Part 13

“Secondly, it was agreed that the robins should take up their dwelling as far as possible in the haunts and gardens of man, and should sing to him, not only in the spring or the summer, but all the year round, as often as they should feel able and disposed to do so. This clause has also been faithfully kept by us, and the result is, in my humble opinion, that we are now not only the most regular, but the most versatile and accomplished singers who affect the haunts of man. I will not however press that point, as I see some of you seem to dissent.

“Now you will observe that though, as was right and proper, this treaty was framed much to the advantage of the robins, both parties to it have certainly gained by it, and man, who has on the whole kept it fairly well, has learnt from it to respect and to care for at least one family of birds. I would therefore conclude by asking you to consider, before you pass this motion, and commit yourselves to perpetual enmity to mankind, whether it would not be wiser to follow our example, and make a lasting peace with him. I am convinced that you would do yourselves no harm; and I am still more firmly convinced that you would find a pleasure in joining us in the good work of raising mankind to a higher level of life, and a better appreciation of the superior creatures around him.”

There was but faint applause when the Robin left the orator’s bough. He was not popular, as has been remarked; and he was always posing (so they thought) as a superior person. And now he claimed superior wisdom on the ground of his intimacy with man! The Sparrow, who had listened very impatiently to his speech, sprang up at once to the bough, and began in loud and rather angry tones:--

“What rubbish people can talk! The motion itself is absurd, the Blackbird’s speech was silly, and the Robin’s speech shows that his whole race, from the beginning, have, as I always said, been the victims of a delusion. You none of you know the least bit how to deal with man. We Sparrows found out the secret ages ago, and look how we have prospered! Talk of treaties! why in the name of all that’s feathered should any one want to make a treaty with man? I say it’s ridiculous. That isn’t the way to do it. Only idiots would do that.”

“Order, order!” said the President. “I really must call on the honourable speaker to control his feelings and modify his expressions.”

“Very well,” said the Sparrow; “but really when one hears such blathering nonsense talked--”

“Order, order!” called the President, and whistled his loudest. “The honourable Sparrow must positively address himself to the point, and not be rude, or I shall call on him to retire.” Thus admonished, the Sparrow continued in milder tones:--

“Well really, you know, what I was going to say was, when the President interrupted me, that man is here to be made use of, not to be made treaties with. We found out long ago how to make use of him, just as we found out long ago how to use the martins’ nests. (Loud cries of ‘shame.’) Shame, indeed! Rubbish! If you want to prosper, take what you can get, and don’t go to make treaties about it, or fight for it more than you can help; lay your claws into it when no one’s looking, and make sure of it. You’ll be the better, and no one else the wiser. Man sows corn: we take it; thousands of us live on it nearly all the year round. Man sows peas: we take them--at least all the juicy young ones--he can have the old ones for himself. Man plants crocuses: we found out that there was good food inside the blossoms, and we take them. Man puts bread-crumbs outside his window, in fulfilment of his treaty with the robins, no doubt: we take it nearly all. Man does no end of other things, and we take advantage of them all. And see how it pays! We sparrows are the rising race. We increase every year by thousands; we go everywhere; we despise nothing; we eat anything; and we have a good time of it. All you other birds will disappear in time; there’ll be no room for you, and nothing left for you to eat. Man will remain, but only to support us; we must have peas and corn, so man must remain. And may he ever remain,” added the orator, in a burst of eloquence, “the infatuated slave that he is now!”

“Bravo!” said the twittering voice of the Swallow, who had returned again, attracted by the Sparrow’s loud tones. “Capital! and how pleasing to think that there’s one animal in the world who’s a greater blockhead than a Sparrow!”

“Now then, Philip,” said the Blue Tit, “here’s your chance; where’s that repartee?”

The Sparrow ruffled his feathers, and pecked at them, as if half expecting to find the repartee there; but not succeeding, he was just about to fly at the Swallow and drive her from her perch, when lo! a little maiden of seven years old came running and dancing into the orchard, and made for the very tree on which the birds were perching. The Blackbird went off instantly with a loud cackle; the Sparrow chattered excitedly and went off too; the Robin departed very quietly to another part of the orchard; and the Starling, Chaffinch, and others made off as fast as they could go. Only the Swallow and the Wren were left; neither of them were a bit frightened.

“Now by the salt wave of the Mediterranean, which I have so often crossed,” said the Swallow, “I am glad we were spared that repartee.”

“Now by the sweet juices of a green caterpillar, which I have so often sucked,” said the Wren, “I am glad we have come to the end of this folly. Good-night; the sun has set. There’s a bat; I really must get home.”

The Swallow was left alone. “Well,” said she to herself, “once is enough; I’ll not ask them to have another debate. I’m glad I didn’t hear the speeches. We swallows trust in man, and he loves us; but we cannot understand him, nor he us. But we live all our lives by love and trust,” said she, as she opened her wings to fly; “as for understanding, that must wait.”

