Golden Dicky, The Story of a Canary and His Friends

CHAPTER VIII
CHUMMY’S OPINIONS

THAT year Jennie and I had a lovely lot of young ones, quite early in June,” said Chummy. “One day we were out getting brown-tail moths, for I assure you we sparrows do eat lots of insect pests. We were just hurrying back to our hole in the wall with our beaks full, when a friendly warbler who was flying by said, ‘Wee-chee chee, chee, hurry, hurry, Squirrie is coming out of your hole licking red paws.’

“We dropped our loads and flew madly through the air.”

“Why, I thought you said he could not get up that sheer wall,” I remarked, looking at it as it stretched above and below us, for we had moved back to Chummy’s front doorway.

“So I did, but a workman had come to do something to the chimney, and had left a ladder standing against the wall.”

“You don’t mean to say Squirrie had killed your young ones?”

“Every one; there they lay in the nest, their dear little throats bitten.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“My mate Jennie was nearly crazy, and so was I. I called up some of my sparrow friends, Jim and Dandy and Johnny White-Tail and Black Gorget, and Squirrie got the most awful pecking a squirrel ever had. We chased him all over the housetops and on to the trees. He leaped from one branch to another, and we took nips out of him till he was red, too, and very sore. You see, he had no Snug Hollow to run to.”

“If he had been a good squirrel,” I said, “those ladies would not have had his home boarded up.”

“Just so. Squirrie was beginning to find out that a bad squirrel always gets punished by some bird or beast. Well, at last the little wretch found his breath giving out, and he chattered, ‘Mer-mer-mercy!’ We all gathered round him, as he lay panting on a limb flat on his stomach to get cool. We bound him over to keep the peace, telling him that if he ever killed another sparrow, he would be driven out of the neighborhood.”

“I wonder if you should not have driven him away then, in the interests of other little birds?”

“But there are so many bird murderers,” said the sparrow patiently. “Boys stone us and shoot us, cats hunt us. Black Thomas, the cat in the boarding-house, boasts that he catches fifty birds a year, foreigners kill us, especially Italians who will shoot even a chickadee to put in their soup. It seems to me that everybody is down on birds, and they are hardest of all on sparrows.”

“Chummy,” I said, “I have known you only this afternoon, but I feel as if I had been acquainted with you for as long a time as if you had been brought up in the bird-room with me, and now I am going to ask you a very personal question. Don’t sparrows do some very wrong things?”

He smiled. “Oh, I see you have heard that anti-sparrow talk. I am not touchy about it. You can discuss it with me.”

“You seem a sensible bird,” I said. “Come now, tell me what you think you do that is wrong.”

He hung his little, dark head, and pretended to pick a feather from his black bib. “We are regular John Bull, Anglo-Saxon stock,” he said, “and we love to push on and settle in new countries. We were brought to the United States and Canada about fifty years ago to kill the canker worm. Some gentlemen near Toronto raised a subscription to bring us here. We spread all over this continent. We had to fight for our existence, and all the weak ones died. The strong ones became stronger, then we multiplied too much. Men should have watched us.”

“Good,” I said, “you believe that human beings come first and all birds should be subject to them.”

“Certainly,” he replied, “that is the first article in a sparrow’s creed, and there is no bird in the world that sticks to man as closely as the sparrow does. Why, we even sleep round men’s houses, tucked away in the most uncomfortable holes and corners. We really love human beings though they rarely pet us.”

“Our Mary pets sparrows,” I said stoutly; “so does her mother.”

“They are exceptions,” said Chummy, “few persons are as kind-hearted as the Martins. I just wish all human beings would do as well by us as they have done by you canaries. They keep you in order, and let you increase or decrease just as is necessary, but they have let sparrows run wild, and it is as hard for us as for them. There is a great hue and cry against sparrows now, and men and women going along the street look up at us and say, ‘You little nuisances,’ and I chirp back, ‘It is your own fault.’”

