Part 53

“A bad Hawk or a Crow or Owl or something big has been here,” said Dave, with a quaver in his voice, “and it’s killed a banty rooster that looks just like mine, that is, this bunch of feathers does; but then, Goldilocks has banties, too, so perhaps it is one of hers,” and he held the feathers up.

Gray Lady took them; yes, they were banty feathers, and from a bird that had not been long dead, for the quill ends were still moist. Then she looked at the ground: “Something that did not fly has killed the bantam, and dragged its body along the ground, and it had feet with padded claws, look!” she said, and there was a blood-stained trail that skirted the bushes and then ran across the lane toward a hay-barn that now held only bedding and cornstalks.

“You children amuse yourselves here while Tommy, Dave, and I follow this up.”

Nothing could have been more simple than this following, as the footprints of the large cat, for that is what it was, showed plainly in the new snow, and, here and there, a few drops of blood also marked the way. Straight to the barn ran the trail, and then through a small door that had been left open at Gray Lady’s request, that birds might take shelter inside.

So they had, poor things, and so had the cat also. On the floor were other feathers of many kinds, among which Gray Lady recognized the white-spotted tail-feathers of a Robin, the pointed shafts of the Flicker, and gray-and-white down that might have come from a Junco’s breast; while half hidden by loose cornstalks was the foot of a Grouse, also yellow legs that had belonged to a good-sized chicken.

The boys stood still in amazement, and Dave said, “I knew foxes and dogs carried things home or buried them, but I didn’t know cats did unless they have kittens hidden. I wonder if there are kittens in the cornstalks, and if this cat stole all the chickens we’ve been losing every day almost along since fall? Because it couldn’t be any kind of birds that stole them, they couldn’t get in; and father said it lay between cats, rats, and weasels.”

“We will soon find out,” said Gray Lady. “Will you boys go down to the stable and ask Jacob to come up? I will watch here.” As soon as they had gone, Gray Lady went into a corner and seated herself upon a box. Presently she heard a rustle among the cornstalks and out stalked a great tiger-striped cat, licking her whiskers. After snuffing the footsteps of the boys, she began to lash her tail to and fro, which in a cat means anger, and quite the reverse of the dog’s sociable, “I’m glad to see you” tail-wag. Then, looking back at the hole in the corn stack through which she had come, she made a strange sound, half purr, half growl, that Gray Lady thought was evidently intended as a note of warning, and then the cat slunk off through the snow, keeping as close to the fence as possible and dropping her body low as she hurried away.

When Jacob came, he took a hayfork and began to shift the cornstalks from the corner to the empty floor opposite. The feathers, he said, had all been gathered during the two past weeks, for when he had last taken the wood-sled from the barn, no feathers were to be seen.

“Here they are!” he exclaimed, as the last stack was reached, but even as he spoke, six half-grown kittens, brindled like their parent, sprang in different directions, some going up on the beams and others diving into the hay, only one remaining, with arched back and flashing eyes, to hiss a protest at the disturbing of their comfortable home.

“What’s the use of making bird laws and feeding birds and all that, and letting wild beasts like these multiply about the country?” said Jacob, resting on the handle of the fork. “No, ma’am, if I had my way, I’d get up a Kind Heart Club of men to help the birds and rid the township of homeless cats, red squirrels, and English Sparrows—yes, I would, ma’am!

“I have eyes and I use them, and I know cats are worse enemies to birds, counting wild birds and poultry together, than everything else that walks or flies humped together. Tame house cats are bad enough, for they’ll kill for pleasure when they’re not hungry. My sister over at Hill’s farm says she’s taken over fifty dead or half-dead birds away from her pet cat this summer, until it sickened her of the idea of keeping cats.

“But when it comes to the half-breeds that some folks let grow up because they’re too slack to kill ’em, it’s just a crime! Look at this piece of work here; the cat that has done all this is one of the outcasts of the lot down at the grist-mill. Cats are only half tamed at best; let them get a taste of hunting and back they go and are savages.

“They don’t belong to this country; we folks brought ’em, like we did English Sparrows, and we made a mistake, and we ought to undo it when we can. Transplanted animals, like pauper foreigners, always get the upper hand. Traps can catch up the rats and mice, only we’re too lazy to set them. Cats are no good, even for pets, for they’re tricky, and they aren’t healthy for children to have because they carry skin diseases and such in their fur. They claim that Jessie Lyons that died in Bridgeton ’long in the fall got the diphtheria from her cat’s trampin’ all over creation, and then her huggin’ it.

“If it’s right and proper to license dogs, and if one kills fowls or sheep, for the town to pay damages, then, say I, the least we can do is to license cats and hold the owners for their mischief.

