Unclosing our hands a small space, out popped the little head with a pair of round brilliant eyes. Then we bethought ourselves of feeding him, and forthwith prepared him a stiff glass of sugar and water, a drop of which we held to his bill. After turning his head attentively, like a bird who knew what he was about, and didn’t mean to be chaffed, he briskly put out a long, flexible tongue, slightly forked at the end, and licked off the comfortable beverage with great relish. Immediately he was pronounced out of danger by the small humane society which had undertaken the charge of his restoration, and we began to think about getting him a settled establishment in our apartment. I gave up my work-box to him for a sleeping-room, and it was medically ordered that he should take a nap. So we filled the box with cotton, and he was formally put to bed with a folded cambric handkerchief round his neck, to keep him from beating his wings. Out of his white wrappings he looked forth green and grave as any judge, with his bright round eyes. Like a bird of discretion, he seemed to understand what was being done to him, and resigned himself sensibly to go to sleep.
The box was covered with a sheet of paper, perforated with holes for purposes of ventilation; for even humming-birds have a little pair of lungs, and need their own little portion of air to fill them, so that they may make bright scarlet little drops of blood to keep life’s fire burning in their tiny bodies.
Our bird’s lungs manufactured brilliant blood, as we found out by experience; for in his first nap he contrived to nestle himself into the cotton of which his bed was made, and to get more of it than he needed into his long bill. We pulled it out as carefully as we could, but there came out of his bill two round, bright, scarlet, little drops of blood. Our chief medical authority looked grave, pronounced a probable hemorrhage from the lungs, and gave him over at once. We, less scientific, declared that we had only cut his little tongue by drawing out the filaments of cotton, and that he would do well enough in time — as it afterwards appeared he did; for from that day there was no more bleeding. In the course of the second day he began to take short flights about the room, though he seemed to prefer to return to us, perching on our fingers, or heads, or shoulders, and sometimes choosing to sit in this way for half an hour at a time.
‘These great giants,’ he seemed to say to himself, ‘are not bad people after all; they have a comfortable way with them; how nicely they dried and warmed me! Truly a bird might do worse than to live with them.’
So he made up his mind to form a fourth in the little company of three that usually sat and read, worked and sketched, in that apartment, and we christened him, ‘Hum, the son of Buz.’ He became an individuality, a character, whose little doings formed a part of every letter; and some extracts from these will show what some of his ways were.
‘Hum has learned to sit upon my finger, and eat his sugar and water out of a teaspoon with most Christian-like decorum. He has but one weakness, — he will occasionally jump into the spoon and sit in his sugar and water, and then appear to wonder where it goes to. His plumage is in rather a drabbled state, owing to these performances. Mr. A — reads Macaulay to us, and you should see the wise air with which, perched on Jenny’s thumb, he cocked his head now one side and then the other, apparently listening with most critical attention. His confidence in us seems unbounded; he lets us stroke his head, smooth his feathers without a flutter; and is never better pleased than sitting, as he has been doing all this while, on my hand, turning up his bill, and watching my face with great edification.
‘I have just been having a sort of maternal struggle to make him go to bed in his box; but he evidently considers himself sufficiently convalescent to make a stand for his rights as a bird, and so scratched indignantly out of his wrappings, and set himself up to roost on the edge of his box, with an air worthy of a turkey, at the very least. Having brought in a lamp, he has opened his eyes round and wide, and sits cocking his little head at me reflectively.’
