[to be continued.]
[BIRD TAMERS AND TAMING.]
BY W. WARREN BROWN.
George Moore from New York was visiting his cousin Frank up in New England, and was being shown Frank's pet birds.
"I had a time catching that oriole," said Frank. "The nest was on the end of a slender limb of the big elm back of the barn. The oriole is the smartest bird we have, when it comes to house-building, always putting his hanging nest where even a squirrel is afraid to venture. I got Jonah, one of father's hired help, to hold the longest ladder we have under the nest while I climbed to the top of it. Even then I could barely reach the birds, and had hardly put my hand on a young one when Jonah, who was puffing and blowing with the strain of holding the heavy ladder, and me on the top round, nearly lost his balance, so I grabbed my bird, shinning down in a hurry, I tell you. The one in the last cage is a bluebird. I took him out of a hollow in an old apple-tree over there," and he pointed out to George a fine old orchard.
The following morning the cousins were up at break of day. On their way down stairs Frank said: "Father only allows me to keep wild birds in cages on condition I take good care of them. It's my first work in the morning. Come and see what I do."
The birds were wide awake, and did not seem at all afraid of their young master as he quietly withdrew the trays on the bottoms of the cages, refilling them with sand from a handy barrel. Then fresh water was supplied to each one, and they all took a drink, throwing their heads back after each sip. From a covered tin the boy filled the linnet's seed-cup, first blowing out the empty shells. To the others he gave soft food.
"They are soft-billed birds, and must have soft food," he explained, "They are now fixed for the day," said Frank; "and by the time breakfast is ready you'll hear some music."
After the birds came the ducks, chickens, and pigs, all receiving careful attention, George going the rounds, and laughing to see how the different creatures expressed their satisfaction for the meal.
Their own breakfast was now announced by a loud toot from the horn. The pure country air together with the early rising had given George a fine appetite as he sat down to the plentiful meal spread before him, and for a time neither of the youngsters had a word to say.
The clatter of the knives and forks seemed to excite Frank's pets, for the bluebird, seconded by the oriole and linnet, gave them a sweet concert.
Uncle John replied, when his young guest expressed his pleasure and surprise on hearing their fine notes: "My son has always been fond of the wild birds, wanting, when he was younger, to make a collection of their eggs. I could not allow it, as it is cruel to rob nests, but I knew the birds, both young and old, have numerous enemies. Snakes, hawks, owls, and other vermin every year kill so many of them that it's only by the sharpest lookout the old birds escape at all, while the younger are devoured as soon as found. Therefore I consented to his having these birds in the house, taking one young one from a nest of four varieties of birds he fancied. These little captives, who, if they have not their liberty, are safe and well cared for here, and besides, being taken so young with only their pin-feathers on, they do not know what freedom means as trapped old birds would do."
Breakfast over, the boys started on an excursion to Black Pond, half a mile away, a stretch of water sparkling under the sun's rays like a sheet of silver.
The route led through a winding lane. In one of the fields by the side of it, surrounded by a higher fence than usual, the city boy noticed a very large black and white cow, as he thought, and was in the act of vaulting the rail to examine her closer, when Frank caught him by the leg.
"Thunderation! Don't you know a bull when you see him?" he shouted. "He is dangerous, and I don't dare to go in that pasture, though I'm sure there is a bobolink's nest in it that I want to see."
George felt ashamed of himself at such a mistake, and determined he would not show his ignorance of the country again. By this time the boys were within a hundred yards of the pond. Frank proposed a race to see who would get there first. George was ready for anything. Away they started, running side by side till three-quarters of the distance was passed. Here George took the lead, holding it to the water's edge. Frank opened his eyes, for there was not a boy in F—— his equal in a foot-race.
"How did you do it?" he cried, excitedly.
George's eyes sparkled as he answered, "One has got to know how to use his legs to play good baseball."
Birds were numerous now, and Frank told their names, with something of their habits, to his companion as they watched them. "Look at that fellow with a gray body, in the thicket. It's a cat-bird, a good singer, and mimic besides. There are a lot of their nests about here. Black-snakes eat the young ones. They can climb bushes too. Two weeks ago on this very spot I noticed one of these beauties flying excitedly in and out of the alders. I thought something was up, and crept softly into the thicket. Sure enough, twined around a limb within a foot of a nest filled with young cat-birds was the biggest blacksnake I ever saw, over four feet long, and his body was as thick as my wrist. Luckily I had a stout stick with me. He tried to get away, but I settled his snakeship with a whack as he reached the ground."
