Children of the lighthouse

by Nora Archibald Smith

Jim Crow, the black, the glossy, the dapper, the wise, the solemn, was not a native of the Lighthouse island, which indeed was too barren a spot for birds fond of good things to eat. He was not a native, but an immigrant, for the Lighthouse Inspector had brought him to Lesley on one of his visits, saying that he had been found in the woods on the mainland—just a little bunch of fuzz with short dark feathers sticking out here and there—and that it was supposed that he had fallen out of the nest and been deserted by his parents.

The Inspector had cared for him until he was now a fine fellow with the glossiest of black feathers, and as he appeared to be of a good disposition and of winning ways there was no reason why he should not make an admirable pet. The children thought so, of course, and were never tired of watching his quaint actions and laughing at his solemn manner.

As soon as Jim Crow grew wonted to his new home, he began to choose his friends and seemed to love Lesley most of all. Next to her he appeared to fancy a large white hen, with a brood of nine little chicks, in a coop under the shade of a rock. Jim used to visit her many times a day, standing near the bars of her prison and talking with her in a low, croaking tone. Sometimes, between his stories, he would help himself to the food left by Mother Hen and her family; then begin croaking to her again, and Biddy would answer with an occasional cluck as if she understood all that he was telling her.

The old hen, while always watchful over her little ones, never seemed to fear that Jim would hurt any of them, and when the chicks became so large that they were let out of the coop and the family roamed about seeking for worms and insects, Jim still continued his association with them, following them about for hours each day. At nightfall, however, he always came back to his box, while Biddy and her family joined the other fowls in the hen-house.

Another of Jim’s chums was the tuneful Jenny Lind. For some portion of each day he used to follow her about, always keeping a few feet from her nose, as she grazed.

When he grew tired of walking, he would hop to her back, and, squatting upon her hips, where he could not be reached by the switching tail, he would keep up a constant croaking and chattering. This chattering was always in a low tone, but it went up and down just like the voice of a person who is telling some great secret, something not to be repeated to any one else, on any account.

Jim had his dislikes as well as his likes, and he evidently held but a poor opinion of Margaret McLean. She had often caught him snatching a morsel from the kitchen table or shelves and had on each occasion hastily swept him out with the broom. Nowadays he entered the kitchen with a wary eye fixed upon her, and if he did not go upstairs at once to Humpty Dumpty Land, would perch in some high place and scold and grumble to himself. You could always tell from the tone of his voice whether he was scolding or chattering, and Mrs. McLean said she really felt uncomfortable sometimes, when that low croaking voice went on and on behind her back, apparently saying, “Meanie! Meanie! Mean old thing! Drove me out! Drove me out! Wouldn’t give me any dinner! Meanie! Meanie!”

Jim’s chief interest in Humpty Dumpty Land lay in the children’s collections and particularly in their beads and buttons. Whenever he made a call upstairs, after flying to Lesley’s shoulder and caressing her with his beak, he betook himself to the green shelves and turned over the beads, the buttons, and the pebbles one by one, saying to himself, meanwhile: “Oh! pretty, pretty! Pretty, shiny things! Jim Crow like shiny things! Poor Jim Crow! Only have black feathers! Poor Jim Crow!”

If these were not his exact words, though Lesley contended that they were, they evidently embodied his meaning and the gleam of envy and desire of possession were so marked in his cunning black eye that on the day of the children’s visit to Stumpy, Ronald said as they played in Humpty Dumpty Land, “I wonder if Jim Crow knows anything about your necklace, Lesley!”

This precious treasure, a chain of tiny gold beads sent from Grandmother in Scotland as a New Year’s present, had totally disappeared a few weeks after the holiday and not so much as a glint of it had ever since been seen. Lesley had wept bitter tears over the loss and had received many a scolding for her carelessness with the pretty gift, but indeed, indeed, she told her mother, she had never worn it out of the house and had always kept it at night in a box in her bedroom.