CHAPTER I
The Pigeon Princess
Dear little Princess Sukey sitting by the fire—pretty little pigeon—of what is she thinking as she dreamily eyes the blazing wood? If a pigeon could review its past life, what she has of bird mind would be running back over the series of adventures that she had ere she established herself in this well ordered household.
Has she any mentality of her own, or are all pigeons stupid as has been said? Listen to her story, and judge for yourself.
To begin with—she is not a common street pigeon like those who are looking in the window, and who are probably envying her the silk cushion on which she sits, her china bath, her lump of rock salt, and her box of seeds. For it is a bitterly cold day. The wind is blowing fiercely, the thermometer is away below zero, and the ground is covered with snow. In summer these same street pigeons seem to be laughing at the pigeon princess on account of the abnormal life that she leads, but just now they certainly would change places with her.
The princess is a Jacobin—a thoroughbred, with a handsome hood that nearly hides her head, a fine mane and chain, and her colors are red and white.
Her parents were beauties—show birds with perfect points, and they were owned by a young pigeon fancier of the small city of Riverport, Maine.
The lad’s name was Charlie Brown, and he had a friend called Titus Sancroft, or, more familiarly, “Stuttering Tite,” from an unfortunate habit that he had formed of catching his breath at the beginning of nearly every sentence he uttered.
Now, young Titus walked most opportunely into Charlie’s pigeon loft just a day after Princess Sukey had been hatched.
Just before he came in the clock struck four. A male pigeon always helps the female in the work of incubation, and bringing up the young ones. About ten o’clock every morning the mother pigeon leaves her eggs, goes to get something to eat, and walks about the loft with the other pigeons—a pigeon rarely plays; even young ones are phlegmatic. As she comes off her nest the male pigeon goes on and sits there till four in the afternoon. Then the female returns for the night.
Well, the young princess was a sickly pigeon. There had been two sickly pigeons, for usually two eggs are laid at a time. One had died, and the father Jacobin, thinking that the young Sukey was also going to die, took her in his beak, lifted her from the nest, and gently deposited her on the floor at the other end of the loft.
There is little sentiment among birds. They believe in the survival of the fittest, and the weak are calmly taken from the nest.
The young pigeon was not desperately ill. However, blind and naked as she was, she could not have survived long, away from the warmth of the nest, unless this boy Titus had discovered her.
“H-h-hello, Charlie,” he stuttered, “here’s a squab out of the nest.” Charlie took the bird by the legs.
“W-w-what are you going to do?” asked Titus.
“Strike its head against the wall.”
Titus did not approve of this.
“Wh-why don’t you put it back in the nest?” he asked, excitedly.
“No good—once the old ones put it out they won’t look at it.”
“C-c-can’t you feed it?”
“Too much trouble. I did have some birds that would feed young ones—two fine old feeders, but I sold them.”
Titus had a mercenary little soul. “A-a pity to throw away good money,” he said, looking at the pigeon. “I-I should think you could worry some food down its throat yourself.”
“I could, but it’s an awful bother. I’ve tried it. This is a sick thing anyway. It will be dead in five minutes. See how it’s gasping.”
“B-b-bet you my jackknife it won’t die,” replied Titus.
So they waited five minutes, and, as good fortune would have it, the future princess gasped them out, and Charlie laid her in Titus’s palm. “The squab is yours.”
“B-b-blest if I know what to do with it,” remarked Titus, turning the pigeon over in his hands.
Charlie smiled mischievously. “I guess your grandfather will give you a time if he finds out.”
“H-h-he shan’t find out,” said Titus.
“It’s mean that you can’t have pigeons or something,” observed Charlie. “All the fellows have. Why don’t you make tracks for another grandfather?”
Titus grinned. His grandfather was a great trial to him, but it was only in one respect. In other ways he was a model grandfather.
“Hope it will live,” said Charlie, generously. “Tuck some food down its throat—some feed one way, some another—and mix some sweet oil in it. I’ve heard that’s good when you take them from the parents.”
Titus stood a minute longer; then seeing that the pigeon was near her end, and that Charlie was unconcernedly going on with his work of feeding and watering the other pigeons, he scampered home.