George wanted to see a blacksnake.
This wish was soon gratified, for as they passed some granite bowlders a snake, which was sunning himself on a bit of sand near by, made for the rocks. The boys grabbed stones, throwing them at him and killing him before he could gain cover.
"The birds will thank us for that," said Frank. "I've no doubt this scamp has devoured a good many of them this summer."
The boys then made a regular hunt through the alders, finding many nests, mostly with young ones in them, as it was the first of July, the experienced country lad discovering most of them, as he knew where to look for the nest of each variety, whether on a high or low tree, or on a bush or on the ground. Still George had the pleasure of running onto two or three nests himself. One was the cat-bird of Frank's story. The young ones had flown, but an old one soon appeared, scolding and flying close to the boys' heads.
"Look sharp, George, the little ones can't be far off, I know by the way the bird acts," exclaimed Frank.
THE LITTLE CHAP COULD FLY, HOWEVER, AND REFUSED TO BE CAUGHT.
True enough, after a short and exciting search George spied one on top of a bush. He knew it was a young bird by its short tail. Creeping cautiously up, the boy made a dash for him. The little chap could fly, however, and refused to be caught, hiding himself so cleverly that though the hunters looked for half an hour, they did not see him again.
Along with the cat-bird the brown thrasher and wood-thrush rear their young. A nest of the former was discovered in the fork of a bush near the ground. The mother was on it, allowing George to almost put his hand on her before she flew, to alight close by, making a curious clocking noise. The nest contained four little ones not over a day old. The cousins admired them, but took care not to handle the naked babies or disturb their home. Frank took a small book from his pocket and wrote something in it.
"What's that for?" asked George.
"Oh, I'm putting down the date of their birth. I like to know when the different birds hatch or lay their eggs. To-night I shall transfer this note into a book full of them. You shall see it if you like."
They spent the morning and many other mornings searching the fields and woods, peeking into bird homes, and learning a good deal about them, and George, before his departure, began to love the happy days spent in this fascinating way.
Their afternoons were passed on the surface of Black Pond catching pickerel or gathering lily-pads, and giving the youngsters great sport.
George found his vacation ended all too quickly, but gladly promised to come again the next summer, inviting his cousin to his city home for the Christmas holidays.
As he boarded the cars he said to Frank, "I forgot to mention it before, but in New York there are lots of stores that sell all kinds of birds from South America, England, and everywhere, so when you are with me 'we'll take them all in.'"
This promise was so alluring to Frank that he replied, "Look for me the day before Christmas, for I'm coming, even if I have to walk all the way."
[IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.]
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER II.
hen Elizabeth first went into the room she could see nothing. The window-blinds were tightly closed, and the lack of sunlight out of doors made it doubly dark within. She had no thought of fear, however, as she stood motionless for a moment on the inner side of the forbidden door. The dark had never any terrors for Elizabeth, and her one feeling was that of elation that her curiosity was at last to be gratified.
What great secret was she at last to discover in this mysterious chamber?
Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight. She found her way to one of the windows and opened the slats of the shutters, letting in the cool damp air, and relieving the close, musty atmosphere of the unused room. Then she looked about her and exclaimed aloud with admiration.
It was, beyond doubt, the prettiest room in her aunt's house.
A dainty dressing-table stood between the windows, and the little bed in the corner was hung with white drapery, now fast yellowing with age. The wall was covered with an exquisite paper of delicate tints, and soft rugs lay on the floor. In the corner was a pretty desk, with a sheet of paper lying on it, and a pen, evidently thrown down in haste. Everything in the room had the appearance of having been untouched since the former owner left it, and was covered with a thick coating of dust.
On the dressing-table was a pile of unopened letters. Elizabeth looked at them, and found that all but two of them were addressed in the same hand to "Miss Herrick, No. — South Fourth Street, Philadelphia." There were seven altogether; and the remaining two bore the name of her father, Mr. Edward Herrick.
