“Well, you had better catch your fill of insects, and then I can answer your questions,” said the other. “I have been here ever since the sun came out, and though I thought I could hardly have eaten anything after the loss of poor Pipi, I managed to make a good meal as soon as I got my feathers in order.”
“The loss of poor Pipi! What do you mean? Is he only lost or is he dead?”
“Dead as a thrush’s snail!” was the answer of the other bird, who seemed a little put out by his long journey. “I’m very sorry of course, but it was all his own fault. You know how Pipi was always ready for any game; always for prying and poking his beak into anything strange, just like any vulgar sparrow.”
“Don’t talk like that, please,” said our friend whose name was Flip. “Pipi was my particular friend and if you insult him you insult me.”
“Well, don’t get angry,” said the other, “but wait till I tell you how that foolish Pipi came by his end. We started, as you know, at nightfall; Pipi was near me. He was as lively as ever, and was making fun of old Blossom because he had only half his tail feathers—you remember that sunny garden by the Mediterranean, where the cat got hold of Blossom and we thought his last hour had come?—Blossom couldn’t fly quite straight, and Pipi, that mischievous Pipi, said he wondered what sort of a tale Blossom would have to tell when he got to land!”
“But he helped on old Blossom, too,” said Flip; “and don’t you remember how we all had to slacken pace halfway across, before the storm came on, in order not to leave the old creature behind? Pipi would have it so!”
“Yes, I do indeed,” said Twinkle; “and it was a mercy that we ever got here alive. I should like to know why we should risk our lives for old Blossom, or why we should obey Pipi—Pipi of all birds.”
“Come,” said Flip, “don’t be so crusty. You have no cause to be angry with Pipi. I remember very well, when we were among those cruel Italians, how Pipi saved your life: I saw it with my own eyes. You were in an olive-tree by a stone wall, and on the top of the wall sat a boy with a bow and arrows, aiming at you; Pipi gave you our alarm-note, and when you took no notice he flew right at you and made you move. The boy shot the arrow, but seeing two birds he luckily missed both.”
“Well,” said Twinkle, “didn’t I say I could hardly eat because of Pipi’s death? Now I am going to tell how it was. You know how even in our first journey we were specially warned about those lighthouses, which we always so much want to go to: I really don’t know how it is, but somehow one does want dreadfully to go and see what that light is. Pipi was always excited about it; he declared he would find out some day what they are, and now he has found out with a vengeance. Poor old Pipi! He and I and one or two more were together the greater part of the way, but it was very hard to stick to one another. We had better have put off our crossing a day or two. The wind changed to the south-east, and that is very disagreeable; it comes behind you, and forces you on whether you will or no, and it gets in among the feathers and ruffles them about, and lays bare your skin, and blows the breath out of your body, and bangs you about this way and that—I can feel it now,” said Twinkle, in an injured tone, as he turned round his head and smoothed his feathers with an air of great feeling and commiseration for himself.
“Now I didn’t ask him to tell about himself,” thought Flip. “Here he is safe and sound anyhow.” But he held his tongue, and Twinkle went on:—