Titus lived with his grandfather, Judge Sancroft, and Judge Sancroft possessed a somewhat foolish and provoking but most devoted old family servant man called Higby.
Titus ran all about the house looking for this man. He was really forbidden to talk to him unless he was positively forced to do so. The Judge had commanded that Titus should only request a service from Higby, and thank him for one rendered. There was to be no conversation, for old Higby stammered terribly, and the Judge feared that it was from him Titus had caught the tiresome habit.
Finally the boy found the man in the attic superintending some painters.
“S-s-see what I’ve got, Higby,” he said, opening his palms, where he was keeping the pigeon warm.
“A s-s-squab,” said Higby, “a-a-and and an ugly w-w-worm of a thing it is.”
“W-w-what shall I do with it?” asked Titus.
“W-w-wring it’s neck, young sir,” said Higby, who was much worried by the painters. “’Tis a s-s-sad world for m-m-man, woman, or pigeon.”
“B-but it’s worth money,” said Titus. “It’s a Jacobin—the parents cost twenty dollars.”
Higby looked at it again. Neither he nor the lad was much animated by sentiment in saving the life of a bird. Then he felt the pigeon’s crop.
“Th-th-there ain’t nothin’ in there, Master Titus. You’ve got to fe-fe-feed it mighty quick.”
“Y-you come help me,” said the boy.
“I ca-ca-can’t leave these workmen.”
“I-if you don’t,” replied Titus, “I’ll tell my grandfather that you seek me out and talk to me. Then he’ll discharge you.”
Higby flew into a rage. As he choked and spluttered and stammered he stepped backward. That was his way when wrestling for words, and when he at last got his words he struck one foot sharply on the floor.
Young Titus, on the contrary, always stopped stuttering when he became deeply moved about anything, but in his excitement he had formed the habit of stepping forward. So if he were talking to Higby there was at the same time advance and retreat.
The painters were nearly killing themselves laughing, and when Higby discovered this he shuffled downstairs after the boy.
Titus led the way to the kitchen. “Mrs. Blodgett,” he called to the housekeeper, who was directing the maids, “please make me some warm feed for this pigeon.”
The housekeeper stared at the bird. “O, law! what a nasty little thing!”
By this time the future little princess was nearly dead, and Titus in dismay called, “Hurry up.”
“Master Titus,” she replied, snappishly, “the girls are preparing dinner. You’ll have to wait.”
“I can’t wait,” returned the boy, angrily, and he began to step forward. “Don’t you see the bird’s dying? Higby, you talk to her.”
Titus’s eyes were flaming, and Higby, who was at heart a coward, and terrified of anyone in a real rage, subdued his own disturbed feelings, and in a wheedling voice asked Mrs. Blodgett for just a little “ro-ro-rolled oats,” with boiling water poured on.
Mrs. Blodgett frowned, and grumbled out something about having men and boys in the kitchen at mealtimes. However, she drew out her keys and went to the storeroom, and in a few minutes Titus and Higby were in a corner of the kitchen with a cup of soft food before them, but with nothing but their clumsy fingers to put it in the pigeon’s small beak.
The young bird smelt and felt the food, and nearly wriggled out of Titus’s grasp in trying to get it.
“T-t-this won’t do,” exclaimed the boy, when she jabbed her beak against his hand, “w-w-we’ve got to have a feather or a stick.”
Mrs. Blodgett gave them some turkey feathers and some toothpicks, and between them they managed to worry a little food into the pigeon’s beak.
“You ought to h-h-have a syringe,” said Higby, “the old birds fe-fe-feed their young ones by putting their b-b-beaks crosswise in their mouths to pu-pu-pump the food down.”
“I-I know, I’ve seen them,” replied Titus. “You just run along to the drug store and get me one.”
Higby had to go, and by putting a rubber tube in the pigeon’s beak they managed to feed her pretty well.
When her crop was quite round and full Titus called for a basket and cotton wool, and put her behind the kitchen stove.
“That basket is mortally in the way,” said Mrs. Blodgett, fretfully; “it is just in the place where we put our plates to warm.”
