THE BLACKBIRDS' NEST.
BY MARY CECIL HAY.
"Put it back, Jim. Do put it back."
"Why?" Jim whispered, with a startled glance along the wood path. "Is the master in sight, Ned?"
"We are in sight of the Master, Jim."
Jim drew a long breath of relief, and put his finger into the open mouth of one of the unfledged blackbirds. "You frightened me for a moment," he said, "but I see you were only talking Sunday-school stuff. Of course, as Squire's forbid us to touch the nests here, we must mind he doesn't see, that's all."
"Put it back, Jim, lad," pleaded the elder boy, without resenting his companion's sneer. "It's as much a home, you know, as your own cottage; and those four little blackbirds can no more live and grow if you destroy it, than your baby sisters could live and grow if they had no home and no mother."
"I ain't harmin' the mother," muttered Jim.
"Suppose your mother came home one night, after her work, feeling happy, and thinking of the rest she should have in her own snug little house, where you would all be looking out for her, and just when she came close up to your cottage—just at the old lilac-tree by the gate, you know—she looked up and saw there were no little ones to meet her, no bright little room to rest in, no sign, even, of where the dear old home had been: if you could see her then, Jim, would you say that anybody who'd taken it all away hadn't harmed her?"
"I don't know nothin' 'bout that," stammered Jim, moodily. "It ain't got to do with a nest. The old bird can make another."
"I suppose your mother could find another cottage, but would it be the same without you and the babies?"
"It's very different," grumbled Jim, but a little less defiantly now.
"Father says the mother birds often die of grief when they find their nests gone. You'll put it back, Jim?"
"Not very likely, when I've had all this fuss to get it."
"Just put it back for ten minutes," pleaded Ned.
"And take it again after?"
"Yes, and take it again after—if you like."
"What good would that do?" inquired Jim, with a laugh.
"Just put it back for ten minutes, while I tell you a story."
"You'll promise not to talk Sunday-school stuff when I take 'em back again, or tell the master, or serve me any sneaky trick like that?"
"I promise. Stay, I'll help you put the nest back in exactly the old spot."
"I'll do it myself," returned Jim, ungraciously. "I fetched it myself first, and I'll fetch it again when your tale's over. There, I've put it."
"Look, Jim! look!" cried Ned, joyfully. "That blackbird flying straight to the tree is sure to be the mother. Aren't you glad the nest's there now?"
"Ten minutes ain't very long," observed Jim, as he threw himself at full length on the turf, looking longingly up at the branch on which the nest was built, while the white blossoms of the hawthorn fell upon his upturned face. "I'm safe to have 'em in ten minutes to do what I like with. Now, then, for the tale. Is there a giant in it?"
"Not this time," said Ned, gently. "It's only about myself and the children and mother. That won't be like Jack the Giant-Killer or Robinson Crusoe, will it? But the story isn't long, Jim. I was a very little chap, and the twins were dots of things, and baby only a month or so old. Father worked for the master here, and loved him as all the men do now; but I didn't love him, because he wouldn't have us boys take the eggs or nests. But one day, when I was going through this very wood, and nobody was by to see me, I took a thrush's nest with five tiny throstles in it. I hid it in the basket I was bringing to mother, and went off so cheerfully, remembering we had an old wicker cage at home, and thinking how I'd put the birds in it, and watch how they'd manage to fledge; and how I'd burn the nest—it was dry and crisp, and would burn beautifully—that I mightn't be found out. Mother was sitting by the fire nursing baby (poor mother was sick that time, and baby hadn't ever been well), and I went behind her to the cage, and put my birds in without her seeing, for I knew well enough how she'd tell me I was wrong to disobey the master, and cruel to the little creatures I'd stolen. I didn't care to be told that, for I wasn't sorry, and I didn't want to give mother the chance of spoiling my fun by any of her quiet speeches about the other Master—up there beyond the blue—who cares for every little bird in every tree. I had plenty of opportunities for slipping away to the dim corner where the cage was, for I was let stay up waiting for father; but at last mother sent me to bed. I slept in a little bed in a corner of the kitchen, so it wasn't the same as going up stairs; and I watched the hand of the clock go round, for I couldn't sleep for thinking how queer my orphan birds looked, and how jealous some of the lads at school would be. I saw mother get to look whiter and whiter, and tireder and tireder; but father didn't come home. Then baby began to moan, and mother got up and walked about with her, and I watched how troubled she looked. Then I fell asleep. It seemed like the middle of the night when I awoke, and I jumped up, for I seemed to know in a second that everything wasn't like other nights. The cottage door was wide open, and there was mother standing there, looking out into the darkness, and listening. When I went up to her, she just put her arm round my neck, but she didn't look at me; she only looked into the darkness.
