So I had to wait a pretty long time; and whenever I came home from the Britannia and called at Slade Croft, I felt my curiosity increasing. The story must be worth hearing, or I should not have been kept waiting for it so long. And when I was gazetted midshipman, and ran home to my grandfather’s for a week before joining my ship, I slipped off to the farm the very first evening after dinner.
A Lucky Magpie.
Farmer Reynardson rose, shook hands warmly, and slapped me on the back. Then he turned me round and inspected my jacket and Her Majesty’s buttons carefully.
“Now for the story,” I cried. “It’s all right, you needn’t look at my boots too, you know,” as his eye travelled down my uniform trousers. “Now for the yarn of the lucky magpie.”
“George,” said the farmer gravely, putting his hand on my shoulder, “you shall have it, my lad, this very evening. But I must show you something first.” He walked me through the orchard to a shady corner by the hedge, and showed me a little stone set upright in the ground, on which I read this inscription—
Here lies the body of
a lucky Magpie
and an
attached
Friend. (J. R.)
“It’s a new one, he in the cage,” he said, quite sadly. “Neither I nor the missis could get along without one. Old Mag died quite easy, of nothing but old age, and old he was, to be sure. He’d have died years ago, if he’d been any one else’s bird. He’d have been shot years ago if he’d lived his own natural life. They say it’s cruel keeping birds in cages; but if ever a bird was happy, that one was. And what’s more,” he said, with a touch of pathos in his voice which I have often remembered since then, when I have been telling his story to others, “he had his share in making others happy, and that’s more than can be said for some of us, my boy. However, come along, and I’ll spin you the yarn (as you seafaring folks say); and, indeed, I’ll be glad to tell it to some one, for poor old Mag’s sake. Honour where honour is due.”
We sat down on the bench by the front door, and Mrs. Reynardson, bonny and bright-eyed, came and gave me her hand and sat down with us. The farmer paused a bit to collect his thoughts, while he pensively tickled the newly-installed genius of the house with the sealing-waxed end of his long pipe. The genius seemed not unworthy of his venerable predecessor, for he showed no resentment, and settled himself down comfortably to hear the tale—or to roost.
“Now then. Once upon a time,” said I, to jog his memory.