AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD.
"Tell us a story," said the children, "a sad one, if you please, and alittle true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired ofpeople who live happily ever after."
"I heard one lately," said the old man who lived in the wood; "it isfounded on fact, and is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or noI cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a badending?"
"A story ends badly," said the children with authority, "when peopledie, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince andprincess."
"A most lucid explanation," said the old man. "I think my story willdo, for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding."
"Tell it, tell it!" cried his hearers, "and tell us also where you gotit from."
"Who knows the riches of a wood in summer?" said the old man. "Insummer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knowsthem? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders,perchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that willhold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What acastle it makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with asloping ladder--like one of the round towers of Ireland--what a housefor children to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-uppeople, or beds!)
"You know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wildstrawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, likegood children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you maynot disturb that little mother. You know (for I have shown you) wherethe rare fern grows--a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages._We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move aroot it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as muchmystery and circumspection as if we were performing some solemndruidical rite. It is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of itsabode we keep faithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by usuntil, with all the seed its untouched fronds have scattered, and allthe offshoots we have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful asHeaven intends all beautiful things to be. Every one is not soscrupulous. There are certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near mycottage in the hot weather, and who tell each other that they love awood. Most of these good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor earsfor what goes on around them, except that they hear each other, and seethe cold collation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and notknow whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birdssing for them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rarein the neighbourhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and itwill not long be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct themto it, they tear it ruthlessly up and carry it away. If by any chance aroot is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth,that there is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, theravished clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted,either from neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential toits life; and the rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt theylove a wood. It gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and ischeaper for summer entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy andcarpet, fuel and water, shade and song, and beauty--all gratis; andthese are not small matters when one has invited a large party of one'sacquaintance. There are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb ourfriends; and as they do not know which sting, and which are harmless,they kill all that come within their reach, as a safe generalprinciple. The town boys, too! They know the wood--that is to say, theyknow where the wild fruits grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and robthe birds' nests, and snare the birds. Well, well, my children; to knowand love a wood truly, it may be that one must live in it as I havedone; and then a lifetime will scarcely reveal all its beauties, orexhaust its lessons. But even then, one must have eyes that see, andears that hear, or one misses a good deal. It was in the wood that Iheard this story that I shall tell you."
"How did you hear it?" asked the children.
"A thrush sang it to me one night."
"One night?" said the children. "Then you mean a nightingale."
"I mean a thrush," said the old man. "Do I not know the note of onebird from another? I tell you that pine-tree by my cottage has a legendof its own, and the topmost branch is haunted. Must all legends beabout the loves and sorrows of our self-satisfied race alone?"
"But did you really and truly hear it?" they asked. "I heard it," saidthe old man. "But, as I tell you, one hears and one hears. I don't saythat everybody would have heard it, merely by sleeping in my chamber;but, for the benefit of the least imaginative, I will assure you thatit is founded on fact."
"Begin! begin!" shouted the children.
"Once upon a time," said the old man, "there was a young thrush, whowas born in that beautiful dingle where we last planted the ---- fern.His home-nest was close to the ground, but the lower one is, the lessfear of falling; and in woods, the elevation at which you sleep is amatter of taste, and not of expense or gentility. He awoke to life whenthe wood was dressed in the pale fresh green of early summer; andbelieving, like other folk, that his own home was at least theprincipal part of the world, earth seemed to him so happy and sobeautiful an abode, that his heart felt ready to burst with joy. Theecstasy was almost pain, till wings and a voice came to him. Then, oneday, when, after a grey morning, the sun came out at noon, drawing thescent from the old pine that looks in at my bedroom window, his joyburst forth, after long silence, into song, and flying upwards, he saton the topmost branch of the pine, and sang as loud as he could sing tothe sun and the blue sky.
"'Joy! joy!' he sang. 'Fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshineand sunflecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade, andsward, and dell. Lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers.Green leaves! Green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!'
"It was monotonous, but every word came from the singer's heart, whichis not always the case. Thenceforward, though he slept near the ground,he went up every day to this pine, as to some sacred high place, andsang the same song, of which neither he nor I were ever weary.
"Let one be ever so inoffensive, however, one is not long left in peacein this world, even in a wood. The thrush sang too loudly of his simplehappiness, and some boys from the town heard him and snared him, andtook him away in a dirty cloth cap, where he was nearly smothered. Theworld is certainly not exclusively composed of sunshine, and greenwoods, and odorous pines. He became almost senseless during the hotdusty walk that led to the town. It was a seaport town, about two milesfrom the wood, a town of narrow, steep streets, picturesque old houses,and odours compounded of tar, dead fish, and many other scents lessagreeable than forest perfumes. The thrush was put into a smallwicker-cage in an upper room, in one of the narrowest and steepest ofthe streets. "'I shall die to-night,' he piped. But he did not. Helived that night, and for several nights and days following. The boystook small care of him, however. He was often left without food,without water, and always with too little air. Two or three times theytried to sell him, but he was not bought, for no one could hear himsing. One day he was hung outside the window, and partly owing to thesun and fresh air, and partly because a woman was singing in thestreet, he began to carol his old song.
