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Another Random Scribd Document
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about it? I am sorry for Spotty. He expected to have a nice lot of
young ones in thirteen days, and now he will have to wait for
weeks.”
“Why would Avis eat her eggs, when she has plenty of lime and
crushed egg shell and all sorts of food here?” I asked.
“Habit, my birdie. She had the naughty trick and could not get over
it. If I had only shrieked at her, it would have frightened her and
kept her from murdering all her future nestlings, as Spotty says. But
there is your cayenne pepper food coming. Go and eat some, so that
your feathers will be reddish gold. It is a good throat tonic, too.”
Our Mary was just coming in with a saucer of mixed egg food,
grated sweet bread, granulated sugar and cayenne pepper sprinkled
on the top of it. She also had a deep dish of something purple.
“Blueberries, birds,” she said, as she put it down. “Nice canned
blueberries, almost as fresh as if they had just come off the bushes.”
Nearly every bird in the room uttered a satisfied note, then they all
flew to her feet where she set the dishes.
I was not hungry, and ate little. When she opened the door a few
minutes later to go out, I flew to her and lighted on her arm.
My father was taking a nap, and I knew by the wicked look in Green-
Top’s eye that he would begin bullying me as soon as she left the
room.
“Take me out,” I chirped, “take me out,” for I knew that she often
took good steady little birds out into her own part of the house.
She understood me. “But, Dicky-Dick,” she said, “you are so young. I
fear you might fly away.”
“I’ll be good. I’ll be good,” I sang in my unsteady young voice, and,
relenting, she put out a finger, urged me gently to her shoulder
where she usually carried her birds, that being the safest foothold,
and walked out into the hall.
My mother saw me going and called out a warning. “Be careful,
Dicky-Dick. You will see strange sights. Don’t lose your head. Keep
close to our Mary.”
“I’ll be careful, careful,” I called back, but my heart was going pit-a-
pat when the bird-room door closed behind me, and I went out into
the strange new world of the hall.
 CHAPTER II

A TRIP DOWNSTAIRS

O
H, what a different air the hall had—very quiet and peaceful, no
twittering of birds and never-stopping flying and fluttering, and
chattering and singing, and with the murmur of the fountain
going on, even in our sleep! There was no gravel on this floor, just a
soft-looking thing the color of grass, that I found out afterward was
called a carpet.
Our Mary hopped cheerfully down the stairs. She was quite a young
girl, and had had a fall when a baby, that had made her very lame.
Her parents gave her the bird-room to amuse her, so my mother had
told me, for she could not go much on the street.
On the floor below the attic were some wide cheerful rooms with
sunny windows. These were all called bedrooms, and her parents
and two little cousins slept in them. There was nobody in them on
this morning of my first visit to the big world outside the bird-room,
and we went down another long staircase. Here was a wider hall
than the others, and several rooms as large as two or three bird-
rooms put together.
Our Mary took me in between long curtains to a very beautiful place,
with many things to sit on and a covering for the floor just as soft as
our grass sods. She was quite out of breath, and dropping down on
a little chair, put up a finger for me to step on it from her shoulder,
and sat smiling at me.
“What big eyes, birdie!” she said. “What are you frightened of?”
“Of everything,” I peeped; “of this big world, and the huge things in
it.”
She laughed heartily. “Oh, Dicky-Dick, our modest house overcomes
you. I wish you could see some of the mansions up the street.”
“Oh, this is large enough for me, large enough, large enough,” I was
just replying, when I got a terrible fright.
A big monster, ever so much higher than our Mary and dressed
differently, was just coming into the room.
I gave a cry of alarm, and mounted, mounted in the air till I reached
something with branching arms that came down from the ceiling. I
found out afterward that light came from this brass thing. I sat on it,
and looking down with my head thrust forward and my frightened
feathers packed closely to my body, I called out, “Mary, Mary, I’m
scary, scary!” which was a call I had learned from the older birds.
Mary was kissing the monster, and then she sat down close beside
him and held on to one of his black arms.
“Dicky, Dicky,” she sang back to me, “this is my daddy, don’t be
scary. Why, I thought he had been in the bird-room since you were
hatched. Come down, honey.”