How did they get to this room? And how very strange that neither her father nor her aunt had opened them. The seals had not been touched.
Very soon Elizabeth made another discovery more startling still. Near one of the windows stood an easel such as artists use for their work, and on it was a canvas, its back turned toward the room. Elizabeth dearly loved pictures, and she carefully lifted this one down and, turning it toward the light, looked at it. It was an unfinished portrait of her aunt Caroline.
The child surveyed it for some minutes, and then replaced it on the easel as she had found it. What could it all mean? Who had once lived in this mysterious apartment? It could not have been her father, for she had frequently been in the room that was formerly his. She had never heard of any one else in the family. She must certainly ask her aunts if they had ever used any rooms but those they now occupied.
And then she heard Marie calling her. She waited until the maid's voice sounded quite far away, and then Elizabeth closed the window and left the fascinating chamber, carefully locking the door behind her.
Then she answered Marie's renewed calls, and submitted to having her shoes changed, her mind absorbed with the startling revelations which this rainy afternoon had brought about.
Miss Herrick was extremely fond of having company to dinner, and there were but few evenings in the week when she and her sister did not either entertain in their own house or dine out. On those rare occasions when they were at home alone Elizabeth came to the table. Otherwise she had supper by herself and went early to bed.
To-night she was to dine with her aunts, and she intended to question them as closely as possible. It would be difficult, for Aunt Caroline always told her when she became too pressing that children should be seen and not heard, and other maxims to the same effect, but Elizabeth made up her mind that this time she should not be daunted. Her aunts must give her some satisfaction.
There was another matter also which she had on her mind, and which must be discussed this evening.
The soup was barely served before she began.
"I wish you would tell me something about this house, Aunt Caroline. Have you always lived here?"
"Always. I fancied that you knew that, Elizabeth. Your great-great-grandfather built the house, and it has been occupied ever since by succeeding generations of Herricks."
"And have you always had the room you have now?"
"Certainly not. It was your grandmother's during her lifetime."
"And what room did you have?"
"Really, Elizabeth, your questions are most tiresome! I had the one next to yours."
"Always?"
"Always."
"Aunt Rebecca, which one did you have?" continued Elizabeth, turning toward the other end of the table.
"I have had my present room ever since I emerged from the nursery, Elizabeth; the place where I think you should still be."
"Aunt Caroline, did you ever have any brothers and sisters but my father and Aunt Rebecca?"
Elizabeth's eyes were fixed upon Miss Herrick's face as she asked this question. She could not fail to see the wave of color which swept over the usually pale cheeks, and that her aunt's hand shook as she laid down her fork.
"You have been told all of the family history that it is desirable for you to know, Elizabeth. I have one brother, your father, and I have one sister, your aunt Rebecca. Further than this I decline to tell you."
Elizabeth still looked at her, and Miss Herrick moved uneasily. Those dark eyes were so penetrating.
"Aunt Caroline, is there a skeleton in your closet?"
Miss Herrick did not reply, and her sister came to the rescue.
"What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth? Where did you get hold of that expression?"
"I read it in a book, and I thought it meant a real skeleton, all bones and ugly skull, standing up in the people's closet—the people in the book, I mean. I asked Miss Rice, and she said it was a family secret, something not at all pleasant, and most families had them. It seems a very strange thing to call a secret. But I was wondering if our family had one. Is there a skeleton in our closet?"
"Do be quiet, Elizabeth, and do not discuss family affairs before the servants. It is bad form."
"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Very well. I will wait until another time; but I should like to know some time. There is something else I want to talk about, and if you don't mind, Aunt Caroline, I should like to now. You see, I don't have much chance to ask you things."
"You certainly make the most of every opportunity," returned her aunt. "What is it now?"
"It is about the Bradys."
"And who are the Bradys?"
"The poor family who live in the back street."
"I know nothing about them."
"No, I know you don't, Aunt Caroline, and that is why I want to tell you. They are very poor."
"Indeed!"
"And sometimes I am afraid that they are very hungry."
"Indeed!" said Miss Herrick again. "They had better come here for the cold scraps—that is, if they are deserving. How do you happen to know about them?"
