“But what is a pocket?” Maya could hardly take in so many new and awful things all at once.
“A pocket,” Miss Loveydear explained, “is a store-room that men have in their outer hide.—And what else do you think was in the pocket when my brother was stuck into it? Oh, the dreadful company in which my poor brother had to draw his last breath! You’ll never guess!”
“No,” said Maya, all in a quiver, “no, I don’t think I can.—Honey, perhaps?”
“Not likely,” observed Miss Loveydear with an air of mingled importance and distress. “You’ll seldom find honey in the pockets of human beings. I’ll tell you.—A frog was in the pocket, and a pen-knife, and a carrot. Well?”
“Horrible,” whispered Maya.—“What is a pen-knife?”
“A pen-knife, in a way, is a human being’s sting, an artificial one. They are denied a sting by nature, so they try to imitate it.—The frog, thank goodness, was nearing his end. One eye was gone, one leg was broken, and his lower jaw was dislocated. Yet, for all that, the moment my brother was stuck in the pocket he hissed at him out of his crooked mouth:
“‘As soon as I am well, I will swallow you.’
“With his remaining eye he glared at my brother, and in the half-light of the prison you can imagine what an effect the look he gave him must have had—fearful!—Then something even more horrible happened. The pocket was suddenly shaken, my brother was pressed against the dying frog and his wings stuck to its cold, wet body. He went off in a faint.—Oh, the misery of it! There are no words to describe it.”
“How did you find all this out?” Maya was so horrified she could scarcely frame the question.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Miss Loveydear. “After a while the boy got hungry and dug into his pocket for the carrot. It was under my brother and the frog, and the boy threw them away first.—I heard my brother’s cry for help, and found him lying beside the frog on the grass. I reached him only in time to hear the whole story before he breathed his last. He put his arms round my neck and kissed me farewell. Then he died—bravely and without complaining, like a little hero. When his crushed wings had given their last quiver, I laid an oak leaf over his body and went to look for a sprig of forget-me-nots to put upon his grave. ‘Sleep well, my little brother,’ I cried, and flew off in the quiet of the evening. I flew toward the two red suns, the one in the sky and the one in the lake. No one has ever felt as sad and solemn as I did then.—Have you ever had a sorrow in your life? Perhaps you’ll tell me about it some other time.”