When the weather cleared away, and the sun came out bright, Hum became entirely well, and seemed resolved to take the measure of his new life with us. Our windows were closed in the lower part of the sash by frames with gauze, so that the sun and air found free admission, and yet our little rover could not pass out. On the first sunny day he took an exact survey of our apartment from ceiling to floor, humming about, examining every point with his bill, — all the crevices, mouldings, each little indentation in the bed-posts, each window-pane, each chair and stand; and, as it was a very simply furnished seaside apartment, his scrutiny was soon finished. We wondered, at first, what this was all about; but, on watching him more closely, we found that he was actively engaged in getting his living, by darting out his long tongue hither and thither, and drawing in all the tiny flies and insects which in summer time are to be found in an apartment. In short, we found that, though the nectar of flowers was his dessert, yet he had his roast beef and mutton-chop to look after, and that his bright, brilliant appearance was not made out of a simple vegetarian diet. Very shrewd and keen he was, too, in measuring the size of insects before he attempted to swallow them. The smallest class were whisked of with lightning speed; but about larger ones he would sometimes wheel and hum for some minutes, darting hither and thither, and surveying them warily; and if satisfied that they could be carried, he would come down with a quick, central dart which would finish the unfortunate at a snap. The larger flies seemed to irritate him, — especially when they intimated to him that his plumage was sugary, by settling on his wings and tail; when he would lay about him spitefully, wielding his bill like a sword. A grasshopper that strayed in, and was sunning himself on the window-seat, gave him great discomposure. Hum evidently considered him an intruder, and seemed to long to make a dive at him; but, with characteristic prudence, confined himself to threatening movements, which did not exactly hit. He saw evidently that he could not swallow him whole, and what might ensue from trying him piecemeal he wisely forbore to essay.
Hum had his own favourite places and perches. From the first day he chose for his nightly roost a towl-line which had been drawn across the corner over the wash-stand, where he every night established himself with one claw on the edge of the towel and the other clasping the line, and ruffling up his feathers till he looked like a chestnut-bur, he would resign himself to the soundest sleep. He did not tuck his head under his wing, but seemed to sink it down between his shoulders, with his bill almost straight up in the air. One evening one of us, going to use the towel, jarred the line, and soon after found that Hum had been thrown from his perch, and was hanging head downward fast asleep, still clinging to the line. Another evening, being discomposed by somebody coming to the towel-line after he had settled himself, he fluttered off; but so sleepy that he had no discretion to poise himself again, and was found clinging, like a little bunch of green floss silk, to the netting of the window.
A day after this we brought in a large green bough, and put it up over the looking-glass. Hum noticed it before it had been there five minutes, flew to it, and began a regular survey, perching now here, now there, till he seemed to find a twig that exactly suited him; and after that he roosted there every night. Who does not see in this change all the signs of reflection and reason that are shown by us in thinking over our circumstances, and trying to better them? It seemed to say in so many words, ‘That towel-line is an unsafe place for a bird; I get frightened, and wake from bad dreams to find myself head downward; so I will find a better roost on this twig.’
When our little Jenny one day put on a clean white muslin gown embellished with red sprigs, Hum flew towards her, and with his bill made instant examination of these new appearances; and one day, being very affectionately disposed, perched himself on her shoulder, and sat some time. On another occasion, while Mr. A — was reading, Hum established himself on the top of his head just over the middle of his forehead, in the precise place where our young belles have lately worn stuffed humming-birds, making him look as if dressed out for a party. Hum’s most favourite perch was the back of
the great rocking-chair, which, being covered by a tidy, gave some hold into which he could catch his little claws. There he would sit, balancing himself cleverly if its occupant chose to swing to and fro, and seeming to be listening to the conversation or reading.
Hum had his different moods, like human beings. On cold, cloudy, grey days, he appeared to be somewhat depressed in spirits, hummed less about the room, and sat humped up with his feathers ruffled, looking as much like a bird in a great-coat as possible. But on hot, sunny days, every feather sleeked itself down, and his little body looked natty and trim, his head alert, his eyes bright, and it was impossible to come near him, for his agility. Then let little flies look about them! Hum snapped them up without mercy, and seemed to be all over the ceiling in a moment, and resisted all our efforts at any personal familiarity with a saucy alacrity.
