Aileen Aroon, A Memoir
Page 22
very ancient and a very beautiful one; life's fitfulfever past and gone, to rest under the soft sward, and under the shadowof the church where one gleaned spiritual guidance. There is somethingin the very idea of this which tends to dispel much of the gloom ofdeath, and cast a halo round the tomb itself.
But at the very door of the old church of N--a tragedy had, years beforeI had opened my eyes in life, been enacted, and since that day servicehad never again been conducted within its walls. The new church wasbuilt on an open site quite a mile from the old, which latter stands allby itself--crumbling ivy-clad ruins, in the midst of the greenery of anacre of ancient graves. There is a high wall around it, and giant ashand plane trees in summer almost hide it from view. It is a solitaryspot, and on moonlit nights in winter, although the highway skirts it,few there be who care to pass that way. The parish school or academy issituated some quarter of a mile from the auld kirkyard, and in the daysof my boyhood even bird-nesting boys seldom, if ever, visited the place.It was not considered "canny." For me, however, the spot had apeculiar charm. It was so quiet, so retired, and haunted, not withghosts, but with birds, and many a long sunny forenoon did I spendwandering about in it, or reclining on the grass with my Virgil orHorace in hand--poets, by the way, who can only be thoroughly enjoyedout of doors in the country.
A pair of owls built in this auld kirkyard for years. I used to thinkthey were always the same old pair, who, year after year, stuck to thesame old spot, sending their young ones away to the neighbouring woodsto begin life on their own account as soon as they were able to fly.They were lazy birds; for two whole years they never built a nest oftheir own, but took possession of a magpie's old one. But at last thelady owl said to her lord--
"My lord, this nest is getting quite disreputable--we _must_ have a newone this spring."
"Very well," said his lordship, looking terribly learned, "but you'llhave to build it, my lady, for I've got to think, and think, you know."
"To be sure, my lord," said she. "The world would never go on unlessyou thought, and thought."
She chose an old window embrasure, and, half hid in ivy, there she builtthe new nest with weeds and sticks and stubble, while he did nothing butsit and talk Greek and natural philosophy at her.
There were tree sparrows built in the ivy of those crumbling walls, eachnest about as big as the bottom of an armchair, and containing as manyfeathers as would stuff a small pillow-case, to say nothing of threadsof all colours, hair, and pieces of printed paper. Seven, eight, andten eggs would be in some of those, white as to ground, and beautifullyspeckled with brown and grey.
I have heard the tree sparrow called a nasty, common, dowdy thing. Itreally is not at all dowdy, and although it may be called the countrycousin of the busy, chattering little morsel of feathers and fluff thathops nimbly but noisily about our roof-tops, and is constantlyquarrelling with its neighbours, the tree sparrow is far more pretty.Nor is it quite plebeian. It is the _Passer montanus_ of somenaturalists, the _becfin friquet_ of the French; it belongs to the Greekfamily, the _Fringillidae_, and does not the linnet belong to thatfamily too? Yes, and the beautiful bullfinch and the gaudy goldfinch aswell, to say nothing of the siskin and canary, so it cannot be plebeian.The tree sparrow makes a nice wee pet, very loving and gentle, and notat all particular as to food. It likes canary-seed, but insects andworms as well, and it is not shy at picking a morsel of sugar, nor atiny bit of bread and butter.
There were more birds of the same family that haunted this auldkirkyard. The greenfinch or green-grosbeak used to flit hither andthither among the ivy like a tiny streak of lightning, and the prettywee redpole was also there.
There was one bird in particular that used to build in the trees thatgrew inside the graveyard wall. I refer to my old friend and favouritethe chaffinch, called in Scotland the boldie. He is most brilliant inplumage, being richly clad in russet red and brown, picked out withblue, yellow, and white. The chaffinch is lovely whether sitting orflying, whether trilling his song with head erect and throat puffed out,or keeking down from the branch of a tree with one saucy eye, to see ifany one is going near his nest. His song in the wild state is morecelebrated for brilliancy and boldness than for sweetness or variation,but in confinement it may be improved.
But this same nest is something to look at and admire for minutes at atime. I used to think my chaffinch--the chaffinch that built in mychurchyard--was particularly proud of his nest.
