What the Blackbird said / A story in four chirps

by Hannah Jane Locker-Lampson

The days were certainly becoming longer and less cold, the snow had altogether disappeared, and somehow the sun seemed, to the Blackbird, to get up earlier and go to bed later. He noticed also, about this time, that little shaft-like leaves were beginning to peep through the grass, and that the beech and hazel twigs were swelling into small knobs. He also felt that there was something different in himself––a change––he was stronger and happier, and he was seized with an irresistible desire to sing. The hoarseness which had tried him so much during the winter months had gone, and his throat was once more clear.

A week passed by, the little knobs on the trees began to open and discover small, tender leaves, and 23 between the green spear-like shoots in the grass delicate stems had come up bearing white drooping flowers.

One morning the Blackbird discussed all these changes with the Robin; and the Rook, who happened to be flying by, was called in to assist at their council.

“You are surprised at all these changes, my young friends,” he said; “did I not tell you that the seasons never fail? This is the Spring, the time when everything comes forth to new life. The snow has overspread the earth and kept it warm all these months. It has covered the bulbs of the snowdrops, those white flowers that you so greatly admire, friend Blackbird. It covered them up carefully till the proper time arrived that they should spring forth. In the same way the buds on the trees have been wrapped up in their brown coats and kept warm during the bitter winter weather, and now that the sun is once more shining, the said brown coats are beginning to drop off, for the little green leaves are pushing their way into the world of warmth and sunshine. And then, not the least interesting change, your song has once 24 more returned to you, the woods are full of sweet music,––ay, and you will see yet greater wonders, for truly ‘the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.’”

Yes, the Rook was quite right; each day now brought about some fresh wonder––a few more green leaves, a few more white flowers; and presently between the snowdrop plants came up the slender green leaves, and the gold and purple blossoms of the crocus.

About this time, too, the Blackbird noticed that many of his feathered friends were unusually busy. They seemed to have no time for talk. He met them flying hither and thither with feathers, small pieces of straw, or twigs, in their beaks. About this time also, the Blackbird himself felt a strong desire to have a nest of his own. But how could he build it by himself? He must find a partner to share his labours––and where could he find such a partner? He was almost in despair, so at last he determined to pour out his desire in song, as he perched one morning on the branch of a budding hawthorn.

He sang his sweetest, his very best, and as the song was borne along on the bright morning air, and 25 then died away, he became aware of a tender little note, a faint twitter which came from a branch immediately beneath him. He looked down, and, lo and behold, there, half concealed by spreading boughs, was a bird like himself, another Blackbird! This stranger Blackbird was very attractive-looking, but its plumage was not quite so bright or black as his own. Its bill, too, was more brown than yellow, and the orange streaks round the eyes were of a greenish hue. But notwithstanding these slight differences, the bird which now hopped down on the grass, and answered his song by if possible a sweeter warble, was both handsome and winning. The Blackbird was delighted to have thus found so immediate a response to his petition, and he was very soon on the grass beside the interesting stranger. On nearer approach he found that this Blackbird had gentle eyes, and was indeed altogether very bewitching, so without any hesitation he proposed that they should build a nest together! His offer was shyly accepted, and then came the important question, where to build?

The Blackbird was anxious not to be too far from his little friends Willie and Alice. They had been so kind to him during the winter, that he would fain 26 see something of them still, and sing them his best songs, now that he had his voice back again. He had watched them the day before, as they trotted hand-in-hand along the home-meadow where the snowdrops and crocuses grew. They had pulled some of the white and yellow blossoms, and had then stood still to listen to the flute-like voice of an unseen minstrel. Hand-in-hand they listened; the little boy with his large brown eyes fixed on the tree from whence came the song, the little girl with her baby-face uplifted, and one pink finger held up as much as to say “Hush! hush!”

The song ended, the Blackbird flew out from the shelter of the thick fir-tree where he had been concealed, and winged his way across the meadow.