Lucy had finished reading her letter, and stood in the porch, watching a catbird’s fantastic wooing as it paused in the midst of an impassioned song to jeer, expostulate, coax, and protest all in a breath, now raising itself tiptoe on an ecstatic high note, and then languishing until it seemed to melt into the bushes. Every other bird loses self-consciousness and pours his heart out in the love time, the catbird never; and yet its compelling fascination lies in that it is always itself.
Lucy laughed softly as she watched the feathered pair, and said to Tatters, who stood beside her, “Do you know, old fellow, I think if any one wooes me, he will have to do it all in a breath, and after hypnotizing me by his rattling, like that bird yonder, secure my hand and heart before I wake. How I wish I were that lady bird this very minute, having all this fuss made for me, and sitting perfectly composed in a bush without a thought to spare for my trousseau!”
Tatters’ answer was a low growl, and then a series of quick barks as the hubbub in the hennery began.
“I think something is stirring up your poultry; shall I go and see?” Lucy called, going around under Brooke’s window, for the latter had gone up to rest a few moments after a tiresome afternoon.
“I guess the hens have only fallen off their perches, and are frightened,” Brooke answered, coming to the window; “they often do, the sillies. It cannot be rats or weasels, for that is not Tatters’ animal bark,—that tone means a man, and no one would be so foolish as to come prowling before dark.”
Lucy continued to watch the catbird, but on the noise recommencing, Tatters growled again, and leaving the porch, nose to ground, skirted the library window, went to the gate, returned, stood under the window for a second with bristling hair, and then, leading straight to the fowl house, began tearing at the door.
Interested in his tactics, and thinking the intruder nothing worse than a prowling cat, Lucy threw the skirt of her flowered dimity over her arm and crossed the garden to the lane.
“Quiet, Tatters, quiet!” she cautioned, patting his head; “you must let me attend to this; dogs are not allowed in fowl houses, they have been known to produce heart disease in susceptible young pullets. Sit down and watch out!”
Touching the spring, she released the latch, and opening the door cautiously, lest any fowls escape, she peered in, thus coming instantly face to face with the caged man! The shock for a moment made her lose her poise, and she almost tottered as she cried, “Tom Brownell!”