“What could they do to you?” I asked. “You don’t want to be shot.”

“No, indeed,” said Chummy, “nor poisoned. Our eggs should be destroyed for a few years; then there would not be so many of us.”

“But that is very hard on the mothers,” I said. “They cry so when an egg is broken.”

“My Jennie would cry,” said Chummy, “but she would understand, and she would not make so many nests. She knows that food and nests make all the trouble in the world. That’s what the seagulls tell us about the great war human beings had over the sea. They say it was all about food and homes that wicked people wanted to take away from good ones.”

A sudden thought dawned upon me. “Is that the reason why you sparrows are so cruel to the birds who come into the city from the country?”

“Yes, it’s a question of food shortage. There isn’t enough to go round. If there were, it would be equal rights. I don’t hate wild birds. I have many friends among them, and I never drive them away if there is enough for their little ones and mine, but if there is only a sufficient supply for little sparrowkins, I fear I am a bad, hard, father bird.”

“Do you ever kill them?” I asked fearfully.

“Never,” he said decidedly. “I take their nests, and sometimes when they are very obstinate, I beat them.”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said in a puzzled voice. “You seem a sensible bird, yet I don’t like the thought of your beating dear little wild birds.”

He swelled his little self all up till his feathers stood out round him like a balloon. Then he said with a burst of eloquence, “How can you understand, you caged bird, with your table always set? Imagine yourself in the street, no friends, no food, a cold wind blowing, four or five hungry nestlings with their tiny beaks open and nothing to put in them; your poor little mate hovering over them trying to keep them warm so they will be less hungry. Wouldn’t you steal or beat to satisfy those cries?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know!” I said. “I never was in such a position. I am only a young bird. There has always been enough good food for us all in the bird-room. I don’t think I could hurt another bird to save my own young ones, but I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t know,” said Chummy bluntly. “You never do know what you’ll do till you run up against some dreadful trouble; but I tell you, Dicky, I’ve made up my mind never to beat another wild bird. I’ll move away first.”

“That’s right, Chummy,” I said. “Those words have a nice sound.”

“The bird question is a queer question,” said Chummy. “I’ve heard old, old sparrows talk about it. They said that birds and beasts when left to themselves keep what is called the balance of nature, but when man comes in, he begins to make gardens and orchards, and plants strange things and shoots wolves and foxes and bears and deer and birds, and brings into the country odd foreign insects–”

“Why, Chummy,” I said, “how can he do that?”

“They come on grain and plants he gets from lands over the sea. Now, if he shoots the birds, they can’t eat the insects, so his grain suffers.”

“Well,” I said, “I understand that, but I don’t understand why he should not shoot wild beasts like wolves and foxes.”

“I don’t say that he shouldn’t, I merely say he does it, and suffers for it, because those animals kill little animals like mice and hares and squirrels which get into his crop. I’m trying to explain to you, Dicky, that man is great and wonderful, but very upsetting. Now, he is talking of wiping out sparrows and I say, ‘Don’t wipe out any creatures. Keep them down.’”

“Now I understand,” I said, “and I suppose you would say, ‘Don’t even put an end to cats, for they do some good.’”

“Certainly—I do hate them. I wish Black Thomas, the boarding-house cat, would drop dead this minute, but, Dicky, there’s no use in denying that a cat is the best rat-trap in the world. Down town where my Jennie’s parents live in the roof of the old station, they had lots of rats, and the station hands started to poison them. A little darling boy traveling with his mother fished a piece of rat biscuit out of a hole in the corner when his mother’s back was turned, ate it, and nearly died. The station master was in a fury, and made the men gather up all the rat biscuit which kills the animals in a very cruel way, and go out and buy some nice, wise cats. Jennie says another bad thing happened which the station master didn’t know. A lady traveling with a little pet dog, one of those Mexican Chihuahua dogs, so small that they stand on your hand, had it run from her and get into a hole in the flooring. She was days looking for it, and one of the men found it in a cruel rat-trap, one that catches the poor beast by the paw. The little dog was dead. Its tiny velvet foot was all broken, and the lady cried herself ill.”

