the strawberries had entirely disappeared, the raspberries and gooseberries had followed, the last of the hay had been some time gathered in, and dry grass had taken the place of flowery meadows. the corn which had been green and soft was rapidly becoming hard and golden. it was now that the blackbird became aware that the sun was once more beginning to go earlier to bed, and yet to get up later.
“no doubt the sun is getting tired,” thought the blackbird, “and no wonder; he has been up and shining so many hours lately. i shall be glad when he has had a good long rest, and begins to rise early again, for the birds are not singing so sweetly as they used to do, and even the poor flowers begin to droop.”
however, the days were still beautiful, though the blue sky was now often obscured by clouds, and the evenings were getting rather chilly.
the oaks were still as fresh as ever, but many other trees had changed their bright green for the deeper and more golden tints of autumn. in some places brown and crisp leaves already formed a thick carpet, and the beeches were fast flinging their ripe nuts to the ground. for all that, it was a little hard to realise that autumn had already begun, for many flowers yet lingered, and the white and yellow roses still enlivened the gray face of the old mansion.
however, as the blackbird had learnt to know, there were fruits and joys for every season, and if the strawberries and cherries had gone, were there not rosy-cheeked apples and delicious pears, which had been wanting in the summer?
there was one apple-tree in the orchard which he specially remembered; he had noticed it in the spring with its wealth of pink-white blossoms. the blossoms had quickly fallen, and he recollected hopping and frisking about among the soft, rosy petals as they strewed the grass. he had regretted the fall of these 71pretty leaflets, and, of course, had gone to the old rook for consolation.
“wait a while,” had been the rook’s sage remark; “they have only fallen off to give place to something better.”
the old sage was right, they had been pushed off, in order that the apples of autumn might come to perfection. this tree was now covered with rosy-cheeked, tempting fruit, pippins, that were so round and plump, that their skins appeared to have a great difficulty in containing them, and the blackbird determined that no time should be lost in conducting his young family there.
accordingly, one fine evening found him on the wing, at the head of his summer nestlings, who were fast developing into grown-up birds. he alighted on a bough, and hopped down from thence to the grass, where the apples lay very temptingly around. just as he was about to commence supper, he became aware of a very fierce-looking man who was standing with outstretched and threatening arms, only a few yards from the tree.
the blackbird immediately rose in the air and flew 72away with a shrill cry, and all his young ones followed him. they did not venture to stop till they reached a neighbouring field. the appearance of the man at this time was all the more singular, for the blackbird never before remembered to have seen the gardener in the orchard, so late in the evening. however, the next morning he determined to be there betimes, and to make his breakfast off the apples, although he had lost his supper. as he flew along, followed by his young ones, he said, “now remember, my children, always to be very careful, and never go near the orchard if the gardener happens to be about, for the hard-hearted man would think nothing of shooting every one of us, and all for the sake of his miserable apples.”
this admonition did not make the young blackbirds feel over comfortable, and as they hopped to the grass their poor little legs trembled with alarm.
at this moment a shrill cry from their parent startled them, and again they quickly scattered, for the dreadful gardener had already arrived, and was there awaiting them, standing by the tree with his outstretched arms.
it certainly was very provoking and terrifying, and after one or two more feeble attempts upon the apples 73the blackbird determined to give up the orchard altogether, for go at what time he might, that horrible, that ugly old gardener was always there before him.
one day he happened to mention his trouble and disappointment to the rook. you should have seen that bird’s face; his usually solemn expression of countenance suddenly gave way to one of intense amusement, as he replied, “ah, you hav’n’t been quite so many years about the orchards as i have, or you wouldn’t have been quite so frightened. the gardener has tried that old trick upon me and mine so often that i’m quite accustomed to it. why, it’s not a gardener at all––it’s a rickety old scare-crow! however,” he added, as he saw the blackbird look rather ashamed and crestfallen, “i was quite taken in myself at first; but one day i happened to be passing the orchard just as a gale of wind was blowing, and saw the scare-crow topple over. since that day i’ve never been afraid of scare-crows, although there’s an old farmer near here who puts most frightful-looking ones in his corn fields, worse than any i’ve ever seen anywhere else. it’s of no use, however, we don’t care a bit for them. they must find out something much more terrible than scare-crows if they want to frighten the crows or us.”
