“I know Thomas,” I said; “jet black, white spot on breast, yellow eyes, fierce, proud temper.”
“He’s a case,” said Chummy, “and he vows he’ll have Squirrie’s life yet.”
“Anything else happened?” I asked.
“Oh, yes—two strange pigeons, dusky brown, have been in the neighborhood all the morning, looking for a nesting place, and Susan and Slow-Boy have worn themselves out driving them away.”
Billie rarely opened her mouth when Chummy called. She lay dozing, or pretending to doze, by the fire; but to-day she spoke up and said, “Who are Susan and Slow-Boy?”
I waited politely for Chummy to speak, but his beak was too full, so I answered for him.
“They are the two oldest neighborhood pigeons, and they live in the old barn back of our yard. They are very particular about any pigeon that settles near here; still, if the strangers are agreeable they might let them have that ledge outside the barn.”
“They’re not agreeable,” said Chummy. “Their feathers are in miserable condition. They haven’t taken good care of them, and
Slow-Boy says he knows by the look of them they have vermin.”
“Lice!” exclaimed Billie suddenly. “That is dreadful. Some of the Italians where I used to live had pigeons that scratched themselves all the time. It was sad to hear them at night. They could not sleep. They would all rise up together on their perches and shake themselves.”