“Chummy,” I said, “this is all very sad. I’m going to change the subject with your permission, and tell you that I’m glad I met you and I like to hear you talk.”

“I like you too,” he said with feeling, “and I think we shall become great cronies.”

“You express yourself so nicely,” I said, “not at all in a common way.”

He drew his little self up proudly. “We Varsity sparrows are supposed to be the brainiest in the city. We listen to the students’ talk and especially to the professors and learn to express ourselves properly. Hardly a sparrow in this neighborhood uses slang, but you just ought to hear the birds down in St. John’s ward. Their vulgar expressions are most reprehensible, and they all talk with their beaks shut tight. They sound like human beings who talk through their noses. You’ll see some of them some day. They come up here, but we drive them away pretty quickly.”

“That reminds me,” I said, “am I safe to fly in and out of the house here, and to go about this street a bit? I have told you that I am accustomed to much liberty, and I should like to learn something about this big, wonderful out-of-doors.”

“I’ll answer for the sparrows,” he said, “I’ll pass the word round that no one is to molest you, and I’ll tell Slow-Boy the pigeon to warn all his set. The crows won’t bother you, for they rarely come here, and when they do, it is very early in the morning before a bird of your luxurious habits would be up.”

“If one should challenge me, what should I say?” I asked anxiously. “I suppose you have a password.”

“Yes, say ‘Varsity’; that will protect you.”

“What about the robins and the small wild birds that nest in city gardens?” I asked. “They have mostly frightened eyes, but they can fight. I have heard this from the old birds.”

“The robins won’t be here for a while yet,” said Chummy, “and when they come, I’ll speak to their head bird, Vox Clamanti.”

“Thank you a thousand times,” I exclaimed. “I’m just crazy to travel all about this neighborhood. It’s grand to have a powerful friend. I shall sing a nice little song about you to Mrs. Martin to-night.”

Chummy did not reply. He was looking at the red sun which was just beginning to hide behind the huge white milk bottle up in the sky, which is an advertisement on the top of an enormous dairy building on the street next to ours.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll have to go look for something to eat before it gets dark. I see the neighbors are putting out their trash cans.”

CHAPTER IX
A BIRD’S AFTERNOON TEA

I’LL give you something,” I said, “if you’ll come into my house with me.”

He gave me a long, searching look, then he said, “I’ll trust you, but how shall I get in, and if I get in, what about that meek looking dog who is nevertheless a dog?”

“Oh, Billie Sundae would not hurt any guest of mine,” I said, “and the window is always open a crack in the afternoon to air the sitting room, because no one sits there till evening.”

“Is Mrs. Martin not at home?” he asked.

I glanced at the big yellow boarding-house set away back from the street next Chummy’s house and said, “At half past four she is going in there to have tea with a friend.”

“What do you offer me for afternoon tea?” asked Chummy.

I was rather taken aback, for this question did not seem a very polite one to me. However, I reflected that he had had a street upbringing, and could not be expected to observe fine points of etiquette, such as not asking your host what he is going to set before you.

“Your question is very businesslike,” I said gaily, but with a thought of giving him just a gentle dig, “and I may say that there will be first of all a few crumbs of sponge cake.”

“That’s nice,” he said, clacking his horny beak with satisfaction.

“Then a nice little nibble of fresh, rosy-faced apple.”

“Fine!” he exclaimed. “It’s very hard for sparrows to get fresh fruit this weather.”

“Then I have a small bit of hard boiled egg left from breakfast,” I said.

“Egg!” he almost screamed, “and they at a dollar a dozen.”

I was slightly surprised that he mentioned the price of eggs. However, I went on, “The Martins always have the best of food, even if they have to save on clothes. Don’t you see how shabby Mrs. Martin and our Mary look?”