"The woman was a street singer. She was even paler, thinner, and moredestitute-looking than such women usually are. In some past time therehad been beauty and feeling in her face, but the traces of both werewell-nigh gone. An indifference almost amounting to vacancy was therenow, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her acorpse. In her voice, also, there had once been beauty and feeling, andhere again the traces were small indeed. From time to time, she wasstopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favoured hunchback, whoaccompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. She sang asong of sentiment, with a refrain about
'Love and truth, And joys of youth--'
on which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. As she sang, asailor came down the street. His collar was very large, his
trouserswere very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as anornament than for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and thegentlest hearts that ever went together since Beauty was entertained bythe Beast. His hands were in his pockets, where he could feel oneshilling and a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after afriendly stroll through the town. When he saw the street singer, hestopped, pulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his customwhen he was puzzled or interested.
"'It's no good keeping an odd penny,' he said to himself; 'poor thing,she looks bad enough!' And, bringing the penny to the surface out ofthe depths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. The hunchback cameforward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of hiselbow, and gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companionwithout moving a feature, and went on with her song.
"'I'd like to break every bone in your ugly body,' muttered the sailor,with a glance at the hunchback, who scowled in return.
"'I shall die of this close street, and of all I have suffered,'thought the thrush.
"'Green leaves! green leaves!' he sang, for it was the only song heknew.
"'My voice is gone,' thought the hunchback's companion. 'He'll beat meagain to-night; but it can't last long:
"Love and truth, And joys of youth"'--
she sang, for that was the song she had learned; and it was not herfault that it was inappropriate.
"But the ballad-singer's captivity was nearly at an end. When thehunchback left her that evening to spend the sailor's penny with thefew others which she had earned, he swore that when he came back hewould make her sing louder than she had done all day. Her face showedno emotion, less than it did when he saw it hours after, when beautyand feeling seemed to have returned to it in the peace of death, whenhe came back and found the cage empty, and that the long-prisonedspirit had flown away to seek the face of love and truth indeed.
"But how about the thrush?
"The sailor had scarcely swallowed the wrath which the hunchback hadstirred in him, when his ear was caught by the song of the thrush abovehim.
"'You sing uncommon well, pretty one,' he said, stopping and puttinghis hat even farther back than usual to look up. He was one of thosegood people who stop a dozen times in one street, and look ateverything as they go along; whereby you may see three times as much oflife as other folk, but it is a terrible temptation to spend money. Itwas so in this instance. The sailor looked till his kindly eyeperceived that the bird was ill-cared for.
"'It should have a bit of sod, it _should_,' he said emphatically,taking his hat off, and scratching his head again; 'and there's not acrumb of food on board. Maybe, they don't understand the ways of birdshere. It would be a good turn to mention it.'
"With this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he leftit, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in hishandkerchief.
"'The canary died last voyage,' he muttered apologetically to himself,'and the money always does go somehow or other.'
"The sailor's hands were about three times as large and coarse as thoseof the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to himthree times more light and tender--they were handy and kind, and thisgoes farther than taper fingers.
"The thrush's new home was not in the narrow streets. It was in a smallcottage in a small garden at the back of the town. The canary's oldcage was comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf wereregularly supplied to him. He could see green leaves too. There was anapple-tree in the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rosein the window. Near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. Shewas the sailor's mother, and looked very like a tidily-keptwindow-plant herself. She had a little money of her own, which gave hera certain dignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dweltin considerable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading inthe big Bible, knitting socks for Jack, and raising cuttings in bottlesof water. She had heard of hothouses and forcing-frames, but she didnot think much of them. She believed a bottle of water to be the mostnatural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thoughtno good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo Nature.
"'Slow and sure is best,' she said, and stuck to her own system.
"'What's that, my dear?' she asked, when the sailor came in and held upthe handkerchief. He told her.
"'You're always a-laying out your money on something or other,' saidthe old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy.'What did you give for _that_?'
"'A shilling, ma'am.'
"'Tst! tst! tst!' said the old lady, disapprovingly.
"'Now, Mother, don't shake that cap of yours off your head,' said thesailor. 'What's a shilling? If I hadn't spent it, I should have changedit; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers,and you get nothing for it. But spend it in the lump, and you getsomething you want. That's what I say.'
"'_I_ want no more pets,' said the old lady, stiffly.
"'Well, you won't be troubled with this one long,' said her son; 'it'llgo with me, and that's soon enough.'
"Any allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as Jack wellknew. She became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her.
"'You know, my dear, I've always looked to your live things as if theywere Christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that Inever _could_ do with!). Leave it with me, my dear. I'd never bothermyself with a bird on board ship, if I was you.'
"'That's because you've got a handsome son of your own, old lady,'chuckled the sailor; 'I've neither chick nor child, ma'am, remember,and a man must have something to look to. The bird'll go with me.'