Of course if he was her father, he would not hurt me, so I flew back
to her shoulder, but what a queer-looking, enormous father! I was
glad my parent did not look like that.
He was very loving with her, though, and, stroking her hair, he said,
“Don’t tire yourself too much with your birds, Mary.”
“They rest me, father,” she said, shaking her brown head at him,
“and this new baby amuses me very much. He is so inquiring and
clever and such a little victim, for his bigger brother beats the life
out of him.”
“The canary world is like the human world,” said Mary’s father,
“sleep, eat, fight, play, over and over again—will your young pet let
me stroke him?”
“I think so,” she said, “now that he knows who you are.”
“Why, certainly, certainly,” I twittered. “Everybody’s kind but brother.”
The man laid a big finger, that seemed to me as heavy as a banana,
on my golden head, and stroked me till I bent under the caress.
Fortunately some other person came in the room and he turned his
head.
This was our Mary’s mother, Mrs. Martin. I knew her well, for she
often came into the bird-room. She was a very large, cheerful lady,
not very handsome, nor remarkable in any way, and yet different
from most women, so the old birds said. I had heard them talking
about her, and they said she is one that understands birds and
beasts, and it is on account of her understanding that our Mary loves
us. They said she is a very wonderful woman, and that there is
power in her eye—power over human beings and animals, and more
wisdom even than our Mary has, for she is old, and her daughter is
young.
“The young can not know everything,” the old birds often sang; “let
them listen to the old ones and be guided by them.”
When Mrs. Martin came in, her quick brown eyes swept over the
room, taking in her daughter, her husband, and even little me
perched on our Mary’s finger.
“Thank fortune, I’m not late for lunch,” she said, sinking into a chair,
“and thank fortune, we have a guest. Excuse me for being late,
birdie,” she said in a most natural way, and treating me with as
much courtesy as if I had been as big as the picture of the eagle on
our bird-room wall.
That’s what the birds said about her, that she believes even a canary
has a position in the world, and has rights. She just hates to have
any creature imposed on or ill-used.
“Come here, dearie,” she said, holding out her plump hand toward
me, “and kiss me.”
I flew to her at once, and, putting up my tiny bill, touched her red,
full lips. Such a big lady she was, and yet she reminded me of my
little golden mother.
“Now we will go in to the table,” she said, “and little guest will sit on
my right hand. Anna, bring the fern dish.”
Anna was a fair-haired girl who waited on the Martins and
sometimes helped our Mary in the bird-room, so I knew her quite
well. I had heard of the fern dish from bird guests of the Martins,
and I watched her with great interest as she set it on the huge white
table, that looked so queer to me that first day.
In the middle of the low, round dish of ferns was a little platform
and on the platform was a perch. The bird guest sat on the perch
and ate the food placed before him. He was not expected to run
over the Martins’ table and help himself.
“Dearie, you will not care for soup,” said Mrs. Martin, when Anna
placed a big thing like one of our bathing dishes before her.
I had never seen human beings eating, and as I sat on my perch in
the fern dish I could not help smiling. They did not put their mouths
down to their food, they brought the food up to their mouths by
means of their arms, which are like our wings. Their legs they kept
under the table.
The room in which they had their huge dishes of food and their
enormous table was a wide and pleasant place with a little glass
house off it, in which green and pleasant plants and flowers grew. I
loved the air of this place, so peaceful and quiet, with the nice smell
of food and no bad brother to bother me.
“Feed me, feed me,” I chirped, for I was getting hungry now.
“Wait, my angel pet,” said Mrs. Martin; “wait for the next course.”
Later on I described what came next to my mother, and she said it
was the leg of a soft, woolly young creature that played on the
meadows, and she wondered that good people like the Martins
would eat it.
“No meat for birdie,” said Mrs. Martin, “but a scrap of carrot and
lettuce and potato and a bit of that nice graham bread.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I chirped to her, “and now a drink.”
Down among the ferns I had discovered a little egg cup which Mrs.
Martin now filled with water for me. I was excited and thirsty and
drank freely.
