This was an opportunity not to be lost. Willie ran up with one of his small hands full of the juicy berries, they were so good he must give some to Alice. The delighted little girl opened wide her rosy mouth to receive the fruit. The crushed berries were hastily pushed in by Willie, leaving large purple stains on her lips and chin, and in his haste and fear of being discovered he let several fall on her pale blue pelisse.
It was just at this moment that Nurse Barlow looked round. “Master Willie! Master Willie!” she cried, darting forward and seizing him by both hands, “haven’t I often and often told you Miss Alice is not to have those nasty berries? Didn’t I only yesterday read in the newspaper of three children that were poisoned to death by eating berries out of a hedge––poor little children that had no nurse to look after them; and here you’ve given the darling those nasty, poisonous things. Just look at her mouth!” and she paused as 76 she turned to examine Willie’s pockets. “I do declare if you haven’t gone and put them into the pockets of your new clothes! Well,” said she, appealing to her friend, “did you ever see the like? That’s his new suit, on yesterday for the first time,––and just look!” she continued, as one after the other she slowly turned the pockets inside out, “just look!”
The pockets were purple, as were also the lips and hands of the delinquent, and he really looked as penitent as he felt, though, as Nurse Barlow said, “where’s the use of being sorry when the mischief’s done?” Willie promised that he really would behave better another time, and that he had not meant to do any harm. In the meanwhile little Alice had mightily enjoyed the taste of these her first blackberries, but she and Willie did not forget in a hurry the terrible scolding, and the much more terrible washing, which succeeded that famous day’s blackberrying in the lane.
The Blackbird congratulated himself that he had no blue suit of clothes to spoil, and that his coat was of such a colour that the berries could not harm it.
We have already said that the Blackbird had his interests and pleasures even at this autumn time, but 77 it must be owned that a good deal of life and enjoyment had gone with the summer.
The woods were almost songless, and each day added to the increasing multitude of dead leaves that drove before the wind; each day, too, the bare boughs, once so well covered, flung a few more of their last leaves to the ground. About this time, too, the Blackbird did not feel quite well––he was listless, his wings would droop in spite of himself. His feathers were not so black and glossy as they had been,––the fact was, the moulting season had begun, and it was some time before he began to feel really bright and well again.
It was also about this time that the Blackbird noticed a most unusual gathering together of the swallows, and a good deal of commotion and twittering. They assembled in large flocks, and appeared to be eagerly discussing some weighty affair of State. After such discussions they would suddenly disperse, but only to re-assemble and twitter more eagerly than ever.
What could it all mean? Of course the sage and experienced Rook was referred to.
“These birds,” he said, “are about to what is called migrate, it is a very important event to them, and 78 they hold long consultations beforehand. As you may remember, I told you in the spring they do not spend above half the year in England, and now that the leaves are falling, and the winds are getting cold, they know it is high time to be off. They are wonderfully quick flyers, a few days will find them on the distant shores of Africa.”
“It must be very sunny, very delightful there,” said the Blackbird.