"I met them in the alley," returned Elizabeth, composedly. "There are two very nice girls and four boys. One of them is a bootblack, and another is a newspaper-boy, and Tom is—"
"Heavens!" cried Miss Herrick, in horror. "Where did you pick these people up?" While Miss Rebecca, who was more frivolous, laughed aloud.
"In the alley, I told you," repeated Elizabeth. "I went out the back gate when I was playing in the garden one day, and met them. The alley is so interesting and the girls are so pleasant, though they do have rather dirty faces sometimes. But the boys—"
"Spare us any further details, I beg of you," said her aunt. "Your tastes must be extremely low, Elizabeth."
"Well, I like to have a few people to play with. You know I have only Julius Cæsar, and he won't always play. But I was going to ask you something about the Brady family, Aunt Caroline. Why do we have such lots and lots of money and they none at all?"
"Elizabeth, you are too absurd!"
"But why?"
"I—I don't exactly know. They are of a very different class of life, for one thing. Their ancestors—if they had any—were poor men, I suppose, while ours were rich."
"I don't think that explains it. And I am sure they are terribly hungry half the time. They look so. Tom doesn't—"
"Again I must beg you to stop, Elizabeth. I do not care to hear all this at the dinner table. It quite takes away my appetite."
"I am very sorry, Aunt Caroline. Then I will stop. But I was only going to say, don't you think it would be nicer and evener all round if we were to give them some of our money and a nice house to live in? We could easily do it."
"Bless me, what socialistic notions the child has!" cried her aunt Rebecca. "Encouraging pauperism in this style!"
"What is porprism?" asked Elizabeth, turning quickly.
"Don't ask another question, I beg of you! You have used twenty interrogation points at least since we sat down to dinner."
And then the Misses Herrick began resolutely to talk of something else, and Elizabeth knew no more than she did before, and had by no means settled satisfactorily the affairs of the Brady family.
Clearly, if she wanted to know anything she must find it out for herself, and if she wished to do anything to improve the condition of the Bradys she must take matters into her own hands.
If her father would only come home and explain everything to her! But when he received her letter he would certainly come, and with the thought of this possibility the world grew brighter.
The days went by and Elizabeth paid frequent visits to the closed room. It did not once occur to her that it was not by any means an honorable proceeding for her to slip into her aunt's room as soon as that lady left the house, take the keys, and go to a place which it was evidently intended that she should know nothing about. Elizabeth would have scorned to read some one else's letter, or open bureau drawers, or investigate boxes. But this seemed so different. A room was unlike a bureau drawer or a box, she thought. Surely she had a perfect right to go into any room that she wished in her own home, and find out, if she could, about her own family.
But her repeated visits threw no light on the subject. She could not discover to whom it belonged.
It was not very long before something most exciting and utterly unprecedented occurred in the family. A letter was received from Mrs. Redmond, Elizabeth's aunt in Virginia, stating that Valentine Herrick had trouble with his eyes, and that he was coming North to consult a Philadelphia oculist. Of course his aunt's house would be open to him, and it would also be an opportunity for him to become acquainted with his sister. Mrs. Redmond deplored the necessity for bringing up the children apart from one another, and would be only too glad to have Elizabeth come for a long stay at her house, if Miss Herrick would allow her to return with Valentine.
Now the Misses Herrick were not particularly fond of entertaining visitors. It interfered too seriously with their accustomed pursuits. And above all, to have a boy! Valentine must now be about fourteen years old, and could anything be more objectionable to have in the house than a boy of fourteen?
However, there was nothing to be done but to say that he should come, and so the day was fixed, and the family, from the servants up, were in a flutter of excitement. Elizabeth was truly delighted. It would be a vast improvement to have some one in the house besides her stately aunts, and she had longed many a time to know her brother. She was doubtful about boys in general, but then she did not know any but the Brady boys, who were inclined to be rough. This one would be her own brother, and besides, it would be a change, and variety is always desirable.
It was four o'clock one afternoon when a hansom dashed up to the door. Elizabeth and Julius Cæsar, in the window, saw a tall, strong-looking boy jump out, pay the driver, and run up the steps. There was a resounding ring at the door-bell, a loud boyish voice was heard asking if Miss Herrick lived there, and from that moment the old house in Fourth Street lost its accustomed quiet.