She was gone, and the orchard was silent again.

A TRAGEDY IN ROOK-LIFE

It was a fine day early in February, and the rooks, after roosting on the elm-trees in the village, and surveying the remnants of the nests of last year, were assembled, some on the moist pastures, some on the ploughed land, hard at work searching for grubs and worms. The bachelor rooks were also looking out for partners, and some of them were already settled in life--for that season at least.

There was a certain young bachelor among them who had not as yet won his way to the heart of any black maiden. Jetsom had certain ways about him that were looked on with suspicion by his fellows. His father and mother had had some doubt whether they ought to bring him up. His very egg had been unlike the others in the nest; it was longer and narrower, and not so thickly covered with dark spots. It was clearly an ill-omened egg. A one-eyed old rook, famed for wisdom and foresight, had been consulted about it, and was of opinion that no good would come of it. He sat on the edge of the nest, and turned his battered old bill this way and that, uttering now and then a hoarse inward caw. “I remember,” said he at last, “an egg exactly like this; it was the year the new allotments were made, long before you two were born. It was a lucky year in that way, for those allotments are a great blessing to us all, though you young folks don’t value them as you ought. But let me tell you (and here he ruffled his feathers, and made a dab with his bill at the unlucky egg), the chick from that egg became a scare-crow on those allotments!”

And overcome with his emotions, he gave several loud caws, and flew away to his own tree, leaving the young parents in great anxiety.

“We’d better turn it out,” said the father; “it’ll never do to see his body on a stake every time we go to feed in the allotments.”

“Let us hatch it first,” said the mother, “and see what it looks like. That old Gaffer thinks himself too wise; if it turns out all right we’ll proclaim him as a humbug.”

This was too tempting a proposal to be resisted. The egg continued in the nest, and in due time it was hatched. There was no difference between the chick of the queer egg, and those that came from the others. The mother-bird was right, and on the strength of this she got her own way in other matters. Her husband had loved and admired her, and now he also obeyed her, because of her prudence and wisdom. When old Gaffer came, uninvited, to look at the chick, she actually ordered her husband to drive him away; which he did with such valour that the old gentleman lost three of his tail feathers, and retired in great wrath to a neighbouring branch to recover his breath. When he had got it he croaked out a dismal prophecy for the chick, which struck terror into the hearts of the rooks in that tree; and in fact the whole matter was the cause of much scandal.

Old Gaffer did not venture to the nest again; his reputation for wisdom had been shaken, and his damaged tail was secretly made fun of by the younger birds. But he let it be known through a friend that there was no doubt whatever in his mind that young Jetsom would be shot--and serve him right--at the rook-shooting next month. It is only the oldest birds that think of the shooting beforehand; they know it is coming and take it as a matter of course. The colony must not be overstocked with young birds, which are often impudent and annoying, and the old inhabitants are not sorry to get rid of them.

When May came the young birds were one day perching on the edges of their nests, and taking short flights to exercise their wings; Jetsom was among them, as fine a young bird as any, and the peculiar pride of his parents. Some men came under the trees with guns, the parent-birds cawed loudly to their young, and all was noise and disturbance. Bang went the guns; half-a-dozen young rooks fell dead or struggling through the branches. The others took flight a short way, but thinking all was safe again, returned very soon to their tree. Young Jetsom however, who was stronger of wing than most, got carried on by a gust of wind, and found himself very soon over a ploughed field, where a few rooks were peaceably feeding. He dropped down on it, rather flustered and tired, and seeing the other birds poking their bills into the ground, and turning over the clods, began to do the same. Presently one of them came near him, looked at him, cawed, flapped its wings, and said, “Who are you? You don’t belong to us.”

Jetsom explained as well as he could.

“My young friend,” said the rook, “you had better make haste and go. It’s my duty to hustle you to death for coming here, and I shall do it if you stay another minute. Be off, before the others see you. Here they come--”

Jetsom heard no more; he was off, and on the other side of the nearest hedge, before the other rooks could come up; and there he lay for some time, too frightened at first to think. When he recovered himself life presented itself to him in a new aspect; it was evidently not all grubs and wire-worms. It was rather a serious matter. There were other rooks besides those of his colony, and they were not friendly. It was possible to get hustled to death by them. How much there was to be learnt in the world! You had hard work to keep the skin on your bones, to avoid being shot, made a scare-crow of, hustled to death. Why was all this? Why not live in peace with your neighbours? Why should men shoot at you when they laid out allotments for your express benefit? All this was very puzzling to Jetsom, as he lay still under the hedge; things were certainly not as they should be. He could hear the shooting going on in the distance, but at last it stopped, and he summoned up courage to take flight homewards.

When he reached the tree, and perched tired out on the first branch he came to, all was hubbub and confusion: but above the din he could hear the hoarse voice of old Gaffer, who had ventured himself quite close to the nest, and was addressing his parents.