"'Come in, mother,' I cried; 'you oughtn't to stand here while you are ill.'
"But she only stood there trembling, till baby began to cry and move restless in her cradle; then mother came in, and took her up, and held her close to her neck, sobbing as I'd never heard mother sob before in all my life—never. I held to her, and begged her to stop, but I was crying myself too all the time. And still father didn't come. I was a silly lad, Jim, and a wicked one, but I wasn't a coward; and so I begged mother to let me go up to the Hall to ask about father. For a long time she wouldn't, but at last I got her just to whisper 'yes' in her crying, and I was only too eager to set off. She came to the door with me, still shivering, and holding baby wrapped in a shawl; and while she kissed me she whispered something I couldn't hear; but I suppose it didn't matter my hearing, for she was speaking up to Heaven. I wasn't long reaching the Hall, for I knew every inch of the road, and could run safely enough even in the darkness. I went up through the yard, and when I saw a light in the saddle-room, I knew one of the grooms was sitting up to take the master's horse, and I went in at once. It was Tom Harris, and of course I was sorry, because he hated father, and didn't like me; but whoever it had been, I should have gone in then to ask for father. Tom scolded me first for startling him, then he laughed at my questions, and then he got cool again, and stared at me.
"'You won't find your father here,' he said; 'you won't never find him here again, Ned Sullivan, for he ain't ever coming here again. He's turned off. The master won't have nothing more to do with him. You'd best go and ask for him at the public, for he went that way when the master sent him off. The public's a good place for him to forget his troubles in.'
"I stared at the man, trying to understand what he said, and trying to believe him. 'Father never goes to the public,' I stammered. 'What do you mean?'
"'He's never been turned off work before to-night,' laughed Tom. 'That's what sends a man to the public. If he ain't there, something's happened to him. Go you and see after him. Don't stare,' he went on, crossing his arms, and leaning back in his chair by the fire. 'Can't ye hear what I say? Your father's been turned off here, and to-morrow you're all to be off out of your cottage.'
"I caught hold of the table, for the room was spinning round and round; and then I remember Tom laughed, and said it again, as if I'd questioned him.
"'Yes, I mean just what I say. Your father's been late every morning this week, and the master won't stand it—not likely. So you're all to turn out of your cottage to-morrow for the new shepherd. Go home and make as much as you can of the place to-night, as it'll be gone to-morrow.'
"At first I was afraid to stir, for I thought if I did I should fall; but as soon as I could I crept away from the man's sight. Out in the darkness again, all my strength came back, and I ran home faster even than I had run to the Hall, crying mother's name all the way, without knowing what I meant.
"The cottage door was open when I reached it. I think she'd put it open to guide us—father and me; and I looked in, actually afraid for the first time in my life of meeting mother. She was sitting by the fire, her face white, and the tears falling all the time. While I stood wondering how to tell her about father, my sobs burst out and frightened her. But I was by her side then, and I fell on my knees, and laid my head in her lap. It was just then, Jim, that I remembered my little unfledged birds and their ruined home, and the mother who had lost them, and I folded my hands and looked up into mother's face almost as if she had been God. 'I'll never do it again—never! never! I didn't know it was so terrible. I'll put them back.'
"Afterward, while I told her all that Tom had said, I tried not to see her face, and tried still more, Jim, not to see that old cage in the far corner of the kitchen, where my little prisoners were. When I'd done, mother got up from her seat, and put on her shawl and bonnet.
"'No, no, mother,' I cried, quite quietly, though, for fear of waking baby; 'you mustn't go out; you'll be ill again, and it's quite dark. Oh, let me go!'
"She stooped and kissed me. 'It's no place for you, my child. Take care of baby.' She couldn't say another word, and I could only watch her go, as she had watched me, thinking what I'd have given to be able to go and take care of her.
"I sat close to baby's cradle, and stared into the fire as if that wide stare could keep the tears away; but all the while I didn't see the fire at all, but other things—oh, Jim, so plainly!
