What the Blackbird said / A story in four chirps

by Hannah Jane Locker-Lampson

“Oh, Nanny,” cried the little boy sadly, “don’t say that, our Blackbird is so good, he sings beautifully, and we are so fond of him. The gardener mustn’t kill our Blackbird.” Tears stood in the soft brown eyes, and Nanny, who was really a kind-hearted woman, hastened to say that she didn’t at all suppose that that particular Blackbird would be killed, it was only that birds in general were such destructive creatures, that the fewer of them there were left about, the better.

Willie, however, was not altogether consoled, and he could not help feeling that Nanny was not so sympathetic as she might be about his dear Blackbird. Still he hoped for the best, and determined, at the very earliest opportunity, to entreat the gardener to spare every Blackbird, young and old, for the sake of his particular friend.

All this had happened in the spring, some months before, and it was now July. The young Blackbirds, hatched in April, had been out and abroad in the 51 world some weeks. They were not yet quite full grown, and still depended upon their parents for help and advice. The parent birds, however, had not a little to do, for by this time they had hatched a second brood, and, just now, these last required their constant attention, although they hoped that by the end of the month their young ones would be able to fly a little. This brood had proved more refractory than the first one, and they were continually getting into trouble and mischief. One of them tumbled into a pool of water, and was as nearly as possible drowned; another was pursued by a cat and had his leg very much hurt; while a third, alas! a poor little fellow, tumbled right out of the nest one morning, fell on the hard ground, and never breathed again.

But although the Blackbird had his troubles, and serious ones they were too, the beauty and luxuriance of the season rejoiced his heart. The country was in its richest summer garb, even the porch of the old gabled house was covered with pale pink roses. A splendid yellow rose, a Gloire de Dijon, clustered round the library window, and a white rose peeped in at the drawing-room. White and yellow jasmin, 52 varied here and there by clusters of deep crimson roses, covered the west side of the house and the old bay window, and the garden below was gay with bright-coloured flower-beds.

Every tree was in full foliage, and the avenue of limes was sweet with small white blossoms, and musical with the murmur of myriads of contented bees, who found some of their sweetest nectar there. The newly-mown hay was falling on all sides, and the trees gave a very grateful shade to the tired haymakers during the noon-tide heat.

The spot, however, which most attracted the Blackbirds, was the kitchen garden. What ripe red strawberries were hidden away under the thick leaves on the long slope of the upper garden! what cool green gooseberries, and what a variety of currants, were fast ripening in the lower garden! The Blackbird would often retire with one or two of his young people to this favoured region. They would first settle themselves at the strawberry-bed, though it must be confessed that this part of the feast was attended with some peril. They felt a certain degree of nervousness, a sense of insecurity, for a horrid net had 53 been stretched over this particular bed, and sometimes the dark feathered heads got caught in it.

One day the Blackbird had a most terrible fright. He and his wife, and some of the young ones, had been hard at work on the ripe strawberries. They had been so busy that they did not hear stealthy footsteps approaching on the sandy gravel till they were quite close to them. Then the birds rose in the air, with shrill cries of alarm, all except Mamma Blackbird, who somehow could not get her head from under the net. She struggled desperately; the gardener was now close upon her. The poor bird, wild with alarm, fluttered backwards and forwards, till at last by a supreme effort, she freed herself and fled away, very much scared, but rejoicing in her liberty. This affair gave all the family a fearful shock, and it was some days before they dared to re-visit the strawberry-bed.

All things considered, though, the strawberries were very good, the birds preferred the lower garden, where they could hop comfortably and securely under the gooseberry and currant bushes. There were no nets there, and the gardener could not pounce down 54 upon them through those stiff thorny bushes; they could feast on the small, red gooseberries, and then, for a change, pass on to the smooth yellowish ones. Their meal generally ended by a visit to a certain bush where the clusters of white currants hung conveniently near the ground.

There was one spot, however, which was perhaps the most attractive of all. On the south side of the garden flourished an old cherry-tree which bore on its wide spreading arms “white hearts” of the very finest quality and flavour. This was a secret corner to which the birds repaired at eventide, and where, curiously enough, the gardener never suspected them of trespassing.

One bright July morning the Blackbird noticed a most unusual stir at the old mansion. There was a good deal of running about, to and fro, and in and out. The dairymaid paid a great many visits to the dairy, and other maids might be seen hurrying in all directions. The small brother and sister had more than once trotted out on the lawn to look at the sky, and make sure that it was not raining.