Part 14

“Do you know what they do with the young birds they shoot?” said that well-informed old bird. “They pull all the feathers out of their bodies, put them all together into a big dish, and bake them over the fire. Then they eat them, and the cat and the dog get the bones. I’ve seen it all through the window. That ill-omened young Jetsom is in the pie-dish now. Take advice when you can get it. The cook plucked him an hour ago. Capital eating, you may be sure! You fed him so well with worms, you know. So kind of you! Take advice when you can get it. I see the smoke coming out of the chimney now; they’re baking down below. You’ll find his feathers in the back-yard presently. Take advice--”

“Stop that, and go and look for your tail-feathers,” said the angry voice of the mother. And she ordered her husband to drive the old wretch away, but at that moment Jetsom flew into the nest. Great was the delight and excitement of the parents; but seeing his exhausted state, his mother sent her husband off on the instant for a cargo of worms, and when she bethought herself next of old Gaffer, that prudent old rook was not to be seen.

It was a great triumph. Gaffer’s fame as a prophet was at the lowest ebb. But he knew the ways of the world, and the foibles of his kind; he stuck to his point none the less for his defeat, and never ceased to assert that young Jetsom was a mistake, and ought never to have been hatched out. Some of the older birds shared this opinion, and as time went on Gaffer began to notice with great satisfaction that Jetsom was of a disposition likely to get him into trouble.

The fact was that his first adventure had caused him to reflect on the nature of things; and, as we all know, that is a dangerous habit to get into. He had told them of his adventure with the foreign rooks, and had received most strict injunctions to have nothing to do with them henceforward. He naturally asked why, but was sharply told to hold his tongue. His mother told him ghastly stories of what happened to young rooks who asked questions; and his father sat on a twig close by and cawed his admiration of his wife’s wisdom and eloquence.

Old Gaffer watched them at a safe distance, and promised himself revenge for the loss of his tail-feathers.

All these dreadful stories had their due effect on Jetsom’s mind, and he asked no more questions, but he could not help reflecting silently on the nature of things. And so it came to pass that he grew up a silent and philosophical rook, and it was frequently remarked that he did not make his proper contribution to that chorus of cawing which at certain times of the day is so necessary to the happiness and comfort of a rookery. He would sometimes, too, decline to accompany the others when they wheeled about in the air of an evening before settling down to roost; and from his solitary habits was often chosen to sit on a tree as sentinel when the rest were at work feeding on a ploughed field. His father and mother were quite content that this should be so, and so was he, for it redeemed him a little from the suspicion that was beginning to

fall on him; and he would often sit on his perch by the hour, pretending to keep a look-out, but really deep in meditation on the problems which occupied his mind.

And so the winter passed; and with the first approach of spring the young birds of the year began to find themselves mates, and to think what tree they should select to nest in; but on that day in February with which this veracious story began, Jetsom had not yet found a bride. Yet he was too much of a rook to consider his spring complete without the duty and honour of bringing up a nestful of young, as his fathers had done before him.

That morning the billing and cooing (or rather cawing) of the lovers was very distasteful to him; they played such silly games, and talked such amorous rubbish. No one took any notice of him, until at last a flirting pair came in playful pursuit of each other close up to the railing on which he sat disconsolate, and he heard the young lady ask her lover not to take her near that horrid Jetsom.

“He’s got an evil eye,” she said, “and if I marry you (which I probably sha’n’t), depend on it all the eggs will be addled.” And off she flew, with her admirer after her.

This was too much for Jetsom; he also took flight to escape further insult; and flying straight ahead while he meditated on his wrongs, he passed over several miles of open country before he found himself hungry, and descended on a juicy-looking meadow to look about for food. He had not been there long, when, happening to look round, he saw that there was another rook in the field; only one, walking slowly about in a far corner. Flying quietly a little nearer, he perceived by her ways that she was a young maiden of scarce a year old. Every moment he expected to hear the caws of her companions, and prepared to fly for his life; but none came, and she continued to walk about with a pensive air, turning her head from side to side, and wholly unconscious of his presence. But forced by curiosity, he came nearer and nearer, and now she could not help noticing that she was not alone.

“Oblige me, sir,” she said, “by retiring from this corner. I have not the honour of your acquaintance, and am at present engaged in reflecting on the problems of life.”

“So,” said Jetsom, “am I; allow me to ask what you make of them?”

