hadn't laid up a store of nicehoney to keep me alive.'
"And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram wouldspy a pair of butterflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, butnot higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn't catch them, though.
"`No, no, Miss Puss,' the butterflies would say; `we don't want you toplay with us. We don't want any third party, so please keep your pawsto yourself.'
"And away they would fly.
"Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberrybeds.
"`You're after the fruit, aren't you?' pussy would say, touching itgently on the back.
"`No, not at all,' the toad would reply. `I wouldn't touch a strawberryfor the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn'tget on without me at all.'
"`Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,' pussy would reply; `I'm off.'
"And what a glorious old garden that was for pussy to play in, and forher mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might loseyourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till youwere tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruitand vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer'sday in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased tosing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs--so hot that thevery fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn't a sound save thehum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, youwouldn't mind the heat, for wasn't there plenty of shade, arbours ofcool foliage, and tents made of creepers?--and oh! the brilliancy of thesunny marigolds, the scarlet clustered geraniums, the larkspurs, purpleand white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn't mind theheat; weren't there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice?And weren't there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? Andweren't the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwardswith the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? Aglorious old garden indeed!
"But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down thegarden walks on their way to the paddock, and pussy runs to meet them.
"`What! dogs in a garden?' you cry. Yes; but they weren't ordinarydogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted tostroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, butnever touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolledon the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but theynever committed a fault--but in the autumn, when pears and applesdropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eattheir fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege,too. These were pussy's playmates all the year round--the immense blackNewfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and theone little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs withoutalso meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on theleas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs insummer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in merewantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself.
"The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on acommon, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poorMirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued.
"`It is our cat,' they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus.`Our cat--_our_ cat--our cat!' And all ran to save her.
"No, they didn't kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but thebiggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, `No, don't let uskill him, he doesn't know any better; let us just refresh his memory.'
"So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; andnext time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed!
"Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatestfavourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it wasbecause he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was sovery ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a dealof time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together alongthe lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn't return for hours,when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, andlooking very happy and very funny.
"`Broom' this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and fromsome fancied resemblance between his general appearance and thehearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles;his bits of ears cocked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glancedfrom under his shaggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. Idon't think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important thelittle dog and pussy looked when returning from a ramble. They hadsecrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if hermistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did,Mirram would have replied in the following words--
"`Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerowsand by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with suchthrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats andfrightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with aweasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he isso brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.'
"Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant countryhome as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, pussyMirram would have been as happy as ever a pussy could be. So she was,as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault--thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not leadus into trouble!
"I don't say that pussy ever did anything very terrible, to cause hermistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But sheoften stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety.Pussy always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that thevery next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirramnever thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eeniewas suffering sorrow for her sake at home.
"On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in themoonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn't creep in to saveher life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used oftento pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or whatwas away beyond it, pussy couldn't even conjecture, though she oftenwatched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; butall was dark.
"Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going toretire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram wouldforget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend.
"Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, andsay to the kitten--
"`Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.'
"But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfishas well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no.
"`Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,' she would say.
"Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked;but kittens can't be demure long, you know; and then there wouldcommence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the twothat ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too excitingfor her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing againin a few moments in the most provoking manner.
"What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent,and how quickly they passed, perhaps no one but pussy and her littlefriend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two felinemadcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glitteredoverhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seatthemselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, howeverpleasant cats' music heard at midnight may appear to the pussiesthemselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervousinvalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or verysoothing either.
"Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten aswell, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far
from where theysat.
"`Ah!' said Mirram, `that is sure to be some one who is delighted withour music, and is going to throw something nice to us.'
"Alas! alas! the something _did_ come, but it wasn't nice. It took theshape of a decanter of water and an old boot.
"One night pussy Mirram had stayed out very much longer, and Eenie hadgone to bed crying, because she thought she would never, never see herMirram more.
"Thoughtless Mirram! At that moment she was once again on the roof, andthe kittie's face was at the pigeon-hole. Mirram was sitting up in themost coaxing manner possible.
"`Come out again,' she was saying to kittie, `come out again. Do comeout to--'
"She didn't see that terrible black cat stealing up behind; but sheheard the low threatening growl, and sprang round to confront her anddefend herself.
"The fight was fierce and terrible while it lasted, and poor Mirram gotthe worst of it. The black cat had well-nigh killed her.