"And so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becomingdomesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, one morning the sailorbrought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and tookthe cage down. And the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the birdgood-bye, and blessed her son, and prayed Heaven to bring him safe homeagain; and they went their way.
"The forecastle of a steam-ship (even of a big one) is a poor exchangefor a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. To Jack, the ship was home._He_ had never lived in a wood, and carolled in tree-tops. He preferredblue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipevery comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro,and swung the bird's cage above his head. To the thrush it was only animprisonment that grew worse as time went on. Each succeeding day madehim pine more bitterly for his native woods--for fresh air and greenleaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant soundsof country life. His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no morecould be got. He longed even to be back with the old woman--to see theapple-tree, and the window-plants, and be still. The shudder of thescrew, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook's galley, theceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribablesmells which haunt a steam-ship, became more wearisome day by day. Evenwhen the cage was hung outside, the, sea breeze seemed to mock him withits freshness. The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, hiseyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him,and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, andicebergs gleamed upon the horizon.
"The sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had becomedeeply attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he hadscarcely fretted after his beloved wood. But with every hour of thevoyage, home-sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart wentback to the nest, and the pine-top, and the old home. When one sleepssoundly, it is seldom that one remembers one's dreams; but when one isapt to be roused by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of afog-whistle, or the scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper,and the visions of the night have a strange reality, and are easilyrecalled. And now the thrush always dreamt of home.
"One day he was hung outside. It was not a very fine day, but he lookeddrooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. H
isheart was sore with home-sickness, and he watched the sea-birdsskimming up and down with envious eyes. It seemed all very well forpoor men, who hadn't so much as a wing to carry them over the water, tobuild lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish,and wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisysteam-engines--and to endure it all. But for him, who could fly over ahundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swingoutside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his,which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars.As he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook thewires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vesselrighted, the cage-door swung slowly open.
"At this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and agleaming sea bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon awave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much.With one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage,spread his wings, and followed him.
"When the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to takethe cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed.
"'The canary died last voyage,' he said, sadly. 'The cage was bought ona Friday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to Mother;but the old lady says there's no such thing as luck, and she'sBible-learned, if ever a woman was. "That's very true," says I, "butif I'd the money for another cage, I wouldn't use this;" and I neverwill again. Poor, bird! it was a sweet singer.' And he turned his faceaside.
"'It may have the sense to come back,' said one of the crew. The sailorscratched his head, and shook it sadly.
"'Noah's bird came back to him, when she found no rest,' he said, 'butI don't think mine will, Tom.'
"He was right. The thrush returned no more. He did not know how widewas the difference between his own strength and that of the bird hefollowed. The sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power: heswooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of thedancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, andthe thrush was left alone. Other birds passed him, and flew about him,and fished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadilyon. Ships passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon;whales spouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not afamiliar object broke the expanse of the cold sea. He did not know whatcourse he was taking. He hoped against hope that he was going home.Although he was more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he feltno pain. The intensity of his hope to reach the old wood madeeverything seem light; even at the last, when his wings were almostpowerless, he believed that they would bear him home, and was happy.Already he seemed to rest upon the trees, the waters sounded in hisears like the rustling of leaves, and the familiar scent of thepine-tree seemed to him to come upon the breeze.
"In this he was not wrong. A country of pine-woods was near; and landwas in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. Not home,but yet a land of wondrous summer beauty; of woods, and flowers, andsun-flecked leaves--of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known--oflarger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies--a land, of balmysummer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and wherefireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid thetrees. As the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon theland breeze. A strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own.
"'I smell woods,' he chirped faintly; 'I see the sun. This is home!'
"All round him, the noisy crests of the fresh waves seemed to carol thesong he could no longer sing--'Home, home! fresh water and green woods,ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks andrustling leaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses,feathered ferns and flowers. Green leaves! green leaves! Summer!summer! summer!'
"The slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and thenclosed. But even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest onMother Earth's kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the coldwaves buried him at sea."
"Oh, then, he _did_ die!" cried the children, who, though they were tiredof stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad endingno better than other children do (in which, by the bye, we hold them tobe in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for chronicling this"ower true tale").
"Yes," said the old man, "he died; but it is said that the sweetdingle which was his home--forsaken by the nightingale--is regarded bybirds as men regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight,when other thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leafthan a living bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old,and, rapt in a happy ecstasy, sings a song more sweet and joyous thanthrush ever sang by day."
"Have you heard it?" asked the children.
The old man nodded. But not another word would he say. The children,however, forthwith began to lay plans for getting into the wood somemid-summer night, to test with their own ears the truth of his story,and to hear the spectre thrush's song. Whether the authoritiespermitted the expedition, and if not, whether the young people baffledtheir vigilance--whether they heard the song, and if so, whether theyunderstood it--we are not empowered to tell here.
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The Brownies and Other Tales Page 3