“B-b-blodgieblossom,” said the boy, cajolingly, thrusting his arm through hers, “it’s for your boy.”
The housekeeper gave in. When young Titus called her “Blodgieblossom,” and said he was her boy, she would do anything for him.
“Mind, don’t any of you knock that basket over,” she said, turning frowningly to the maids.
Titus was running upstairs, when suddenly he stopped and hurried back. They all thought he had come to thank them for helping him, but he had not.
“L-l-look a-here!” he said, sternly, “If I catch any of you prattling to grandfather that I’ve got a pigeon I’ll make it hot for you.”
They all grinned at each other. The Judge was a good man, but he was rather severe with his grandson when he deceived him.
The Judge did not find out. He never entered the kitchen, and the young pigeon grew and thrived, but not behind the stove on the plate-warmer, for Titus, finding that her little body was almost like a furnace itself, appropriated a corner of one of the big kitchen tables for her basket.
Young Titus and old Higby fed her several times a day. One had to hold her, while the other pushed the food down her throat, and cross enough the old servant man was when Titus would call out, “T-t-the goose hangs high.”
Titus did not dare to say, “It is feeding time for the pigeon, Higby,” for the Judge might have heard, and Titus feared that he would be exceedingly annoyed if he found out that a bird was being kept in his house.
It was really curious that such a dislike for the lower creation should have been imputed to a really benevolent and kind-hearted man like Judge Sancroft. True, he did not care particularly for animals. He had been brought up in a city, and he had never had any animals about him but horses and cows. He was not actively fond of them, but he always saw that they were well cared for. None of his children had been fond of animals. Certainly he was not the kind of man to have said, “No,” if any of his young sons or daughters had come to him years ago and said, “Father, I want a dog or a cat.”
However, his own children were all dead, and the opinion had strengthened with years that the Judge did not care for dumb creatures. Titus did not know that his grandfather would have listened with dismay to anyone who said to him, “Sir, you have a young grandson under your roof who is pining for pets such as other boys have, and he is afraid to ask you for them.”
The Judge was unmistakably a very good man. His white head, large, handsome face, and portly frame bore the marks of good temper, sound judgment, and eminent respectability. It was rather a wonder that he had not made himself known as a philanthropist. However, he had in early life been devoted to his profession, then he had had much trouble and bereavement, and had traveled extensively, and then his health had partly broken down, and he had resigned his judgeship, given up most of the active duties of life, and settled down to a sedentary old age.
But old age did not come. Renewed health did come, and at the time when our story opens the somewhat bewildered Judge found himself in the position of a man who sees the map of his life turned upside down in his hands.
He really had not enough to do. He had made enough money to live on, really more than enough, but he began to think seriously of opening that long-closed law office. He was only restrained by a question of dignity. He had been so long on the bench that he would hate to come down to office work again—and yet he could not rust out. He sighed sometimes as he thought of his future—sighed, not knowing what responsibilities Providence was preparing for him. Probably if he could have foreseen he would have sighed more heavily. However, the responsibilities brought also their alleviations with them.
Young Titus was not at all like his grandfather in appearance. The Judge was a large, rotund, handsome man, always carefully, even exquisitely, dressed. Titus was slim and dark, loose-jointed and always awry. His collar was shady, his clothes tumbled. He was not in one single outward respect like the dignified white-haired man who sat opposite him at the table. But there was the mysterious tie of blood between them. Apparently the elderly man and the boy were not at all alike, but there were points of resemblance. They both felt them, and in their way were devoted to each other.
The Judge was a much-afflicted man. Wife, sons, daughters, all were gone, but this one lad, and he often looked at him wistfully. If anything should happen to this sole grandchild the good old name of Sancroft would die out.
A day came when it looked as if the family name would go. A terrible thing happened to young Titus, and his grandfather’s house was wrapped in gloom. The lad’s unfortunate habit of stuttering was at the root of the trouble.