"Pink, pink, pink," he used to say to me; "I see you looking up at mynest. You may go up, if you like, and have a look in. _She_ is fromhome just now, and there are four eggs in at present. There will befive by-and-by. Now, did you ever see such beautiful eggs?"
"Never," I would reply; "they are most lovely."
"Well, then," he would continue, "pink, pink, pink! look at the nestitself. What do you think of that for architecture? It is built, yousee, some twelve feet from the ground, against the stem, but held in itsplace by a little branch. It is out of the reach of cats; if it werehigher up the wind would shake it, or the hawks would see it. It is notmuch bigger than your two hands; and just look at the artistic way inwhich the lichens are mingled with the moss on the outside, to blendwith the colour of the tree!"
"Yes, but," I would remark, "there are bits of paper there, as well aslichens."
"Yes, yes, yes," the bird would reply; "bits of paper do almost as wellas lichens. Pink, pink, pink! There is the whole of Lord Palmerston'sspeech there; Palmerston is a clever man, but he couldn't build a nestlike that."
I mentioned the redpole. It is, as far as beauty goes, one of the bestcage-birds we have; a modest, wee, affectionate, unassuming pet, butdeficient in song.
"Cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, chee-ee!" What sweet littlevoice is that repeating the same soft song over and over again, anddwelling on the last syllable with long-drawn cadence? The music--formusic it is, although a song without variations--is coming from yonderbonnie bush of golden-blossomed broom, that grows in the angle betweenthe two walls in a remote corner of the auld kirkyard. I throw Horacedown, and get up from the grass and walk towards it.
"Chick, chick, chick, chick, chee-ee!"
"Oh, yes! I daresay you haven't a nest anywhere near; but I knowbetter." This is my reply.
I walk across the unhallowed ground, as this patch is called, for--whisper it!--suicides lie here, and the graves have not been raised, nordo stones mark the spot where they lie.
Here is the nest, in under a bit of weedy bank, and yonder is the birdhimself--the yellow-hammer, skite, or yellow bunting--looking as gay asa hornet, for well he knows that I will not disturb his treasures. Theeggs are shapely, white in ground, and beautifully streaked andspeckled, and splashed with reddish brown. But there are no eggs; onlyfour morsels of yellow fluff, apparently, surrounded by four gapingorange-red mouths. But they are cosy. I catch a tiny slug, and breakit up between them, and the cock-bird goes on singing among the broom,while the hen perches a little way off, twittering nervously andpeevishly.
"Chick, chick, che-ee!" says the bird. "I don't pretend to build such apretty nest as the chaffinch; besides, such a flimsy thing as his wouldnot do on the ground; mine has a solid foundation of hay, don't you see?That keeps out the damp, and that lining of hair is warmer thananything else in the world."
A poor, persecuted little bird is this same yellow bunting; andschoolboys often, when they find the nest, scatter it and its preciouscontents to the four winds of heaven.
All the more reason why we should be kind to the pet if we happen tohave it in confinement. It is true the wild song is not veryinteresting; but when a young one is got, it will improve itself if itcan listen to the song of another bird, for nearly all our featheredsongsters possess the gift of imitation.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
A FRIEND OF MY STUDENT DAYS.
"He was a gash and faithfu' tyke As over lap a sheugh or dyke."
Burns.
I had cured friend Frank's do
g of some trifling ailment, and she seemedfonder of me than ever. "Poor Meg," I said, patting her.
Dogs are never ungrateful for kindnesses, but I have seen many notedinstances of revenge, and so doubtless have many of my readers. Here isa case. At one time of day my father possessed a breed of beautifulblack game-cocks. One of these had a great aversion to dogs, and abull-terrier, who was tied up in a stall in the stable, came in for aconsiderable share of blows and abuse from a certain brave bird of theKing Jock strain. I myself was a witness to the assault, but I darednot interfere, for to tell you the truth, that game-cock was one toomany for me then, and I wouldn't care to be attacked by a bird of thesame kind even now. King Jock had come into the stable to pick a bit byhimself, for he was far too cavalierly to eat much before the hens."Give