“The flowers in Mrs. Martin’s hat are pretty,” said the sparrow, “but they look as if they had been rained on. Now what comes after the egg?”

I was just a little put out at this question, and I said, “A nice drink of cold water.”

“Of course I can always get that outside,” he said.

“When everything is frozen?”

“There’s always Lake Ontario,” he said, “that doesn’t freeze over.”

I was afraid he would think I was impolite, and no matter how abrupt he was with me, I as entertainer should be courteous to him. So I said, “The greatest treat comes last. I’ve noticed you from the window several times, and I have been sorry to see your worried look, and I felt we should become acquainted, so I saved you a nice lot of hemp seed.”

“You saved seeds for me,” he exclaimed.

“Certainly, why not?”

“Why, I never had anyone do that for me before,” he said, “except my parents.”

“I do it to please myself,” I said. “If I could tell you how I love to see all birds safe and happy and with their crops sticking out.”

“Your talk has a good sound,” he said gravely. “I wish Squirrie could hear you. He says, ‘Birds, if my tummy is full and comfy, I don’t care if yours is shrunk all to wrinkles.’”

“Ha! ha! ha!” cried a wicked little voice, and I nearly fell head foremost out of the hole in the wall. As Chummy and I talked, we had gradually edged forward to his front door, and looking up we saw that impudent red squirrel hanging over the roof edge, listening to us.

Chummy was so angry, that he made a wild dart up to the roof, and gave a savage peck at Squirrie’s eyes. Of no use, the little rogue had scampered in again.

Chummy and I flew to the top of the front porch, and sat breathing hard and fast.

Mrs. Martin opened the door of our house and came out. I gazed down at the beloved brown figure and uttered a glad, “Peep!”

She whistled back to me, “Dear O! Cheer O!” then looking up, she said “Eh! making friends. Tell your sparrow bird that I bought some rice for him to-day, and I think he will like it better than the bread crumbs I have been putting out on the food table lately.”

The grateful Chummy leaned forward, gave his tail a joyous flirt, and said “T-check! chook! chook!”

“I’ll throw some right here for him in the morning,” said Missie, and she pointed to the hard-packed snow under the library window. “There’s such a crowd round the food table.”

Chummy gave a loud, joyful call. He was sure of a good tea to-night and a fine breakfast in the morning, and what more could a sparrow ask than two meals in advance?

“If she had feathers, she would be a very beautiful bird,” he said, as we watched her going toward the boarding-house, “and that is more than you can say of some of the women that go up and down this street.”

“What a sad looking boarding-house that is,” I said as we watched her going toward it. “Those black streaks up and down its yellow walls look as if it had been crying.”

Chummy was staring through the big drawing-room window that had fine yellow silk curtains.

“Just look at those women in there,” he said, “they have a nice fire, a white table and a maid bringing in hot muffins and cake and lovely thin slices of bread and butter to say nothing of the big silver tea-pot and the cream jug, and a whole bowl of sugar. I wish I had some of it, and they sit and stuff themselves, and never throw us any of it, and when summer comes they wouldn’t have a rose if we didn’t pick the plant lice off their bushes.”

“Come, come,” I said, “you are too hard on those nice ladies who are all working for the soldiers, and must have good food to sustain them. I am sure they don’t realize what birds do for them. If they did, they would not wear us on their hats.”

“Human beings would all die if it weren’t for us birds,” said the sparrow. “Poisons and sprays are all very fine to kill insect pests, but there’s nothing like the bill of a bird.”

“Mrs. Martin says that farmers are beginning to find that out,” I replied, “and are making wise laws to protect birds. Women don’t understand, except a few like our Mary and her mother.”

The sparrow sighed. “I suppose you have heard that half the wild birds are dying this winter. The crows say that little brown and gray and blue bodies are scattered all over the snow.”

“Even though the ground is snowy,” I said, “couldn’t they still get the larvae of insects on the branches?”