When the meat and vegetables were carried out by Anna, fruit and a
pudding came on. I had a little of the pudding which was made of
bread and jam and milk; then Mrs. Martin gave me a grape to peck.
“And now, baby,” she said, “you have had enough. Can’t you warble
a little for us?”
I did my best, but my song did not amount to much. All this time Mr.
Martin and dear Mary had been looking at me very kindly, and when
I finished they both clapped their hands.
At the sound of their applause, there was a great clatter outside in
the hall, and a leaping and bounding and a noise, and a queer
animal not as big as these human beings, but as large as twenty
canaries, came running into the room.
I had never seen anything like this, and giving one shriek of fright, I
sprang from the fern dish and flew high, high up in the air to the
very top of the room. Fluttering wildly round the walls, I found no
support for my claws; then I heard a calm voice saying, “Come
down, come down, dearie, the animal is a dog, a very good dog. She
won’t hurt you.”
Panting violently, I dropped halfway down to a picture hung on the
wall and sat there, staring at the table.
The animal was on Mr. Martin’s knee. He had pushed his chair from
the table, and sat with his arm round it. Such a queer-looking thing,
and yet not vicious. A kind of a wide forehead and staring eyes, and
a good deal of beak, which I found out later was called a muzzle.
I was ashamed of myself, and flew right back to the fern dish. Young
as I was, I knew these kind people would not let anything harm me.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I gasped. “I was scary, scary again.”
“That is Billie, our dog,” said Mrs. Martin; “she is good to birds. Mary,
have you never had Billie in to see your pets?”
“No,” said her daughter. “You know she has not been here very
long.”
“I would like her to be friends with them,” said Mrs. Martin. “Please
take her in soon, but put her out on the front steps now.” Then she
turned to me. “You are going to have another fright, I fear. By
certain signs and tokens, I think my two adopted children are
coming home for lunch.”
 CHAPTER III

SAMMY-SAM AND LUCY-LOO

I
WAS very glad I had been warned, for there was a terrible noise
out in the street that I afterward learned was caused by young
creatures called children, shouting and calling to each other. Then
the front door slammed and there was quiet.
Presently two very calm young beings—for Mrs. Martin would allow
no shouting in her dining-room—came in, a boy and a girl.
“Lucy-Loo and Sammy-Sam,” said Mrs. Martin, with a merry twinkle
in her eye, for she was a great joker, “here is a new baby bird come
downstairs for the first time.”
The boy was a straight, well set-up young thing, eight years old, I
heard afterward. The girl was a year younger, and she had light hair
and big, staring eyes—very bright, intelligent eyes.
Our Mary was much older than her young cousins, and she was
pretty strict with them about her birds, for they were never allowed
to come into her bird-room.
The boy sat down at the table, and to my surprise said as he stared
at me, “Not much of a bird, that—haven’t you got anything better
looking to show off?”
He was taking his soup quite sulkily.
His little sister was pouting. “I think Cousin Mary is very mean,” she
said to her aunt. “She might let us go in her old bird-room. We
wouldn’t hurt anything.”
Our Mary said nothing, but Mrs. Martin spoke. “You remember, Lucy,
that one day when Mary was out, a certain little girl and a certain
little boy took a troop of young friends into the bird-room, and some
baby birds died of fright, and some old ones got out, and were
restored to their home with difficulty.”
Our Mary raised her head. “I have forgiven them, mother, and some
day soon I am going to let them see my birds, but they must
promise never to go into the bird-room without me.”
The boy and girl both spoke up eagerly. “We promise. Will you take
us in to-day?”
“No, not to-day,” said our Mary. “To-morrow.”
Their young faces fell, and they went on taking their soup.
“Canaries are very gentle, timid creatures,” said Mrs. Martin. “You
know, it is possible to kill them, without in the least intending to do
so. This one we have down here to-day seems an exception. He gets
frightened, but soon overcomes it. I think he is going to be an
explorer.”
“It is his unpleasant life in the bird-room that makes him wish to
come out,” said our Mary. “His little brother teases him most
shamefully.”