The Judge knew perfectly well that any physical or mental peculiarity about a boy subjects him to an intermittent martyrdom from his fellow boys, who with respect to teasing are part savages. Therefore he had a private teacher who wrestled with Titus on the subject of stuttering for several hours a week. He also was willing that Titus should have all his lessons at home, but this the boy would not agree to, and the Judge respected him for it.
Titus always went down the street with his eyes rolling about him. It was such an irresistible temptation to the boys to imitate him that usually the air was vocal with mocking-birds.
Fortunately, Titus was exceedingly wiry, and utterly fearless. Otherwise he would certainly have been cowed or injured long before our story begins.
He always marched out of school with the other boys, never waited to walk home in the shadow of a teacher, and if a call of derision reached him and he could locate the boy, if he had time, he took off his coat, intrusted it to a friend, and rushed into the fray. The boys in his set never carried books in the street. They had duplicate copies at home.
On one particular day, which turned out to be the disastrous day for poor Titus, he had got halfway home with, strange to say, not a single fight.
It was not a school day but a holiday, and he had been downtown with a companion. Suddenly, as he strolled along beside him, a teasing voice rang out:
The boy got no further. His song was so malicious, his manner so exquisitely provoking, that young Titus, without waiting for a single preliminary, flew upon him like a whirlwind.
Provoker and the provoked one rolled over and over in the middle of the street. It was a rainy, muddy morning in the late summer, and in their dark suits and bedaubed condition they soon had very much the appearance of two dogs.
So thought a young man who was driving a fast horse and talking to a lively young girl by his side. One careless glance he gave the supposed dogs; then, thinking that they would get out of the way, he scarcely took pains to avoid them.
Needless to say, the dogs made no effort to avoid him. On the contrary, they rolled right in his path. One terrified shriek he heard from Titus’s opponent, then there was silence.
The horrified young man sprang from his buggy. One boy was not hurt, he was only frightened. The other lay with his dark young face turned up to the sky. There was blood on his hands and his forehead. The horse’s hoofs had struck him, and the wheels of the buggy had gone over his legs.
The young man did not lose his head. He asked the uninjured lad for Titus’s name and address, he put him in the buggy, and requesting a bystander to notify the Judge he drove rapidly to a hospital, his girl friend tenderly holding Titus’s injured head.
The succession of troubles that Judge Sancroft had had during his life had all been of a deliberate kind. His wife and children had all had long illnesses, and much suffering, so much so that death had come as a welcome release. He did not remember anything just as sudden as this, and his chastened and subdued heart died within him. He feared that he was going to lose his last treasure.
He happened to be in his club when the news came to him, and taking a carriage he drove at once to the hospital.
What a contrast—from the quiet luxurious rooms of the club, from the peaceful reading or talking men, to this abode of pain and distress.
The Judge reverently bared his head as he entered the door. “God pity them!” he murmured, as he walked through the long halls and corridors to the private room where his young grandson had been carried.
There was a white-capped nurse in the room. The Judge bowed courteously to her, then he turned to the bed.
Was that Titus—was that his lively, mischievous grandson—that pale, quiet lad with the bandaged head?
The Judge stretched out both hands and laid them on the lad’s wrists.
“My boy,” he said, piteously, “my boy, don’t you know me?”
“He is quite unconscious, sir,” said the nurse.
“Will he die?” asked the Judge.
“Sir,” she said, protestingly, “the operation has not taken place—only an examination.”
The Judge sat down by the bed. Bitter, rebellious thoughts, resigned thoughts, protesting thoughts, chased each other through his mind.
At last he got up and went to the back of the room. “God’s will be done,” he said, with a great sigh.
The nurse gazed surreptitiously at him. She was very young, and to her the Judge in his vigorous late middle age, and with his white head, appeared to be an old man.
“And a good one,” she said to herself. Then she listened.
The Judge was also listening. His senses were unnaturally acute. Before her he heard the soft footfalls and the whispering at the door. The hospital attendants had come to take his boy to the operating room.
“I shall wait here,” he said, and with a piteous face he watched the lifting and taking away of the quiet little body. But when the door closed he went on his knees by the bed.
“O, Lord, spare my boy—take my life if necessary, but spare his. I am getting old, but he is young. Spare him, spare him, dear Lord!”