She had not quite understood Mr Coo’s long speech, in which he told her they were going to flit for good. She had only thought he was singing a “cooie” song to her extra sweetly, because they were going away for a day or two, as she had known them do before—for a little change, she supposed, now that the young Cooies were all hatched and fledged and able to look after themselves—“grown-up and out in the world.” Next year no doubt there would be eggs in the nest again to hatch and take care of—eggs and then fledglings—a weary business it must be, Mary thought, though happily Mrs Coo did not seem to think so, nor Mr Coo either, as he sat on a branch talking to her while she stayed so patiently and contentedly in the nest, and their soft voices sounded sweetly through the spring air, in at Mary’s window, where she never forgot to stand morning and evening to nod and smile to her little friends, and even to talk sometimes when Mr Coo hopped up to a still nearer bough.
No, it was not exactly about the Cooies having gone that Mary was crying so piteously that day. She still thought they would come back again before long, though certainly they had never been away for so many days together as this time, which made her begin to feel rather less sure of their returning, and when she came in from her walk that afternoon and stood at the window looking out, a sad fear stole over her that perhaps they would never come back again at all.
Suddenly a faint sound made her start. She had just begun saying to herself again the same words which Mr Coo had overheard, and which had so hurt his feelings as well as Mrs Coo’s.
“It’s too bad of the Cooies, too bad. I really don’t believe—” when the little sound reached her ears, and looking up quickly, she saw that the window was slightly open at the top, and again she heard a soft, very soft “coo.”
It only took her a moment to push up the lower sash as high as it would go. Luckily there were bars across, so she could not lean far out; only her forehead and eyes and the top of her curly head got through, but even this gave her a clearer view of the fairy tree and the boughs, lower down than her window, from which Mr Coo had so often “talked” to her, while keeping at the same time his eye on Mrs Coo patiently seated on the nest farther in among the branches, and ready to do any little errand that might be wanted.
The nest, alas, was no longer there; only bits of it, at leasts were left Mary knew so exactly where it had been that she could distinguish the fragments, but no one looking for it for the first time could have seen anything at all. But—something better than the nest met Mary’s delighted eyes. Two little well-known figures were there—on the very end of one of the boughs, so as the better to catch her eye, and now there was no doubt in her mind as to the sound she had heard—her own dear wood-pigeons were back again, and looking to see her at the window!
She was so pleased that she almost screamed!
“Oh, Cooies, Cooies,” she cried, “you’ve come back. But why did you go away for so long? You don’t know how unhappy I’ve been. I wish you’d come up here on to the window-sill and let me tell you all about it.”
There came another “coo,” rather louder and clearer than usual, and then a flutter and movement, a spreading of little wings, and—
“I do believe,” said Mary to herself, “I do believe they’ve heard me and understood what I say.”