Doll’s Drawing-room,’ where the larger dolls sat solemn and still in their chairs, and there was a sleeping room for the dolls, and Apple-Tree Hotel and a restaurant near by, where the children had macaroons, and took weak lemonade through straws; but the thing which pleased them most was the wheel chair, in which all the children had a ride before the day was done.

“That afternoon, Motherdy kept her robins out of sight, and did not allow them once to fly down into the grass, lest some harm should befall them. She was not afraid of Bright-Hair nor Black-Eyes, nor Harry, nor Grey, nor Maggie, nor Gifford, she said, but she distrusted some of the larger boys, who ran so fast and made so much noise, and she kept her children at home greatly against their will. They were not afraid, and I think had really become attached to Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, and so had the Fatherdy and Motherdy birds, who liked to see them round, and thought the grounds were prettier because they were there. I thought so, too, and when at last their father came and took them away, I felt more lonely and desolate than I had done in weeks, while my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Robin, with their four young ones, flew up to the ridge-pole of the house, and watched the huge thing which bore them away until it was out of sight, and there was nothing to be seen but a ring of smoke away to the west, where they were gone. I remember that my mistress came out to the arbor where the children had played, and cried a little as she picked up the spoons, and plates and dishes which had been used for their mud pies, some of which were still baking in the sun.

“I pass rapidly over the remainder of the summer and the fall, when Mr. and Mrs. Robin bade me good-by, and, with their family started for the South. How I longed to go with them, and how many messages I sent to Mr. Red and my own little ones, should they chance to meet them. And then the days were very long and dreary, until little Florence came again to pass the holidays with her auntie, and there was a Christmas-tree in the church, and I was taken there in my cage and hung near the chancel, where I could see all the fine doings which were so new and strange to me. But I soon began to understand it, and watched the ladies with a great deal of interest as they filled the tree with every conceivable toy for the children, who, when it was done, came crowding in, and filled nearly half the church. What carols they sang of the ‘Wonderful Night,’and ‘Jesus of Bethlehem,’ and how the organ filled the church and even made the floor tremble, as the organist played with both hands and feet, and the children’s voices rose louder and clearer as they sang of a Saviour’s birth. I really began to feel quite like a churchman myself, or at least like a church bird, though I did wonder why I was there. But I soon found out, for as name after name was called, and the children came trooping up to receive their gifts, I heard at last little Florence called, and, to my surprise, I was given to her as a Christmas gift from her auntie. I knew that she was very fond of me, and called me a great many pet names, and gave me more things to eat than I could possibly take, but I had never dreamed of belonging to her, and when I found that I was to go with her to her home in Chicago, where Bright-Hair lived, I felt at first sorry to leave my former mistress, who had been so kind to me. And there was Robin, whom I might never see again, and the beautiful garden where I had spent so many pleasant days. But it could not be helped, and within a week or two I was hanging in a bay window in my new home in the city, and I was very happy there, too, with Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair for my companions. Children do cheer up a house wonderfully, and I learned to listen to their merry voices, and wait anxiously for their appearance in the morning. As the winter wore away and the spring came on, little Florence, who was always a pale, delicate child, seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, until at last she refused to eat anything, and in the summer they took us all to their country home, a few miles from the city, where she improved rapidly, and ran about the grounds as merrily as ever. But when the autumn came and the winds blew cold from the lake, she began to droop again, and I heard them say they must take her South, where it was always warm and sunny.

“Then my heart began to beat so fast with wondering if she would take me with her. I half believed she would, she loved me so much—and she did, and we came to the same hotel where I was first a prisoner, and my cage was hung again in the old place, where through the trees of oak and orange I could see glimpses of the river, and the boats as they went up and down.”

“Really, now, it is all quite like a story. Have you seen Robin? and how did you get away?” Mr. Paroquet said, hopping up and down, first on one foot and then on the other, as if he were growing tired.

Mrs. Red noticed this, and hastened on.

“Yes, I have seen Robin; it was up the river, where he is spending the winter with Mrs. Robin, who is as bright, and pretty, and spirited as ever—but I must tell you how I came to be up the river myself. My dear little mistress, Florence, knew that my home was once in this part of the country, and a few days ago, when she gave me my breakfast of seeds and figs, she talked to me in her usual loving way, and said:

“‘You know my mamma says I am not getting well here as fast as I ought, and she is going to take me to St. Augustine, down by the sea, and so, poor little Reddie, I love you ever and ever so much, but I’ve been thinking and thinking how dreadful it would be for me to be shut up as you are, and taken away where I never could see my papa, or mamma, or Johnnie any more. Maybe, though, you haven’t a papa, or mamma, or Johnnie. I guess birds never have such things, like us girls, but you may have had some little birds in some nest somewhere, and maybe you can find your way home to that nest, and so, you precious old Reddie, I am going to make you a present of your freedom. I am going to open the door of your cage, and let you go—so!’

“And here she opened the door suddenly, and gave the cage a shake which sent me out upon the piazza.

“If I had stopped a minute to consider, I might have hesitated about leaving the cage which had been my home so long, and to which I was really very much attached, but just as I hopped out upon the floor, some children came running round the corner and frightened me so, that I instantly flew to the top of a tree near by. It was my first experiment in flying for almost two years, and it seemed so natural, so delightful, to beat the air with my wings once more, and freedom seemed so sweet that I could not go back, but sat for a moment looking at the empty cage and my little mistress standing by it with a sorry look on her face, as if she had not quite expected me to leave her so readily. Then I thought of the nest in the jasmine, and of Mr. Red, and the happy life I had lived with him among the orange-trees and magnolias, and I said to myself, ‘I must go there,’ and while my mistress was looking up at me with those bright black eyes of hers, I flew away as fast as my wings could take me, in the direction of my old home. But not being accustomed to flying, I soon grew tired, and stopped many times to rest and look down from some tall tree upon the river, which had never seemed so beautiful to me as it did that day.