Hum had his established institutions in our room, the chief of which was a tumbler with a little sugar and water mixed in it, and a spoon laid across, out of which he helped himself whenever he felt in the mood, — sitting on the edge of the tumbler, and dipping his long bill, and lapping with his little forked tongue like a kitten. When he found his spoon accidentally dry, he would stoop over and dip his bill in the water in the tumbler, — which caused the prophecy on the part of some of his guardians, that he would fall in some day and be drowned. For which reason it was agreed to keep only an inch in depth of the fluid at the bottom of the tumbler. A wise precaution this proved! for the next morning I was awaked, not by the usual hum over my head, but by a sharp little flutter, and found Mr. Hum beating his wings in the tumbler, having actually tumbled in during his energetic efforts to get his morning coffee before I was awake.
Hum seemed perfectly happy and satisfied in his quarters; but one day, when the door was left open, made a dart out, and so into the open sunshine. Then, to be sure, we thought we had lost him. We took the netting out of all the windows, and, setting his tumbler of sugar and water in a conspicuous place, went about our usual occupations. We saw him joyous and brisk among the honeysuckles outside the window, and it was gravely predicted that he would return no more. But at dinner-time in came Hum, familiar as possible, and sat down to his spoon, as if nothing had happened; instantly we closed our windows, and had him secure once more.
* At another time I was going to see a friend who lived about a mile from our place. I left all secure, as I supposed, at home. While gathering moss on the walls there, I was surprised by a little green humming-bird flying familiarly right towards my face, and humming above my head, I called out, ‘ Here is Hum’s very brother.’ But, on returning home, I saw that the door of the room was open, and Hum was gone. Now, certainly, we gave him up for lost. sat down to painting, and in a few minutes in flew Hum, and settled on the edge of my tumbler, in a social, confidential way, which seemed to say, ‘ Oh, you’ve got back then.’ After taking his usual drink of sugar and water, he began to fly about the ceiling as usual, and we gladly shut him in.
When our five weeks at the seaside were up, and it was time to go home, we had great questionings what was to be done with Hum. To get him home with us was our desire, — but who ever heard of a hummingbird travelling by railroad? Great were the consultings; a little basket of Indian work was filled up with cambric handkerchiefs, and a bottle of sugar and water provided, and we started with him for a day’s journey. When we arrived at night, the first care was to see what had become of Hum, who had not been looked at since we fed him with sugar and water in the morning. We found him alive and well, but so dead asleep that we could not wake him to roost; so we put him to bed on a toilet cushion, and arranged his tumbler for morning. The next day found him alive and humming, exploring the room and pictures, perching now here and now there, but, as the weather was chilly, he sat for the most part of the time in a humped-up state on the tip of a pair of stag’s horns. We moved him to a more sunny apartment; but, alas! the equinoctial storm came on, and there was no sun to be had for days. Hum was blue; the pleasant seaside days were over; his room was lonely; the pleasant three that had enlivened the apartment at Rye no longer came in and out; evidently he was lonesome, and gave way to depression. One chilly morning he managed again to fall into his tumbler, and wet himself through; and, notwithstanding warm bathings and tender nursings, the poor little fellow seemed to get diphtheria, or something quite as bad for humming-birds.
We carried him to a neighbouring sunny parlour, where ivy embowers all the walls, and the sun lies ail day. There he revived a little, danced up and down, perched on a green spray that was wreathed across the breast of a Psyche, and looked then like a little flirting soul returning to its rest. Towards evening he drooped; and, having been nursed, and warmed, and cared for, he was put to sleep on a green twig laid on the piano. In that sleep the little head drooped — nodded — fell; and little Hum went where other bright dreams go, — to the Land of the Here after.
A DOG’S MISSION; OR, THE STORY OF THE OLD AVERY HOUSE, AND OTHER STORIES
CONTENTS
A DOG’S MISSION
CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOUSE AND THE OLD WOMAN.
CHAPTER II. THE DOG TAKES REFUGE WITH THE OLD WOMAN.
CHAPTER III. SHE DISCOVERS THAT HE IS A PROVIDENCE.
CHAPTER IV. HE MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE.
CHAPTER V. BLUE EYES COMES TO SEE HIM.
CHAPTER VI. THE WOMAN WHO HATES DOGS.
