She picked up the feather, and took off her little fur cap, into which she fastened it without any difficulty, for though she had no pin—it isn’t often, is it, that little girls have pins “handy” when wanted?—it seemed to catch into the skin of the fur, all of itself.
“It reminds me,” thought Mary, “of ‘Up the airy mountain—’ that part about bed jacket, green cap, and white owl’s feather—though I certainly don’t want to be stolen away, like little Bridget, for seven years long, even by the Cooies. But I can trust them.”
Then she placed her foot exactly below the branch where she had found the feather and stepped forward carefully, one, two, three, four—up to seven, and then stood still again.
At first she really thought for a moment or two that the wood-pigeons had been playing her a trick. The bushes and trees on both sides seemed to have got so very thick and close; she could not see the least sign of an opening for even a rabbit to get through on either the left or the right! And it felt so cold; so much colder, suddenly, it had become.
“I must go home,” thought Mary, feeling ready to cry. “I believe the Cooies are imps after all, and not nice fairies. Yes, I’d better go home,” and just at that moment came the sound of the big bell, not very loud, but quite distinct Pleasance had not forgotten to ring it. “Three o’clock,” thought Mary, “I had no idea I had been so long. Yes, I must turn back.”
But—what was that other sound? Again, from among the bushes on the left, came the soft, encouraging little voice, “coo-coo,”—“don’t be so distrustful, Mary; try again,” it seemed to say, and as the little girl still hesitated a sudden glimmer of light flickered for a moment through the branches somehow, down to the ground, and then faded as quickly as it had come.
Mary stooped, and with her hands, well protected in their thick winter gloves, tried to push back some of the leaves. To her surprise they, or rather the branches on which they were growing, yielded to her touch in a wonderful way, as if they had been waiting to be put aside, and then she saw before her a very narrow, very dark little path, but a path, though it scarcely looked as if even a little doggie could have made its way along it! But her spirits had got up again by this time, and she pressed on bravely. It took some courage—it was like walking through the very high corn in a very fully grown corn-field, if ever you have done such a mischievous thing?—only with dark trees overhead, and no light anywhere scarcely—all gloom instead of golden, sunlight yellow. Still it could be done, and though Mary’s heart was beating very fast, she persevered.
And before long she was rewarded. As the Cooies had promised, a few minutes were enough to bring her to the end of the chilly dark path, then she saw before her, close at hand, a little white gate.
When I say a little white gate, I do not mean a low one. On the contrary it was high, a good deal higher than the top of Mary’s head, but quite narrow, and it seemed closely barred or wired, so that she could scarcely see through it. She had not time, however, to judge as to this, for almost as soon as she came to a stop in front of it she heard a swish and rustle in the air, and down came from she knew not where a whole flight, or flights of birds, in great excitement, who settled themselves on the gate, inside and outside, so to say, as if to defend it.
They did not chirp or chatter or even coo—“cooing” indeed would not have seemed to suit the state they were in, though she very quickly saw that they were all pigeons, or doves, or birds of that family, though of very varying sizes and colour, but so many, and all so plainly intending to prevent her trying to open the gate that she would have been quite afraid to try to do so. There was perfect silence, however.