“Just the way Sammy-Sam teases me,” said Lucy poutingly.
“I don’t tease you,” said Sammy. “You are a cry-baby.”
“I’m not a cry-baby,” she said.
Mrs. Martin interposed in her cheerful way. “Would you rather take
your lunch, my darlings, or go out in the hall and continue your
discussion?”
“Lunch first,” said the boy promptly, “but I’ll argue the head off Lucy
afterward.”
“Take an arm or a leg,” said his aunt. “The head is such an important
member to lose.”
I thought this a good time for a little song, so in a broken way I told
of my troubles with Green-Top, and how he beat me and pulled out
my feathers.
The boy and girl were delighted. “Sure he’s some bird,” said Sammy,
and Lucy cried out, “Little sweet thing—I love you.”
After lunch Mr. Martin said he would take our Mary for a drive. The
children hurried back to school, and Mrs. Martin said she would go
and lie down, for she was tired. “Come with me, little boy,” she said
to me, “or would you rather go to the bird-room?”
I flew to the ribbon shoulder knot on her dress. I admired her very
much and wished to stay with her.
“Mary,” she said delightedly, “I love to have this little Dicky with me.
I wish you would bring one of your small cages downstairs. Put
seeds and water in it and hang it on the wall of the sitting-room.
Leave the door open, so he can go in and out. Of course he must
spend some time each day with the old birds to perfect his song, but
I would like him to have the run of the house. I think I see in him an
unusual sympathy and understanding of human beings.”
“He is a pet,” said our Mary. “I will be glad to have him downstairs a
good deal.”
So it came about that I had a little home of my own in the room of
one of the best friends of birds in the city. Our Mary was darling, but
she was young. Her mother had known trouble, and she had known
great joy, and she could look deep into the hearts of men and beasts
and birds. I had a very happy time with her, and got to know many
interesting animals and other birds. At the same time I was free to
go into the bird-room whenever I wished to do so, but I found after
I had become accustomed to human beings that many of the birds
there seemed narrow and very taken up with their own nests, not
seeing much into, nor caring much about, the great bird world
outside our little room.
Therefore, to help canaries and to help friends of canaries to
understand them, I am giving this little account of my life—an
insignificant little life, perhaps, and yet an important little life, for
even a canary is a link in the great chain of life that binds the world
together.
 CHAPTER IV

A SAD TIME FOR A CANARY FAMILY

T
IME went by, and autumn came and then winter. I had been
hatched in the early summer, and by winter time it seemed to me
that I was a very old bird and knew a great deal.
I had become quite a member of the Martin family, and sometimes I
did not go in the bird-room for days together.
My sleeping place was a cage in the family sitting-room upstairs. The
door was never closed, and I flew in and out at will. Oh, how
interested I was in the world of the house! I used to fly from room
to room and sometimes I even went in the kitchen and watched
Hester doing the cooking. She had a little shelf near a window filled
with plants, and I always lighted there, for she did not like me to fly
about and get on her ironing board or pastry table. I became so
interested in the family that I thought I would never get tired of
exploring the house, but when winter came I found myself staring
out in the street. I wanted to get out and see what the great out-of-
doors was like.
Early in the winter we had much excitement in the bird-room. A very
happy time called Christmas was coming. Everybody gave presents,
and Mr. Martin’s gift to his daughter was money to build a fine large
flying place on the roof for her birds. We would not be able to use it
until spring, but he said the work had better be done in the winter
because it was easier to get carpenters than it would be later on,
and there were some poor men he wished to employ during the cold
weather.
What chirping and chattering and gossip there were among the
birds! There was no nesting going on now, and not much to talk
about. Soon two men came, and from the big window we birds
watched them putting up a good-sized framework out on the roof
and nailing netting to it. What a fine large place we should have
right out in the sunshine.
There were no fir trees put out there on account of fire. Mr. Martin
said sparks from chimneys might start a blaze, but the men made
things like trees of metal, with nice spreading branches. A part of
this flying cage was covered over—and up under the roof, where no
rain could wet them, the men put tiny nesting boxes.