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it must be confessed that the blackbird never had the moral courage to acknowledge how completely he had been taken in, and it was only gradually that his young ones found out that after all the scare-crow was not the dreaded gardener, but only some very shabby old clothes arranged on a stupid pole or two.
it was about this time that the blackbird haunted the neighbourhood of a certain lane, where the bramble blossoms had been succeeded by the wild-fruits of autumn. the blackberries were abundant, and it was not the blackbird only who found this lane, with its high hedgerows, an attractive spot. little willie would sometimes persuade his unwilling nurse to take that lane on their way home, “just for a treat, you know;” and while the nurserymaid, followed by mrs. barlow, pushed alice in her perambulator, willie would linger far behind, making many overt attacks upon the blackberries, thereby tearing his clothes and staining his lips and fingers.
one day the blackbird was much amused at a scene which took place in the lane between mrs. barlow and her young charges. the nurserymaid had been left at home, nanny was alone with them, willie had lagged far behind, and had stuffed his mouth, and then 75with some difficulty all his pockets, full of ripe blackberries. of course nanny knew nothing of this; she was rather exhausted, and had stopped for a moment, perambulator in hand, to speak to a friend.
this was an opportunity not to be lost. willie ran up with one of his small hands full of the juicy berries, they were so good he must give some to alice. the delighted little girl opened wide her rosy mouth to receive the fruit. the crushed berries were hastily pushed in by willie, leaving large purple stains on her lips and chin, and in his haste and fear of being discovered he let several fall on her pale blue pelisse.
it was just at this moment that nurse barlow looked round. “master willie! master willie!” she cried, darting forward and seizing him by both hands, “haven’t i often and often told you miss alice is not to have those nasty berries? didn’t i only yesterday read in the newspaper of three children that were poisoned to death by eating berries out of a hedge––poor little children that had no nurse to look after them; and here you’ve given the darling those nasty, poisonous things. just look at her mouth!” and she paused as 76she turned to examine willie’s pockets. “i do declare if you haven’t gone and put them into the pockets of your new clothes! well,” said she, appealing to her friend, “did you ever see the like? that’s his new suit, on yesterday for the first time,––and just look!” she continued, as one after the other she slowly turned the pockets inside out, “just look!”
the pockets were purple, as were also the lips and hands of the delinquent, and he really looked as penitent as he felt, though, as nurse barlow said, “where’s the use of being sorry when the mischief’s done?” willie promised that he really would behave better another time, and that he had not meant to do any harm. in the meanwhile little alice had mightily enjoyed the taste of these her first blackberries, but she and willie did not forget in a hurry the terrible scolding, and the much more terrible washing, which succeeded that famous day’s blackberrying in the lane.
the blackbird congratulated himself that he had no blue suit of clothes to spoil, and that his coat was of such a colour that the berries could not harm it.
we have already said that the blackbird had his interests and pleasures even at this autumn time, but 77it must be owned that a good deal of life and enjoyment had gone with the summer.
the woods were almost songless, and each day added to the increasing multitude of dead leaves that drove before the wind; each day, too, the bare boughs, once so well covered, flung a few more of their last leaves to the ground. about this time, too, the blackbird did not feel quite well––he was listless, his wings would droop in spite of himself. his feathers were not so black and glossy as they had been,––the fact was, the moulting season had begun, and it was some time before he began to feel really bright and well again.
it was also about this time that the blackbird noticed a most unusual gathering together of the swallows, and a good deal of commotion and twittering. they assembled in large flocks, and appeared to be eagerly discussing some weighty affair of state. after such discussions they would suddenly disperse, but only to re-assemble and twitter more eagerly than ever.
what could it all mean? of course the sage and experienced rook was referred to.
“these birds,” he said, “are about to what is called migrate, it is a very important event to them, and 78they hold long consultations beforehand. as you may remember, i told you in the spring they do not spend above half the year in england, and now that the leaves are falling, and the winds are getting cold, they know it is high time to be off. they are wonderfully quick flyers, a few days will find them on the distant shores of africa.”
“it must be very sunny, very delightful there,” said the blackbird.
