Tales of the birds

by W. Warde Fowler

Flip shuddered; he recognized his kindred, but their eyes were closed, their heads hung down, and their feathers lay loose and heavy: there was no telling one from another, especially at his distance from the table. Still, he had no doubt in his mind that Pipi was among them.

“Willow-wrens, if you like,” said the Professor; “willow-warblers, I like to call them; Phylloscopus trochilus is the scientific name, and you will find all about them in that book of mine I gave you, at page 432. A redstart too, I see, poor fellow; so much the worse for somebody’s garden or field this next May or June. But now, where’s the diary; let us have them all down—wind, what was it, south-east by south?”

“That’s it, sir,” said the lighthouse-man; and they sat down together at the table, and began to turn the birds over one by one. Flip watched till they came to the last, in the dim expectation of recognizing Pipi; but it was impossible, for the dead eyes showed no traces of their luckless owner’s identity. It was a mournful scene, and Flip was just about to take flight, when he heard Peter’s voice again.

“There be another on ’em down stairs, Professor,” he said; “he were only stunned like, and my missus said as she’d keep un a bit, and see if he’d come to life again.”

Flip’s feathers stood on end with excitement.

“Missus,” called out Peter, putting his head out of the door, “what ha’ you done with that bit of a wren as I give you this marnin’?”

“Putten him in the old canary cage, and given him some crumbs and milk,” said the wife from below; “but he won’t touch neither of ’em, and he’s as bad as can be. Ask the Professor gentleman if he’ll come down and see him.”

Thereupon the Professor and Peter went down stairs, and Flip could hear no more. He felt sick at heart. Even if this was Pipi, it was clear enough he was going to die. If he got nothing better than crumbs and milk, how in the name of all that’s feathered was he going to live? “What stupid creatures these men-folks are!” thought Flip; and perhaps he was not far wrong. But he did not know what a professor meant, and he was not aware that the genial old gentleman from the distant University knew almost as much about the food of willow-warblers as he did himself.

Flip flew round to the back of the lighthouse, and looking in through the window, he saw the Professor sitting by the fire with something in his hand. But his back was turned to the window, and Flip could not see what it was. The woman was looking over the Professor’s shoulder, and a small bird-cage stood on the table, the sight of which made Flip tremble all over. At last the Professor put down on the table the thing he had in his hand: it was a willow-warbler, still alive, for the beak was slowly opening and shutting; but the eyes were closed, and it was evidently dying. Flip could not tell whether or no it were Pipi; the room was now getting dark, and the window was away from the sun. But it was no use waiting any longer; Flip felt sure the bird must die, and even if it did not, it would be put into the cage to pine away for want of air and proper food; and after all, how was he to tell that Pipi was not among the dead birds up stairs? So he flew away with an aching heart, feeling that there was nothing left to do, but to try and forget all about it. “And yet,” thought poor Flip, as he reached the little pond once more, “I can try and remember what poor Pipi used to do, and how good-natured and cheerful he was; and so far as there ever can be another Pipi, I will be he.”

The willow-warblers do not all take flight together to their inland haunts after their arrival from the sea, but work their way gradually through woods and hedges, refreshing and strengthening themselves as they go. The party to which Flip and Twinkle belonged had not far to go to get to the meadow by the brook, of which Pipi had reminded Twinkle on the fishing-smack—the meadow where they themselves had reared their brood last year, and close to another, not less delicious, where they themselves had been born. In two or three days they had reached it, and soon began to exercise their voices, so as to be ready for the arrival of the hen birds, who always come a few days later. This year the weather continued cold and stormy, with strong April showers, and the hens did not come for a day or two later than usual. What excitement there was when they arrived at last, straggling in by twos and threes along the bushes that grew by the brook’s edge, so as to keep sheltered from the wind! Flip went down the willows to meet them, and asked each one whether she had come by the lighthouse, or seen anything of Pipi; but the hens were either too tired or too excited to pay much attention to him.