"`Oh!' she sobbed, as she dropped bitter, blinding tears on theroof,--`oh, if I had never left my mistress! Oh, dear! oh, dear!whatever shall I do?'
"You see Mirram was very sad and sorrowful now; but then, unfortunately,the repentance came when it was too late."
"Thank you," Ida said, when I had finished; "I like the description ofthe garden ever so much. Now tell me something about birds; I'll shutmy eyes and listen."
"But won't you be tired, dear?" said my wife.
"No, auntie," was the reply; "and I won't go to sleep. I never tirehearing about birds, and flowers, and woods, and wilds, and everythingin nature."
"Here is a little bit, then," I said, "that will just suit you, Ida. Itis short. That is a merit. I call it--"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ABOUT SUMMER SONGS AND SONGSTERS.
"Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from everyfeathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day outin the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature--my countyis the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England--and I cannot helpthrowing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to thesinging of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me thatI am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizenthereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me,because I never hurt or frighten them.
"High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud,is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his headwith the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I canobserve that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, inher cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his prettyspeckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top ofthe hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinionsof a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is itbecause of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simplesong a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, _I_ know why he singsso, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it.
"In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind andweather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song onthe highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not muchmusic in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, andI've no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic glossof his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to herhis gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the songof the nightingale herself.
"But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk.There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, thatreally do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those oftheir mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bushof furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it,and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errandof some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouringbush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so hepresently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is hisditty, that at five yards' distance methinks you would fail to hear it.There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. Thesong of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis orspeckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is whatyou might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently toamuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, tryingall sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird withinhearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale,after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation hemakes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that.
"Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this questionquickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply wouldbe, `Oh, because he deserves to be loved.' This is true enough; but letme tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinkingit cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can tomake friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made myfirst acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and onetime there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn tobe fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colderday than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in theparlour window--the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted hisnotice.
"`You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,' he seemed tosay; `think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.'
"My dear mother--she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, andall created things--did think of his cold feet. She opened the window,and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open,but being given to understand that this would interfere materially withfamily arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charminggrace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became hisresting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water ormilk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased whenone day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. Andit was always while we were at dinner that he sang.
"`I suppose,' he seemed to say, `you won't object to a little music,will you?' Then he would strike up.
"But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had anappointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business.
"My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a littleboy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamouredof a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom Iwas residing during the temporary absence of my parents on theContinent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me--_that_ helped mydetermination, no doubt. I did not get very far away--I may mentionthis at once--but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of aspruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bedwas the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on theground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think hehardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me.Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, andnever forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perchon a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly,that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read thisyou will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation oftruth in the beautiful tale of `The Babes in the Wood.' Before norsince my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame asthe one I met in the spruce-pine wood.
"Birds take singular fancies for some people. I know a little girl whowhen a child had a great fancy for straying away by herself into thewoods. She was once found fast asleep and almost covered with wildbirds. Some might tell me the birds were merely keeping their feet warmat the girl's expense. I have a very different opinion on the subject.
"Robins usually build in a green
bank at the foot of a large tree, andlay four or five lightish yellow or dusky eggs; but I have found theirnests in thorn-bushes. In the romantic Isle of Skye all small birdsbuild in the rocks, because there are no trees there, and few bushes.In a cliff, for example, close to the sea, if not quite overhanging it,you will find at the lower part the nests of larks, finches, linnets,and other small birds; on a higher reach the nests of thrushes andblackbirds; higher still pigeons build; and near the top sea-gulls andbirds of prey, including the owl family.
"There is a short branch line not far from where I live, which ends fivemiles from the main artery of traffic. In the corner of a truck whichhad been lying idle at the little terminus for some time, a pair ofrobins built their nest, and the hen was sitting on five eggs when itbecame necessary to use the truck.
"`Don't disturb the nest,' said the kindly station-master to his men;`put something over it. But I daresay the bird will forsake it; she'ssure to do so.'
"But the bird did nothing of the kind, and although she had a littlerailway journey gratis, once a day at least, to the main line and back,she stuck to her nest, and finally reared her family to fledglings.
"Robins are early astir in the morning; their song is the first I hear.They sing, too, quite late at night; they also sing all the year round;and it is my impression, on the whole, that they like best to trillforth when other birds are silent.
"The song-birds of our groves are neither jealous of each other nor dothey hate
Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Page 54