“i daresay it is,” replied the rook, hopping slowly from one fir-branch to another; “but i had far rather remain at home. dear old place!” he said, looking at the venerable gray mansion, and then at the beautiful lake and wood behind which the sun was setting. “i wouldn’t miss the winter and spring here for anything that africa or any other place in the wide world could give me.”
the gray stones and gables were bright with the glory of the setting sun, the ruddy stems of the firs had caught the reflection and stood out in their depth of red from the dark green foliage. some autumn flowers and a few late roses still gave colour to the garden, and the sound of far-off childish voices echoed from the more distant lime-trees.
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willie came dancing across the lawn, and the perambulator, pushed by nurse barlow, followed more slowly. willie’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. he had been out with his father, and had hunted the hedgerows for blackberries to his heart’s content. in one hand he held a small basket wherein lay some fresh-gathered mushrooms. in the other he bore in triumph a large hazel branch, loaded with nuts. just then his mother came out on the lawn, and he ran towards her with eager joy and affection.
“look, mother! i picked these in the field my very own self. ain’t they beauties?” he said, turning the mushrooms slowly over; “they’re for your dinner, and i picked them.”
they certainly looked very fresh and tempting, with their glossy white tops and soft pink gills.
“thank you, my darling,” said his mother, stroking the brown hair back from his bright face, “i shall like them very much.”
at this moment willie caught sight of a little black head and a pair of bright eyes between the fir-branches.
“mother,” he whispered, pointing to the branch, “that’s our blackbird. he’s fond of blackberries; he was eating some in the hedge the other day––i saw him. 80i have a few in the corner of the basket here. i’ll throw them to him.”
a few blackberries were scattered on the grass on the other side of the fir-tree, and willie moved a little further off, for fear the blackbird should be shy.
“these nuts are for your dessert, mother,” he continued, holding out the hazel branch in triumph.
“it is very good of my little boy to think of mamma,” said his mother. “isn’t it, barlow?” she said, turning to that rather exhausted person, who now came slowly up.
nurse barlow had not had a happy afternoon. she had been toiling through the lanes after willie and his papa. the lanes were muddy, they had gone a long way, and she was very tired. she had made up her mind that the mushrooms were toadstools. it is true that they had come from a meadow in the neighbourhood where excellent mushrooms were wont to grow, but all the same, she was fully persuaded that these particular ones were toadstools, “just such as my poor sister’s little boy nearly died of eating.”
then again master willie had eaten “pounds of blackberries, let alone those nasty nuts.”
it turned out that nurse barlow’s fears were happily 81unfounded, for willie’s papa had forbidden the consumption of nuts and limited the quantity of blackberries.
notwithstanding these assurances, “nanny” refused to be comforted, and as she tucked willie in his little bed, she soothingly remarked, “a nice lot of physic i shall have to give you. then you’ll have to stay indoors, and you’ll both be very cross and very tiresome; i know what it will be.”
that night willie’s dreams were troubled, but they were mingled with a deep bliss notwithstanding. he seemed to be wandering through endless lanes where thousands of ripe and gigantic blackberries grew on all sides,––they actually seemed to bend forward and drop into his basket as he passed. hazel-nuts were there also, of a marvellous size, and very brown and sweet, browner and sweeter than any he ever remembered to have eaten. he passed from the lanes into a field, where the mushrooms grew so thickly, that it was difficult to avoid treading on them as he walked. what greatly added to the delights of the expedition was the fact that all the time the blackbird hopped by his side. he, too, seemed to have grown larger, and he was wonderfully tame, and allowed willie to stroke his glossy head and back. arrived at the end 82of the meadow, however, willie seemed somehow to pass into another lane, and there on the hedgerows instead of blackberries hung curious-looking bottles, and they were all labelled “mr. phil viall, chemist and druggist.”
alas! poor willie, he knew those bottles far too well. some of them were yellow and others were white, while a few were dreadfully black. “nanny,” grown very tall indeed, marched before him down the lane, pointing sternly to each bottle as she passed.
at this moment willie awoke, and was very glad to find that after all it was only a dream, that the bright morning sun was streaming through the white dimity curtains, and that he did not feel one bit the worse for yesterday’s expedition.
a few days passed away, and the blackbird found that all that the rook had told him was strictly true, for before long an evening arrived when a great many swallows began to congregate; then after a good deal of twittering and excitement they took wing, and flew steadily away towards the setting sun. the next morning the blackbird sadly missed the twitter of his small friends. no little glossy dark heads were to be seen peeping out of the clay-built nests under the eaves, 83and no white-breasted flyers skimmed the lawn. yes, the swallows were indeed gone, and the blackbird sadly realised the fact that the summer and its singers were gone too, left far behind in the months of long ago.
that evening, after watching the flight of the swallows, the blackbird flew from the fir to his favourite branch on the lime, where we were first introduced to him. he felt rather sad, there was so much that was bright and joyous and sunny to look back upon in the past spring and summer; there was not a little that was dark and cold and dreary to look forward to in the approaching winter. as he was meditating on the past, and thinking of the future, a bright, a familiar note greeted him from a branch close by,––in another moment the robin had hopped to his side.