“I can make nothing of them,” she replied; “I run my bill against a pebble everywhere, and cannot get hold of a single worm. Perhaps you have been more fortunate. For my part, I find the ground everywhere hard frozen; I can make no impression on it. Excuse my putting my ideas in this vulgar way.”

“Your field of thought may be hard,” he said, “but your words are soft and sweet as the juiciest grubs. I am an outcast, because I think; and I find comfort in listening to an alien voice. But destiny surrounds us, as the hedge surrounds this field; we rooks are bound by eternal and immutable laws; and one of them forbids us, as you have reminded me, to have anything to do with an alien. I must apologize for my intrusion, and retire to my life of misery.”

“Stay,” said she; “we are alone and unseen. Your presence is not disagreeable to me. Destiny, if it keeps aliens apart, has at least brought you to me. Day changes to night, summer to winter; old trees wear out (so my grandmother tells me) and we are obliged to take to new ones. Can it be that the nature of our race never changes too? Is there not a future to be realized when the narrowing bonds of our society may be relaxed, and when in ever-widening circles our race may stir the world with a new life? And may it not be you--you the outcast and philosopher--who are destined to lead the van in this glorious movement?”

“I!” he replied. “Can it be so? But not alone--not alone.” And he glanced at her curiously.

“Hush,” she hurriedly whispered; “I heard a distant caw. Meet me here again to-morrow when the sun is at its highest.” And so they parted, to meditate on the destinies of the ages, and the enfranchisement of rook-society.

When Jetsom returned to his rookery he found that his absence had not been noticed, so occupied was every one with the business of wooing and stick-collecting; and he kept his appointment next day without much misgiving. What fears he had were easily overcome by the thought that there might be a great and happy future in store for him if he could induce his new acquaintance to become his partner, and to help him to carry out in practice the ideas that were floating through their minds. He little knew, poor bird, what was really in store for him. Though he had not been aware of it, one eye had all this time been upon him. Old Gaffer, who was always on the look-out for his chance of revenge, had seen him leave the meadow, and noticed his late return; and when he made quietly off again the next day, Gaffer as quietly followed him. From a tree near the trysting-place he saw Jetsom meet his friend, and knew in a twinkling that his chance had come. He watched them for a while as they walked about the meadow together, deep in philosophic converse; but when they flew up into a tree (luckily it was not Gaffer’s) with some little serious attempt to play with each other, he felt he might go home safely and consider what was the best plan to bring this wilful pair to shame and ruin.

Slipping warily out of his tree he flew slowly homewards, and before he reached the rookery had made up his mind as to what should be done. He mentioned to a few old friends, the ancient dignitaries of the settlement, that he wished to consult them at once on an important matter; and a meeting was accordingly held on a tree hard by. An aged and highly respected bird, with two white feathers in his wing, was voted into the chair, who, taking his perch on a prominent bough, requested Gaffer to open his mind.

“My friends,” said Gaffer, turning his one eye with an evil look round and round upon the assembly, “you will perhaps remember that last spring I was asked advice about a certain egg, and that my advice was not taken. I will ask you whether that egg has been a credit to our rookery?”

A chorus of cawing encouraged him to proceed.

“I will not allude,” said he, “to painful circumstances connected with that egg, and to personal insults which I suffered on account of that egg. I may feel that I hardly received at that time the support which I might have looked for from the older and wiser among us. But let bygones be bygones. I have to tell you that the bird which was the ill-omened result of that egg is about to bring home a wife who is not one of our community. (Great disturbance, lasting several minutes.) I have watched, and I have seen the guilty pair but an hour since, and we may expect them at any moment. This is painful news to have to tell you, but I must sacrifice my own feelings. I wish to know what line of action you would propose that we should take?”

Almost before he had finished speaking, such a hubbub of indignation arose, that the president had the utmost difficulty in restoring order.

“Friends,” said he at length, “let us take a flight to calm our spirits after the terrible news which has been sprung upon us; then we will deliberate on the case.”

Agreed. They all sailed about above the tree for a few minutes, and then descended again, cawing so loud that a passing wayfarer looked up at the tree in astonishment. The president then called on the oldest rook in company to give his opinion.

“Kill her,” he said; “it’s the shortest way and the least trouble. As for him, he’ll soon get over it.”

This proposal was received with a round of cawing, in which Gaffer did not join. When it came to an end the President asked whether any one else had a plan to propose. A worthy old rook flapped her wings and said,