Min was not the class of girl whose pardon or good-will could be purchased, as is frequently the case, perhaps, with others of her sex!
What suggested the scheme to me was, my not having made her any birthday gift, as her other friends, without exception, had done. It is “never too late to mend;” so, why should I not take her a little present now, to show her that she lived in my heart and had not been intentionally forgotten? If she accepted my offering, good. I should then be certain that she extenuated my gaucherie at her party, whether I got speech with her or no. Yes, that would be the proper course for me to pursue. Would you not have thought so in a like contingency?
The present being decided on, what should I get for her? Flowers, photographs, books, music, and all those delicate nothings, which people generally tender as souvenirs for other people’s acceptance, she had in abundance.
None of these would do at all. I wanted her to have some special, out-of-the-way something from me, which would always call the giver before her mind whenever she saw it. You may think my wish a selfish one, perhaps, but we generally like to be remembered by those we love. I think so, at least; and, I do not believe I am a very exceptional individual.
What should my gift be? It would not be proper for me to offer, nor was it likely that her mother would allow her to accept, anything very valuable, or of intrinsic worth: such as a watch, which I first thought of. Besides, she had a watch already—one that kept time, unlike most ladies’ “time-keepers”—and a particularly pretty one it was, too; so, that was out of the question at once. Jewellery would be just as inadmissible. What on earth should my present consist of?
Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain, that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de-Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have.
I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies, like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.—It would have afforded her no pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who, when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to “take advantage of the situation;” that would be the bird which she would like to have, I was certain.
I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was “Dicky Chips:”—the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on.
I resolved that Dicky Chips should be Min’s property from henceforth.
Whenever she watched him going through his varied pantomimic rôle, and heard his well-turned, whistling notes—he had a rare ear for music—she would think of him who gave him to her, although he might then be far away. I decided the point at once before going to bed. Dicky Chips should, like Caliban, have a new master, or rather mistress; and be a new man, or rather bird, to adopt Mr Toots’ peculiar ellipto-synthetical style of speaking. Where do you think I got hold of him? Do you know a travelling naturalist who goes about London during the summer months—and all over the country, too, for that matter, as I’ve met him north of Tweed, and down also at the Land’s End, in Cornwall?