“Why, we shall be just like wild birds,” said my mother joyfully, “with
nests outside in the fresh air. What lovely, strong young ones we
shall have! It has been a trifle hot in the bird-room in summer.”
My poor little mother had felt the heat terribly through the latter part
of the summer, but that had not prevented her from doing her duty
by her second family of young ones. They were very interesting little
fledglings—three male birds, and three hen-birds, and strange to say
my naughty brother Green-Top was as kind to them as he had been
unkind to me.
It is no easy matter to feed six hearty young canaries, and it was the
prettiest sight in the world to see him fly to the dish of egg food,
stuff his beak and hurry to the nestlings with it. He was a great help
to my parents. He was the only young canary in the bird-room that
helped his parents feed new babies, and the old birds gave him
great credit for it.
He would not let me go near the nest. I had politely offered to help
him, but he told me in an angry way that I was a rover and despised
my home, and if I did not get out, he would pick at my eyes and
blind me for life.
“Don’t mind him, darling, darling,” sang my dear mother, who never
forgot me. Norfolk, my father, paid no attention to me now. A steely
look came into his eyes whenever I went near him, and one day he
sang coldly at me, “Who are you, who are you?” though he knew
quite well I was his son.
Green-Top was his favorite now. My brother just loved our father and
perched near him at night, and was so attentive to him that the old
birds said, “That young one will never mate. He loves his parents too
well. He will always live with them.”
I never dared sing in the bird-room now, for if I did Green-Top
always pulled my tail or looked down my throat. These are great
tricks with canaries, to take the conceit out of a bird they think vain.
Often when in the gladness, of my heart at getting back into the
bird-room I would burst into song, Green-Top would steal behind me
and tweak my tail severely, and if he was busy about something, he
would wink at one of my cousins to do it for him.
A terrible trouble, a most unspeakable and dreadful trouble, came
upon us as a family and poisoned our happiness that winter. My
beautiful mother Dixie, who had been allowed to have too many
nests and raise too many nestlings in her short life, sickened and
died. I shall never forget seeing her fail from day to day. First she
had asthma and sat gasping for breath, with her beak wide open.
Our Mary did everything for her. She gave her iron tonic and
different medicines, but nothing did any good. Day by day her poor
little body looked like a puff-ball, and her quick, short gasps for
breath were most painful to hear. Her voice failed, and she had to
take castor oil and paregoric and glycerine and had rock-candy in
her drinking water.
“It is no use,” said our Mary one day. “My dear Dixie, you will have
to go, but I think there is a little bird heaven somewhere where you
will be happy, and will not suffer any more, and some day all your
little family will go to it, and fly about gaily with you ever after.”
My little mother opened her eyes, her very beautiful eyes, though all
the rest of her body was drooping and disfigured now. They opened
so wide that I thought perhaps she was going to get better. Many
times since I have seen that strange look in the eyes of a dying bird
—a look of great astonishment, as if they had suddenly caught sight
of something they had not seen before. Then the lovely eyes closed,
her tiny head fell over, and our Mary said softly, “Her little bird spirit
has flown away.”
She held her out in the palm of her hand for all the birds to see,
then she took her away, and though it was winter and deep snow
was on the ground, she had the gardener dig a little grave and she
buried her in a tin box, quite deep in the ground, where no roaming
cats nor dogs would get her.
We watched her from the window, all of us except my father Norfolk.
He sang all the rest of the day at the top of his voice, almost a
screaming song. He sang because he thought his heart was
breaking, but in a few weeks he was flying about with Avis, the
canary who ate her eggs. Her mate Spotty had died, and our Mary
was pleased to have her take up with Norfolk, for he was a steady
bird and always at home, not like poor Spotty, who used to be
mostly at the opposite end of the bird-room from his home,
gossiping and chattering with canaries when he should have been
attending to his mate.
My mother’s death saddened me terribly, and for a long time I spent
a large part of every day in the bird-room with my young brothers
and sisters, all of whom had nice names. The hen-birds were Pretty
Girl, Beauty, and Cantala, and the males were Pretty Boy, Redgold,
and Cresto. Such little dear things they were, all gentle and good, no
fighters among them.