"The white light crept through the kitchen window, then the sun rose, and still father and mother didn't come. The sun was shining now, and this was the very day we were to go, so I woke the twins and dressed them, and wrapped baby ready, and put the room in order, all without a word, for I was too miserable to cry. At last father and mother came in, very slowly and silently, and father put his hand on my head, and mother took baby, and then I knew we were bidding good-by to the little home where we had been so happy, and I didn't want to cry, though my heart was breaking, so I crept away to the woods for a few minutes. I felt that everything would seem better there, where I should see the sunshine on the leaves and grass and flowers, and hear the birds' songs among the boughs, making the leaves seem full of music, as I had so often heard them; and even higher still, among the soft white clouds, where I'd often thought that even the angels must like to hear them, stooping to listen when their own songs were silent for a bit. But, Jim, when I came into the wood, there was no note of all these bright glad songs.
"The whole wood was heavy with a dismal silence; and then I knew that it was my fault that the birds were unhappy, and would never sing again.
"What could I do? Was it all too late? Sobbing bitterly, I ran home to fetch the little orphan birds, and give the mother back her children and her home. Ah, Jim, what a change I found in our own dear home! The little kitchen that had always seemed so snug and bright and cheerful was empty and bare. Nowhere in the cottage was there a step or voice to be heard; only I was left there, and with me, in that nest in the old cage, five little dead birds.
"The dream had been so real, Jim, that my cry terrified a gentleman who was riding past in the darkness, and heard it. He dismounted, and came into the cottage kitchen, and I saw it was the master.
"'Were you asleep, Ned?' he asked, in his kind way. 'Did you cry out in your sleep?'
"Scarcely knowing I had dreamed, I told him all about taking the nest, and disobeying him, and about the woods being silent, and how I came home and found our home ruined, and father and mother gone, and the birds dead; and when he looked kindly at me, I fell down on my knees and begged him to forgive me, and not take our home away from mother, but to send only me away, because I'd taken the nest, and to let father and mother and the children stay. Then he questioned me till I'd repeated all that Tom Harris had told me when I went to ask for father; and I said how father had never been to the public before that night, and how mother had been to fetch him, though she was ill. Then he put out his kind hand, and lifted me up.
"'I am glad I heard you as I passed,' he said. 'Harris has been deceiving you, Ned. You might have guessed that, because he is so fond of frightening you, and has a grudge against your father. But this amounts to wickedness, and he shall be punished. I guess how it is, my lad. Your father is in the shed in the far meadow with the sick cow. I dare say he couldn't send a message from there, and has all the while expected he would be able to come home in a few more minutes. You may be sure he is as anxious to come as you are to see him, but he never neglects a sick animal. Dry your eyes, my lad, for the cottage is your home still, and it doesn't look at all "ruined," I think. Now build up the fire, and wait for your mother. I'll see about your father.'
"Oh, Jim, can you fancy what it was like then? I put my head into the cradle, and smothered baby with kisses; I made the fire up, and put on the kettle. Then I ran a little way down the dark road, calling out to mother, 'Make haste, mother! make haste!' At last she came, Jim—not white and crying and alone, as she had gone, not silent and sorrowful with father, like in my dream, but talking happily with him. And then how I longed that I could have given back my dead birds to their mother—given them back their home, as ours had been given to us! I don't know what I did for a bit, but when I'd got father and mother to have some tea, I laid my head down upon the cold nest, and while I held so tenderly the little dead birds—killed by these hands of mine, while the master who was kind to the birds had been so kind to me—I asked God to forgive me, and I made a promise to Him that He has let me be able to keep, for I ask Him again every night and every morning. Don't you think it's true, Jim, what mother says, that the more we love the things He loves, the more we love Him? That's all. It's quite ten minutes, isn't it? Are you going to take your nest again?"
"You might have told a cheerfuler tale, Ned. Tell another. There's no hurry about taking that nest again just yet."
[THE FUNNY LITTLE USHER.]
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
The studios were open, all the artists had united,
And to see the very pretty show were lots of folks invited;
They came quite early in the day, they came till late at night,
And used up all the adjectives in showing their delight.
A water-color artist, rather grander than the rest,
Had a funny little usher in a funny costume dressed,
Who met the people at the door, and marshalled them the way
To where the easels were arranged with pictures for display.
And then he bowed a funny bow that made the people smile,
And through his funny little eyes he gazed at them the while,
As if to say, "My master is, you see, a clever man,
And on this grand reception day I do the best I can."
When the pictures were admired, and the people turned about,
This funny little usher would with grace escort them out,
And stand within the passage at a distance about right,
So as not to be familiar, but exceedingly polite.
There are many of the pictures that I can not now recall;
And the little living tableau I remember best of all
Was the funny little usher from the distant Isle of Skye,
Who did his duty well, and answered to the name of Fly.
THE HALBERDIER.