CHAPTER VII. BLUE EYES PURSUES HER ADVANTAGE.
CHAPTER VIII. A BRIGHT SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
CHAPTER IX. A JOYFUL SUNDAY.
CHAPTER X. WHERE IS BLUE EYES?
CHAPTER XI. THE THANKSGIVING DINNER.
LULU’S PUPIL.
THE DAISY’S FIRST WINTER.
A DOG’S MISSION
CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOUSE AND THE OLD WOMAN.
“THE old house” of the city of Hindford stood upon a fashionable avenue, with city pavements in front and elegant brick mansions on either side.
It was a sort of ancient phenomenon, standing there amid smart modern houses, on a gay and bustling street; for it was an old brown wooden farm-house, of the kind that our ancestors used to build in days of primitive simplicity a hundred years ago. It was a two-story house in front, but the long roof sloped down behind, till a child might easily jump from it on to the ground.
It had never been painted; its shingles were here and there green with patches of moss. Certain enterprising shrubs had seeded themselves in the eave-troughs, and formed a fantastic nodding fringe along the edges, that made the old house look as queer as antiquated nodding finery makes an old face.
The clapboards here and there were curled with age and starting from the timbers; the lintel of the door had sunk so that the door-posts stood awry; the door-steps were broken and sunken like old grave-stones, and green with dank clinging moss.
Of course there were in front, as must be about every old New England house, the inseparable lilac trees; but these had grown to weird and preternatural proportions, looking into the chamber-windows, and even here and there brushing the herbage of the eave-troughs. Their stems below were gnarled and wreathed, and covered with bright yellow lichen, making their whole air as quaint and witch-like as the rest of the surroundings.
A narrow strip of front door-yard was enclosed by a demoralized old picket-fence; the gate swung unevenly on its hinges, and like everything else about the ancient dwelling, looked forlorn and dreary.
The house, as we have said, stood on one of the fine driving avenues of Hindford, and elegant carriages and prancing horses went by it every day; and every day somebody said, —
“What a queer old witch-like house! How strange that it should be here on this street! Who does live there?”
The answer was, “O, that’s the old Avery place. It can’t be sold till old Miss Zarviah Avery dies; she has the life-right, and she won’t live anywhere else.”
In fact this old Avery house was the decaying relic of a farm, that had once lain quite out in the country near the town of Hind
ford, but the city had grown and travelled and thrown out its long arms here and there, and drawn into its embrace suburb after suburb, cutting streets and avenues through what was once farm and woodland, and so this old brown farmhouse was left a stranded wreck of the old village life, standing by itself, and seeming to frown with a sullen amazement on a street of modern fine houses.
Miss Zarviah Avery was a human wreck like the house. Her village cronies had sold out, or moved off, or died; her family, all but one brother, were dead; nobody came to see her, and she visited nobody.
She was punctual in her scat in the neighboring church every Sunday, and sat always conspicuously on the front seat in the weekly prayer-meeting, where her phenomenal bonnets, her old-fashioned dress, and high, shaking voice, as she intoned the hymns, moved the mirth of that younger generation, who think all the world is a show for their amusement.
She also was a punctual though silent attendant of the weekly female prayer-meeting. It was said Miss Zarviah never had uttered her voice among the sisters but once, when in a faded old green calash and a shrunken washed-out merino shawl, she uttered an emphatic testimony against the vanity of dress and the temptations to worldliness in this regard.
The old inhabitants of Hindford said that Miss Zarviah came of a very respectable family. Her father, Squire Avery, was a deacon in the church, selectman in the village, and a thriving, well-to-do farmer, but the family had dropped away one by one, and she was left, like the last fluttering leaf of the gaunt catalpa in her door-yard, desolate and without a kindred leaf to speak to.
When both parents died Miss Zarviah was left guardian of a younger brother about ten years of age, who with herself was joint heir to the estate. Now Miss Zarviah loved her brother with all her heart, but unluckily, she felt it her duty to show her love in ways that make a boy specially uncomfortable.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 570