At first Green-Top let me help him father them. Then when he got
over his grief he began to beat me again, and I lost feathers.
When I speak of beating, I must not be taken too seriously. When
canaries fight, they fly up into the air and down again, fluttering
wings, crying out, and making dashes at each other—a great fuss
and flurry, but not much harm done. The hen-birds fight this way a
good deal in nesting time, then their mates come and help them,
and the whole bird-room is in a commotion.
A more serious way of fighting is chasing. One bird takes a dislike to
another bird and pursues him unmercifully, striking him about the
head till his beak is sore and bleeding. That is the way Green-Top
served me, and soon I made up my mind that I was not needed in
the bird-room and I got into the habit of spending about all my time
downstairs, only coming up once in a while to see how all the birds
were, and find out if they were getting anything to eat that I did not
have.
Everybody was so good to me. Hester put little tidbits on my shelf in
the kitchen, Mrs. Martin was always handing dainties to me, and
even Mr. Martin would bring home a fine apple or some grapes or an
orange for me to peck at.
The children were the best of all. Not a bit of candy or cake did they
get but what a bit was saved for me, and many a greasy or sticky
little morsel that I just pretended to eat was laid before me.
It was curious about those children. They were rather naughty with
human beings, but ever since their cousin Mary allowed them to go
in the bird-room, once a day with her, they had become nicer to
birds and animals.
 CHAPTER V

MY NEW FRIEND, CHUMMY HOLE-IN-THE-WALL

A
S I have said before, a strange longing to be out of doors came
over me as winter passed away and spring approached. I never
wearied of sitting on the window ledges and watching the plucky
little English sparrows who sometimes came to the bird-room
window and talked over the news of the day with us.
Most of the canaries were very haughty with them, and looked down
on them as inferior birds. So the sparrows rarely approached us,
unless they had important news to communicate, when eagerness to
hear what they had to say made the canaries forget to snub them.
That clever woman, Mrs. Martin, knew that I wished to get out in
the street, and one day when there was a sudden thaw after very
cold weather, she said to me, as I sat on her bedroom window sill, “I
believe my little boy would like a fly out of doors.”
“Dear Missie, Missie, Missie,” I sang, “how sweet you are to me, how
sweet!”
“Fly away, then,” she said, throwing up the window. “I don’t think
the air is cold enough to hurt you.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I sang, as I flew by her and out into the
fresh air.
How can I ever describe my feelings on my first flight into the great
big out-of-doors. I had, in my callow innocence, thought the Martin
house very large and grand. Why, this big, out-door house had a
ceiling so far away that only a very strong bird could ever fly to the
top of it.
I felt breathless and confused, and flying straight to a big tree in
front of the window, flattened myself against a dark limb, and
crouched there half frightened, half enchanted with myself.
Suddenly a sharp little voice twittered, “Oho! little golden bird, and
who are you?”
I knew that a street sparrow’s eyes are everywhere, so I was not
surprised on looking up to see a male bird, with quite a pretty black
throat patch, sitting on a limb above me.
“I am a canary,” I said.
“I know that,” he replied, rather impatiently, “but how is it that you
are so strong of wing? You fly like a wild bird.”
“I have not always been in the bird-room,” I said; “I have flown all
over the house and exercise has strengthened my wings.”
“Oh, you are the little youngster I have noticed looking from
between the window curtains. How is it that you were allowed to
leave the bird-room?”
“The canaries call me Dicky-Dick the Rover. At an early age I found
the bird-room small,” I said, not wishing to tell him about my
troubles with my brother.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Nearly a year.”
“What is your name?”
“Richard the Lion-Hearted,” I said, thinking to impress him by its
length, “but my mistress says that is too heavy a name for such a
tiny bird, so she shortens it to Dicky-Dick and sometimes Dicky-
Duck.”
“The Lion-Hearted,” repeated the sparrow. “That name doesn’t suit
you. You seem to be a very gentle bird.”
“I am gentle till I am roused,” I said meekly; “then I am a fair
fighter. Now, will you tell me what your name is?”
