She is not the kind of bird to die of grief, but she did not like my plan for her. She placed herself on a stone ledge by the door and sat there night and day, except when eating and drinking. I fastened a little box against the wall for her to sit on, and left strict injunctions with the maid who was to take care of her that if she fretted she was to be taken upstairs.
She does not fret. She eats and drinks and sits on her box, but all the time she is listening for me. When she hears any one coming in the basement she calls out, hoping that I am returning.
She is receiving a great deal of petting from my parents, and the maid writes that occasionally my pet bird lights on her shoulder. However, I know that no one can take my place with my pigeon. She is as faithful as a dog, and bird-lovers will understand how eagerly I look forward to a reunion with her. It would be unwise to project into her the emotional qualities of a human being. She is not suffering, she is only waiting, but it is something to be able to wait in the days of a fickle and restless generation.
Poor Whistler too is waiting, but I cannot feel the same sympathy for him that I do for my Princess, and I smile whenever I think of him. He, for the winter, is alone in the cage that was built for my owl. It is a good size, and he is high-stepping round it and talking incessantly to a pigeon that I got in rather a curious way.
One day last summer one of the numerous boys who bring me birds, rang the bell, and announced that a new pet was approaching.
I tried not to laugh when I found that my new pet’s carriage was a steam roller. The big, dirty, noisy thing was drawn up near the house. A man black as the roller, from his contact with the coal, was coming toward the door, and in his hand he held a sooty pigeon.
“It is from the post-office,” he said; “I was taking the roller by, and frightened two pigeons so that they fell from their nest. One went among the market women, and I don’t know what became of it. This fellow lighted on my box, and though the boys begged for it, I shut it up and brought it to you.”
The post-office is about a mile from our house. I thanked him for his kindness to the bird, and invited him upstairs to see its new home. He followed me to the roof-veranda, and I examined the bird. One squawk that it gave, and its size, proclaimed it to be young, just ready to leave the nest.
“I will feed it for a day or two,” I said, “then let it go.”
He thanked me and went away, and I fed that pigeon from the last day of July till the last day of September.