He came into the parlor, and at the same instant Julius Cæsar fled away to the safer precincts of the kitchen. He also disliked boys. Elizabeth remained hidden in the window-seat, overcome with shyness.
Peering out from behind the drapery, which formed a deep recess, she could see that her new brother had bright golden hair of the same odd shade as her own, but his eyes were blue and full of fun, and his mouth seemed very ready for a smile. She thought that she should like him.
Miss Herrick was long in appearing, and Valentine occupied the time in looking around him. Presently he began to whistle as he walked about the room, knocking over a screen and upsetting a vase. At last he reached one of the windows, where he was confronted by a small figure in a white dress, with golden hair and great solemn brown eyes, which were fixed upon his face.
"Holloa!" he exclaimed, his whistle stopping short in the middle of a bar.
There was no reply.
"WHY, I SUPPOSE YOU ARE MY SISTER."
"Why, I suppose you are my sister?"
"Yes, I am Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth! That is a terribly long name for such a short person."
The little girl considered it beneath her dignity to respond to this. Suddenly, however, she remembered her manners.
"How do you do?" she said, rising, and holding out a small right hand.
"How do you do?" replied Valentine, as he took it and shook it warmly.
"I hope you had a pleasant journey?"
"Very pleasant, thank you. My eye, aren't you a funny one! I should think you were Miss Herrick herself."
"I am the youngest Miss Herrick. My aunt will come down soon, I think."
"Oh, I say, come off your perch, do! She is my aunt, too. I shall die if you keep on talking like your great-grandmother. Why, how old are you, little Miss Betsey?"
"I am eleven. Did you ever see my great-grandmother?"
Valentine stared. He had not been in Fourth Street long enough to know that Elizabeth's great-grandmother was a very real personage to her, her name being often quoted by the aunts. The titles of their ancestors were too much reverenced to be used as figures of speech.
"Not that I know of," he said. "And so you are eleven. Just the same age as Marjorie, and she would make two of you."
"Who is Marjorie?"
"My cousin, Marjorie Redmond. Your cousin too, as to that."
"Aren't you older?"
"Well, I should say so! What do you take me for? I am thirteen, almost fourteen."
And then their conversation was interrupted by the advent of Miss Herrick. Valentine had really extremely good manners, and his aunt was favorably impressed with her new nephew, despite the fact that he was precisely the age which she had most dreaded.
After a little conversation she went out in the carriage, and left the children together. She said to herself that she might as well begin at once to make the boy understand that she could not entertain him, and besides, the brother and sister had better become acquainted.
Elizabeth felt a terrible responsibility about the matter. She had an impression that boys never did what girls enjoyed doing; for instance, a boy would never play with a doll. But then Elizabeth did not care much for dolls herself. She had always preferred live animals.
"What shall I do with him?" she sighed to herself.
"I wish I had my wheel here," remarked Valentine, presently. "Do you ride?"
"A bicycle? No, indeed!"
"You ought to see Marjorie go. Why, she rides off on my machine like a breeze, though she is so short compared to me that her feet don't go anywhere near the pedals when they are down. What do you do all day?"
"I have lessons with Miss Rice, my governess, and I go to walk, and play in the garden—"
"Have you got a garden? That is jolly. I have one too, and so has Marjorie; but hers is a great deal better than mine. She spends more time over it, weeding and all that. I say life is too short for weeding, but Marjorie loves to grub."
This unknown Cousin Marjorie must be a very superior person, thought Elizabeth. She appeared to surpass the rest of the world in everything. Elizabeth would put what was to her an important question.
"Is Marjorie pretty?"
"Pretty? Oh, I don't know. I never thought much about it. No, I don't believe Marjorie is pretty. Her hair is too straight, and hangs all in a shag, and she has a turned-up nose. I call her 'Pug' half the time. But she is a jolly one, Marjorie is," said the admiring cousin.
Elizabeth began to feel a strong liking for the new-comer. A boy who was so fond of his cousin, and that cousin a girl, must be very nice, she thought. She did hope that as he was her own brother he would grow to like her a little. And then an idea occurred to her.
She could ask Valentine all the questions she wished, and probably he would not mind. She could tell him of her trials about the Brady family, and of her hopes of their father's return. She could even consult him in regard to the skeleton in the Herrick family closet.
She was glad he had come.