“my dear little friend,” cried the blackbird, “i haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“i’ve often seen you though,” said the robin; “but what with your two large families, and all the delights and distractions of the summer, you have been a good deal occupied.”
“i haven’t heard you singing,” said the blackbird.
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“don’t you remember what i told you in the spring?” replied the robin; “my poor little song is quite extinguished when so many others are singing, but now i am beginning to be heard once more.”
again he poured forth a clear, bright carol.
“as i have said before,” remarked the blackbird, “you are a very good little bird, you come to cheer us just when we want cheering.”
“but you’re not so down-hearted as you used to be,” said the robin.
“that is due then to your bright little lessons,” said the blackbird gratefully, “and the teaching of our dear old friend the rook there.”
in another moment the rook, who was passing, had joined them on the lime-tree bough, and together the three friends watched the sun setting, and wondered where the swallows had got to by that time.
the evening was chilly, and a damp mist lay over the meadows, a warning to the birds that it was time to be going home.
“yes,” said the blackbird reflectively, taking up the conversation where he had left off, “i ought to be very grateful to you, mr. rook,––and to you, my dear little 85friend,” he said, turning to the robin. “you, mr. rook, have taught me a great deal, and given me a real interest in the creatures and things about me, which i should not have had otherwise. above all, you have taught me the great lesson of faith and trust. and you, dear little red-breasted friend, have taught me the sweet lesson of content, and not that alone, but you have shown me that each of us in our small way should try to make the world a little better and brighter for those around us. you do it, mr. rook; you do it, little robin; willie and alice do it, with their kind thoughtfulness for us, and why should not i try to do it also,––i will, and this very winter too.”
all the birds were grave and silent for a few moments, and then, as they took an affectionate leave of each other before parting, the rook said, “there was a pretty little poem once written about the robin. i will repeat it to you before we separate:
“unheard in summer’s flaring ray,
pour forth thy notes, sweet singer,
wooing the stillness of the autumn day:
bid it a moment linger,
nor fly
too soon from winter’s scowling eye.
86“the blackbird’s song at eventide,
and hers, who gay ascends,
filling the heavens far and wide,
are sweet. but none so blends,
as thine
with calm decay, and peace divine.”
each day now the sun rose later and went to bed earlier. willie and alice still ran about the garden, stamping their little feet among the dry, crisp leaves, and picking up the beech-nuts which strewed the ground.
however, as time went on, they came less out of doors, for cold and wet days followed each other, when all that the blackbird saw of his little friends were the two small faces pressed against the dining-room window-pane, looking wistfully out as the clouds drove past, and the rain pattered against the glass.
at last a night arrived when it was very cold indeed. through the bare boughs, and on to the hedgerows and ivy, stole down the pure, soft snow. the blackbird put his head out of the ivy-bush to see what sort of night it might be, and lo! under the pale light of the moon, all the landscape lay white and dazzling before him.
one little flake dropt upon his head––one cold, soft 87flake; but as he drew back into the shelter of the ivy, to return once more to rest, it was with very different thoughts and feelings than those gloomy ones which had troubled him the year before. he now knew what the beautiful snow meant. it was the beginning of a hard winter, it was the herald of cold, dark days. but he had also been taught a lesson of faith; he knew of the winter berries which would be provided for him by one who remembered even the despised sparrows; he knew of a certain bay window where two eager little faces would be watching for him, through all the cold, dark days; and as he closed his eyes, on this the first night of winter, he remembered that little willie and alice, and he himself, and all created things, were under the protection of him who “casteth forth his ice like morsels,” but who, in his own good time, would again bring about the “time of the singing of birds,” when, once more, as of old, “the voice of the turtle” would be “heard in the land.”