“Chummy Hole-in-the-Wall.”
This beat my name, and I said, “That’s a double, double surname.”
“Yes,” he said proudly. “It’s a good name, given to me by all the
sparrows of the neighborhood.”
“And may I ask how old you are?”
“Six years.”
“You must be very wise,” I said. “I feel as if I knew a great deal, and
I am not one year yet.”
“I know everything about this neighborhood,” he said grandly. “If
you wish the life history or habits of any bird here, I can inform you
of them.”
“I shall be sure to come to you for information,” I said. Then I asked
anxiously, “What are the birds like in this street?”
“Pretty decent, on the whole. There were some bad sparrows and
two ugly old pigeons, but we had a midwinter drive, and chased
them all down in St. John’s ward, where the common birds live. You
know we sparrows have our own quarters all over this city.”
“Have you?” I said. “Like big bird-rooms?”
“Yes, my little sir, we in this district near the gray old university are
known as the Varsity sparrows. We are bounded on the north by
Bloor Street, on the south by College Street, on the east by Yonge
Street, and on the west by Spadina Avenue, and this is the worst
street of all for food.”
“I have heard that this has been a very hard winter for all birds,” I
said.
“It has been perfectly terrible. It snowed, and it snowed, and it
snowed. Every scrap of food was under a white blanket. If it hadn’t
been for covers left off trash cans, and a few kind people who threw
out crumbs, the sparrows would all have died.”
“The snow is going now,” I said, with a smile.
He laughed a queer, hard little sparrow laugh, and looked up and
down the street. The high rounded snow banks were no longer
white and beautiful, but grimy and soot-laden, and they were
weeping rivers of dusky tears. The icy sidewalks were so slippery
with standing water that ladies and children went into the street, but
it was not much better there, and often they lost their rubbers,
which went sailing down the streams like little black boats.
However, up in the blue heaven, the sun was shining, and there was
warmth in it, for this was February and spring would soon be with
us.
I looked up and down the street. It seemed very quaint to me, and I
stretched out my neck to find out whether I could see the end of it.
I could not. It went away up, up toward a hill with trees on it, and,
as I found out later, away down south to a big lake where the
wharves are, and the ships and the railroads, and the noise and the
traffic, and also a lovely island that I had heard the Martins say was
a fine place for a summer outing.
The sparrow was watching me, and at last he said, “How do you like
it out here?”
“Very much,” I said. “It is so big and wonderful, and there are so
many houses standing away back from the street. I thought there
were no houses in the world but just the Martins’, and those I could
see from their windows.”
He smiled at me, but said nothing, and I went on, “And the trees are
so enormous and so friendly. I love to see them reaching their gaunt
arms across the street to shake hands. Our fir trees in the bird-room
will seem very small to me now.”
He shook his little dull-colored head. “Alas! the neighborhood is not
what it used to be. A few years ago all these were private houses.
Now boarding houses and lodging houses and even shops are
creeping up from town.”
I didn’t know much about this, but I said timidly, “Isn’t that better
for you sparrows? Aren’t there more scraps?”
“No, not so many. When the rich people lived here, we knew what
we had to depend on. Either they would feed us, or they would not.
Several kind-hearted ladies used to have their servants throw out
food for neighborhood birds at a certain hour every day, and your
Mrs. Martin has always kept a little dish full of water on her lawn
beside the feeding-table. I suppose you have seen that from your
bird-room window.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “We canaries used to sit on the window sill on cold
mornings and watch Mr. Martin wading through the snow with the
nice warm food that his wife was sending out for the birds.”
“These boarding-house and lodging-house people come and go,” the
sparrow went on. “Some feed us, and some don’t. Usually we are
stuffed in summer, and starved in winter.”
“I have heard Mrs. Martin say,” I observed, “that wild birds should be
assisted over bad seasons and fed whenever their natural supply
gives out.”
“Sparrows don’t need food in summer,” said Chummy, “because then
we expect to do our duty to human beings by eating all the insects
we can, and the bad weed seeds.”
I said nothing. I thought I had not known my new friend long
enough to find fault with him, but I wanted very much to ask him if
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