“Of course I couldn’t wear it to run about the forest in,” said Mary. “Well, to pick up cones in—I’ve not had much running about to-day, certainly. But how did you know about it?”
“Never mind just now,” was the reply. “Sit down,” and glancing round, Mary saw her mossy chair there as before, though she felt sure that a moment or two ago its place had been empty. But she was very glad to settle herself in it all the same, and before she had sat still for two minutes she felt rested and refreshed.
“It is a nice chair,” she said, patting the arms, on which the Cooies were now perched, approvingly. “Now tell me, please, where are all your hundreds of relations to-day? What are they busy about?”
“They are preparing for a great ceremony,” said Mr Coo, solemnly. “The day after to-morrow is fixed for it to take place. Our Queen—Queen White Dove—every year gives—”
“Your Queen,” exclaimed Mary. “I never heard of her before—I did not know you had a Queen! Queen White Dove,” and something seemed to come into her mind as she spoke, as if she did remember—what was it?
“Are you sure you never heard of her before?” asked the wood-pigeons, their heads very much on one side. “But it does not matter. You will, I hope, see her for yourself, as I will explain, if you will not interrupt. She gives a prize every year for some special thing, the finding or making of which calls for skill and perseverance on the part of her subjects. This year the prize is promised to the bringer of the whitest feather. It must be as white as her own plumage, which I must tell you has never yet been matched. So there has been a great deal of search for such a feather, and work too, as some of us have endeavoured in various ways to whiten to great perfection some of our own feathers, though it remains to be seen if we have succeeded. Myself, I doubt it,” he went on (for Mr Coo had taken up the thread of the discourse), “and as the ceremonial will be a very great and beautiful sight, we have obtained leave for you, Mary, to be present at it, provided—this condition cannot be avoided—you yourself are one of the competitors.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Mary. “Please explain. I should so like to come, and you would manage somehow, wouldn’t you, for me to get leave from godmother.”
“One question at a time, if you please,” said Mr Coo, in the tone which rather provoked Mary always. “Being a competitor simply means that you too will try to win the prize.”
Mary’s face fell.
“Oh then it’s no good,” she said. “I can’t possibly find the whitest of white feathers.”