“The branches are ice glazed. The other day when the city people were saying how beautiful and how like fairyland everything looked here, the birds were staring in dismay at their food supply all locked up.”

“The farmers should have put out grain for them,” I said.

“They do in some places, but birds will never be properly looked after till the Government does it. They are servants to the public, and the public ought to protect them—but I am forgetting my afternoon tea. Shall we go in?”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, and I flew before him to the window.

Chummy stayed on the sill while I spoke to Billie who was lying on the hearthrug before the fire.

“Allow me to introduce my friend Chummy Hole-In-The-Wall,” I said. “He is going to make the neighborhood safe for me,” I added pointedly, for Billie dislikes strangers.

She wagged her tail slightly, very slightly, and lay down again, as if to say, “Have any friend in you like, but don’t bore me.”

Chummy is a very sensible bird. He did not fuss and fidget about coming into a house, and say that he was afraid something might hurt him. He merely said, “This is a very unusual thing for a sparrow to do, and a number of my friends outside are wondering why I came in. However, I am very hungry and I trust you. But of course you understand, you will be held responsible for my safety.”

I smiled. I knew what he meant. A number of bright-eyed sparrows had been watching me as I talked to him. If anything happened to him in this room, Green-Top’s beatings would be nothing compared to the one they would give me.

“You are as safe here as in your hole in the wall,” I said earnestly. “Now do come into my cage. You can’t reach the things very well from the outside.”

He went right in, and it did me good to see him eat. After he had stuffed himself, he said, “If I could tell you how sweet these seeds taste, and how delicious it is to get a bit of gravel. There isn’t an inch of ground visible in this whole city. Snow feet deep—never was anything like it before. Nearly every sparrow has indigestion from sloppy, wet, or frozen food, and no gravel to grind it.”

“Be thankful you are not a European bird,” I said. “They have had perfectly dreadful times of suffering over there.”

“Have you heard the story about the little British canary that was killed during the war by one of its own guns?” asked Chummy.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

“Well,” he replied, “you know when the Allies mined under the enemy’s line, they carried canaries in cages with them so that if there was any fire damp in the big holes they made, they could tell by the canaries’ actions. Well, one little war bird flew away from his task. He evidently was an idle bird, and did not wish to work. He perched on a small bush in the middle of No Man’s Land and began to sing, ‘I won’t work, I won’t work. I want to play.’

“The Allied soldiers were in a terrible fright. If their enemies saw the canary, they would know they were mining, and would send shells at them and kill them all. So the Allied men signaled to their infantry to fire on the bird. They did so, but he was so small a target that they could not strike him, and he hopped from twig to twig unhurt. Finally they had to call on the artillery, and a big trench gun sent a shell that blew birdie and his bush into the air.”

“What a pity!” I said sadly. “If he had done his duty and stayed with the workers, he might be yet alive. I can tell you a cat war story, if you like.”

“What is it?” asked Chummy.

“The tale of a cat and her kittens. One day the Allied soldiers saw a cat come across No Man’s Land. She walked as evenly as Black Thomas does when he is taking an airing on this quiet street. No one fired at her, and she crossed the first line of trenches, the support behind them, and went back to the officers’ dugouts. She inspected all of them, then she returned across this dangerous land to the enemy’s lines. The trenches were pretty close together, and the men all roared with amusement, for on this trip she had a tiny kitten in her mouth.

“She carried it back to the best-looking dugout, and laid it on an officer’s coat. Then she went back and got a second kitten, and then a third. The soldiers cheered her, and no one thought of harming her. Mrs. Martin’s nephew wrote her this nice story, and he said that the mother cat and her three kittens were the idols of the soldiers and always wore pink ribbons on their necks. They called them Ginger, Shrapnel, and Surprise Party.”

“What a good story,” said the sparrow thickly.

His beak was full of sponge cake, and, seeing it, I said warmly, “Oh, Chummy dear, if I could only feed all the poor hungry birds as I am feeding you, how happy should I be!”