That morning the billing and cooing (or rather cawing) of the lovers was very distasteful to him; they played such silly games, and talked such amorous rubbish. No one took any notice of him, until at last a flirting pair came in playful pursuit of each other close up to the railing on which he sat disconsolate, and he heard the young lady ask her lover not to take her near that horrid Jetsom.
“He’s got an evil eye,” she said, “and if I marry you (which I probably sha’n’t), depend on it all the eggs will be addled.” And off she flew, with her admirer after her.
This was too much for Jetsom; he also took flight to escape further insult; and flying straight ahead while he meditated on his wrongs, he passed over several miles of open country before he found himself hungry, and descended on a juicy-looking meadow to look about for food. He had not been there long, when, happening to look round, he saw that there was another rook in the field; only one, walking slowly about in a far corner. Flying quietly a little nearer, he perceived by her ways that she was a young maiden of scarce a year old. Every moment he expected to hear the caws of her companions, and prepared to fly for his life; but none came, and she continued to walk about with a pensive air, turning her head from side to side, and wholly unconscious of his presence. But forced by curiosity, he came nearer and nearer, and now she could not help noticing that she was not alone.
“Oblige me, sir,” she said, “by retiring from this corner. I have not the honour of your acquaintance, and am at present engaged in reflecting on the problems of life.”
“So,” said Jetsom, “am I; allow me to ask what you make of them?”
“I can make nothing of them,” she replied; “I run my bill against a pebble everywhere, and cannot get hold of a single worm. Perhaps you have been more fortunate. For my part, I find the ground everywhere hard frozen; I can make no impression on it. Excuse my putting my ideas in this vulgar way.”
“Your field of thought may be hard,” he said, “but your words are soft and sweet as the juiciest grubs. I am an outcast, because I think; and I find comfort in listening to an alien voice. But destiny surrounds us, as the hedge surrounds this field; we rooks are bound by eternal and immutable laws; and one of them forbids us, as you have reminded me, to have anything to do with an alien. I must apologize for my intrusion, and retire to my life of misery.”
“Stay,” said she; “we are alone and unseen. Your presence is not disagreeable to me. Destiny, if it keeps aliens apart, has at least brought you to me. Day changes to night, summer to winter; old trees wear out (so my grandmother tells me) and we are obliged to take to new ones. Can it be that the nature of our race never changes too? Is there not a future to be realized when the narrowing bonds of our society may be relaxed, and when in ever-widening circles our race may stir the world with a new life? And may it not be you—you the outcast and philosopher—who are destined to lead the van in this glorious movement?”
“I!” he replied. “Can it be so? But not alone—not alone.” And he glanced at her curiously.
“Hush,” she hurriedly whispered; “I heard a distant caw. Meet me here again to-morrow when the sun is at its highest.” And so they parted, to meditate on the destinies of the ages, and the enfranchisement of rook-society.