“Next to cats I’m most put out with red squirrels and English Sparrows. The first are sneaks; they take eggs, little birds, and all. They make free with young gray squirrels, too, and don’t spare their next-door neighbours even, while Sparrows hustle and do much likewise, taking the nesting-places of Swallows and Bluebirds and Jenny Wrens, and fighting and wrastling with anything smaller than themselves, breaking up nests and pitching out young ones until I just can’t stand it! Now it’s woe to any of these three that comes across my path. Maybe some folks will say I’m cruel. Will those folks let mice and rats eat their groceries and not kill them? and by themselves rats and mice are decent, clean animals.

“Not they; and to us that love our tree birds, cats and red squirrels and English Sparrows are hateful as are rats and mice, and I warrant you’ll not think I’m going too far when I say it, ma’am!”

“No, Jacob, you are right, though I’m sorry to say so,” answered Gray Lady, still looking at the feathers. “The cat tribe is by nature cruel. All animals kill for food, but the cat tortures before she kills. I used to defend the keeping of pet cats until one that I had trusted bit me through the hand at a moment when I was petting her, without the slightest provocation. I never knew a dog to bite his master unprovoked—unless he was ill—and even if we love our cats, we should be unselfish, for birds are of value to the country at large and cats are not. Only, I insist upon this, that the killing, even of vermin, is a matter for the grown-up, and some one with authority should be appointed to do it. It should not be left to the young and irresponsible, just as the punishing of human criminals is not a matter for the people in general to decide and put in execution.

“Yes, boys,” Gray Lady continued, “I wish every one would feel responsible in this matter. No farmer will raise more poultry or calves or colts than he can feed and then turn them loose to either starve or prey upon his neighbours. Why, then, should he allow his cats to straggle about and kill the song-birds that even much money cannot buy or replace? But come, we must go on; the others will be wondering where we are.

“I want you all to look at something at the lane end,—that great beech tree with the gray streaked trunk. Do you see the sunbeams playing checkers on the bark, this side? Do you know what this means? I will tell you. It means that the tide of winter is turning toward spring, that February is here. We should not know it unless we looked at the day in the calendar. It is quite as cold as it has been all through the winter, but the days are growing longer, and now, once more, the sun slips by the barn in the morning and lies upon the beech trunk that has been in shadow all winter long.

“My father showed me this when I was a child; and whenever I grew tired of winter, the earth seemed dead, and it seemed as if spring would never come back, he would say, ‘Go up the lane and see if the sun’s message is written on the beech tree.’ So, while it is still winter here, down in the South the flocks of Robins and Song Sparrows and Bluebirds are reading the sun’s message, and, far away as spring seems, they are planning their return. Meanwhile we have the brave winter birds to keep us cheerful. See the flock of Juncoes alighting yonder. They are as plump and freshly plumed as new arrivals in spring dress. This Snowbird is no sloven, he always wears a trim dress-suit.”

Better far, ah yes! than no bird Is the ever-present snowbird; Gayly tripping, dainty creature, When the snow hides every feature; Covers fences, field, and tree, Clothes in white all things but thee. Restless, twittering, trusty snowbird Lighter heart than thine hath no bird.

—C. C. Abbott, Snowbird.

XXII FEBRUARY, “THE LONG-SHORT MONTH”

Bluebird, Song Sparrow, Robin

“I wonder why February is so long, when it is the very shortest month in the year?” said Goldilocks one Saturday, as she and Miss Wilde were walking from Swallow Chimney, up through Birdland, to the big house for the bird class.

“I have often thought the same thing myself,” answered Rose Wilde, “and I think it must be because, knowing that it is a short month, we think spring is hurrying to us because we are trying to hurry toward it. Spring, however, never hurries to return to New England, even when nature faces her this way she seems to take pleasure in walking backward!”

Miss Wilde and Goldilocks had become fast friends since the little teacher had come to live on the hill. With the interest Gray Lady had shown in the children and school, the dreary, lonely days had passed away, and she no longer looked pale and nervous, but was bright-eyed, with a lovely soft colour in her cheeks, so that, as Goldilocks told her one day, her name could be written in two ways, Rose Wilde, and Wild Rose, which, of course, made her blush with pleasure, and look all the more like that radiant June flower.

Goldilocks would have liked to go to school at Foxes Corners with the others, but the doctor shook his head and said something to her mother about “unwholesome stove heat, fresh air but not draughts,” but Gray Lady smiled at Goldilocks with a mysterious sort of glance that always hid a surprise and said, “Be content to grow strong this winter and wait and see what will happen.”