“Well, ye needn’t flop down, Admiral. I’ll come up myself.”
No lamplighter ever ran quicker up a ladder than did Ransey Tansey swarm up that pine-tree. In little over two minutes he was right out on the green roof, and beside him one of the most graceful and beautiful cranes it is possible to imagine. The boy’s father had bought the bird from a sailor somewhere down the country; and, except on very stormy nights, it preferred to roost in this tree. The neck was a greyish blue, as was also the back; the wings were dark, the legs jet black, the tail purple. Around the eyes was a broad patch of crimson; and the bill was as long as a penholder, more or less slender, and slightly curved downwards at the end. (A species of what is popularly known an the dancing crane.)
The Admiral did all he could to express the pleasure he felt at seeing the boy, by a series of movements that I find it difficult to describe. The wings were half extended and quivering with delight, the neck forming a series of beautiful curves, the head at times high in air, and next moment down under Ransey’s chin. Then he twisted his neck right round the boy’s neck, from left to right, then from right to left, the head being laid lovingly each time against his little master’s cheek.
“Now then, Admiral, when ye’re quite done cuddlin’ of me, we’ll have a look for father’s barge.”
From his elevated coign of vantage, Ransey Tansey could see for many miles all around him. On this bright, sunny summer morn, it was a landscape of infinite beauty; on undulating, well-wooded, cultivated country, green and beautiful everywhere, except in the west, where a village sheltered itself near the horizon, nestling in a cloudland of trees, from which the grey flat tower of a church looked up.
To the left yonder, and near to the church, was a long strip of silver—the canal. High on a wooded hill stood the lord of the manor’s house, solid, brown, and old, with the blue smoke therefrom trailing lazily along across the tree-tops.
But the house nearest to Ransey’s was some distance across the fields yonder—an old-fashioned brick farm-building with a steading behind it, every bit of it green with age.
“So ye can’t see no signs o’ father, or the barge, eh? Look again, Admiral; your neck’s a bit longer’n mine.”
“Tok—tok—tok—cray!”
“Well, I’m off down. There’s the milk to fetch yet; and if I don’t hurry up, Bob and Babs are sure to make a mess on’t afore I gets back. Mornin’ to ye, Admiral.”