Part 17

“But perhaps you could answer my question,” said Kelpie; “because, you see, you might have heard the answer yourself in a chimney.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said the jackdaw gravely. “But, my dear child, what would be the use of knowledge if we were always giving it away, like the lecturers we hear from these Oxford chimneys? No, no; you go and listen in chimneys (you’re black and gray, like us, and it wouldn’t spoil your feathers), and when you find out the answer to your question keep it safe and don’t part with it. That’s the way to get wise.”

The jackdaw made a grave bow, and flew up to the college tower. Kelpie flew on to the college roof, perched on a chimney, and looked down. It smelt very nasty and was quite dark; however she tried to descend a little way, but she got so frightened that she came up again directly, and gave up the attempt for good.

“I must give it up,” she thought; and with a deep sigh she joined her family at their breakfast on the lawn. She found them in a state of some excitement, for after breakfast father Wagtail was to make an important announcement.

“My dears,” he said, when they had all gathered round him, “the summer is almost over; you are all old enough to shift for yourselves, and our little party must now break up. We may very likely meet again, but your mother and I, having brought you up as well as we can, will not be responsible for you any longer. You are free to go when and where you like. Some of you may like to cross the sea, and visit foreign countries; some may prefer to take the chance of a mild winter here. Do just as you like: but we advise you all to travel more or less, and get acquainted with the world. Now good-bye, and good luck to you all.”

Kelpie was overjoyed at hearing this news. She had not been happy for a long time; now she could go out into the wide world, and try to find out the answer to the question that so weighed on her mind. She bade adieu to the rest at once, and started off by herself in high spirits. She would be very careful, she thought, as to whom she questioned, and would try and find some really friendly and open-hearted adviser.

She was so occupied with all the new and strange things she saw--the rivers, the ploughed fields, the hills and downs she passed over, and so determined not to be put upon any more by thrushes and jackdaws, that autumn had set in before she ventured to address a single bird on the subject she had at heart. But one day in September she was enjoying herself by the side of a rapid little brook which ran through pleasant meadows, when she caught sight of a very long tail going up and down, up and down. The bird it belonged to was hidden behind a stone in the stream. She watched, and saw a gray wagtail come from behind the stone, and fly with graceful curves a little further on, then she saw another bird join him, and stood in speechless admiration of these beautiful creatures, so slender, so gentle-looking, and so beautifully covered with gray above and yellow beneath. But what most fascinated her was the motion of their long tails, which were never for a moment still.

She went up and introduced herself. They received her kindly as a distant connection, and said she was welcome to the brook; and in their company she remained for the greater part of the day, before she summoned up courage to open her heart to them.

“You are very kind and good,” she said at last, “and I think you must be very clever too. Would you mind telling me, as I see you wag your own tails so constantly and so nicely, why you do it, and why all our family do it too? If you only would, I should be so happy and grateful; you can’t think how it’s been troubling me!”

The gray wagtail looked at his wife, and she looked at him, and they seemed to nod to one another in rather an odd way.

“Dear, dear!” said the wife,--“what a sad pity!”

“Oh, dear me, dear me!” said the husband, “how sad! And such a nice young creature too! What can we do for her?”

The wife shook her head silently; Kelpie felt dreadfully ashamed of herself. What could be the matter?

“Please tell me if I have done anything wrong,” she said.

“My dear,” said the wife very kindly, “I fear you are not very well. If I were you I should

get advice as soon as possible. I strongly recommend the kingfisher, who lives yonder up the brook; I believe he is very clever in cases like yours, and he eats fish, which is very good for the brain, you know. You’ll be sure to find him if you wait about a little. I am very sorry, my dear, but we must go away, for they say it’s extremely catching.” And followed by her husband she flew away down the stream.

Kelpie was now quite frightened. Something seemed to be altogether wrong with her. She began to think she must have eaten something that fatal day on the lawn, which was growing up inside her, and causing her all this trouble. She hastened away up the brook, and after searching for a while, she found the kingfisher sitting on a bough overhanging the stream. She addressed him without any apology, for she wanted dreadfully to know what was the matter with her; and she poured out her whole sad story from beginning to end. The kingfisher sat quite quiet on his bough, and listened with great attention.

“Yours is a very curious case,” he said when she had done; “a very interesting case indeed. I should strongly recommend constant change of scene; a tour on the Continent, now, would be very likely to do you good. Frequent application of cold water could hardly fail to be useful; keep to your usual insect diet, but vary it a little with the small crustaceans you will find in the stream; I can speak warmly of their value from my own experience; they are an excellent tonic. This is what I advise you to do; but if you should find yourself still troubled, I should go to some one who has made a special study of these cases, which I have not.”

“Whom would you recommend?” said Kelpie nervously. She felt quite sure that she would have to go to the specialist, because the kingfisher had told her to do exactly what she always did. She changed her scene, she dabbled in the water, and she lived on flies and anything she could get in the brooks.

“You might consult a crow,” said the kingfisher. “They are the most highly developed of all birds, and are nearest to man. There is one who lives in a wood a mile or two higher up. You can mention my name if you like.”

“Thank you very much,” said Kelpie; “but would you be so very kind as to tell me what is the matter with me?”

The kingfisher sat still for another moment as if in deep reflection; then he made a dart downwards into the water, dived, brought up a fish, and glided with it in his beak round a turn of the stream and disappeared.

Kelpie went at once in search of the crow. She felt that whatever came of it, she must find out what was wrong with her. After a long search she found the crow sitting on the dead branch of a hollow old oak-tree. The bones of a young rabbit, which he had been dissecting, doubtless with a scientific object, lay on the ground below. Kelpie felt very frightened when she looked at this huge black bird, with his enormous black bill, curved into a sharp hook at the end. But there was no help for it; she felt she must go through with it. As she approached, he gave a low hoarse croak.

“What do you want here?” he said.

“The kingfisher recommended you, sir,” said Kelpie, “as a--”

“The kingfisher recommended me, did he?” said the crow. “The impudence of these small practitioners! But never mind the kingfisher: pray go on, my time is limited.”

“I have been greatly troubled,” said the trembling Kelpie, “with a desire to find out--”

“I see,” said the crow decisively. “Yours is a very simple case. What did the kingfisher say about it?”