“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”
“Well,” he replied, “you know when the Allies mined under the enemy’s line, they carried canaries in cages with them so that if there was any fire damp in the big holes they made, they could tell by the canaries’ actions. Well, one little war bird flew away from his task. He evidently was an idle bird, and did not wish to work. He perched on a small bush in the middle of No Man’s Land and began to sing, ‘I won’t work, I won’t work. I want to play.’
“The Allied soldiers were in a terrible fright. If their enemies saw the canary, they would know they were mining, and would send shells at them and kill them all. So the Allied men signaled to their infantry to fire on the bird.
They did so, but he was so small a target that they could not strike him, and he hopped from twig to twig unhurt. Finally they had to call on the artillery, and a big trench gun sent a shell that blew birdie and his bush into the air.”
“What a pity!” I said sadly. “If he had done his duty and stayed with the workers, he might be yet alive. I can tell you a cat war story, if you like.”
“What is it?” asked Chummy.
“The tale of a cat and her kittens. One day the Allied soldiers saw a cat come across No Man’s Land. She walked as evenly as Black Thomas does when he is taking an airing on this quiet street. No one fired at her, and she crossed the first line of trenches, the support behind them, and went back to the officers’ dugouts. She inspected all of them, then she returned across this dangerous land to the enemy’s lines. The trenches were pretty close together, and the men all roared with amusement, for on this trip she had a tiny kitten in her mouth.
“She carried it back to the best-looking dugout, and laid it on an officer’s coat. Then she went back and got a second kitten, and then a
third. The soldiers cheered her, and no one thought of harming her. Mrs. Martin’s nephew wrote her this nice story, and he said that the mother cat and her three kittens were the idols of the soldiers and always wore pink ribbons on their necks. They called them Ginger, Shrapnel, and Surprise Party.”
“What a good story,” said the sparrow thickly.