meantime, while all northbourne, in its genuine affection for miss theedory, hung expectantly on the issues of life or death—for who could say which it might be?—jerry blunt was quietly making his preparations for pursuing his new calling of bird-trainer.
although he had said nothing about it, one of the new pupils had been specially set apart to be given to theo, if it pleased god to spare her young life. theo, gentle and sweet-spoken to all, had won the reverence and loyal regard of the disabled sailor, when he returned home a cripple, by her friendly welcome to him.
jerry blunt was not one to forget a kind word. he had not come across so many, in his up-and-down life, that they had become cheapened.
it was not, however, until the young finches were about two months old, and showed symptoms of whistling powers, that jerry could really begin the labour of educating them in real earnest. his first step was to systematically separate his pupils into small classes, so to say, or groups of birds, lodging them in wicker cages. the next proceeding was to shut them up in a darkened room and keep them without food for a given time.
the skilful teacher then began the singing-lessons by slowly playing over and over the special tune he had selected—'the blue bells of scotland'—for the finches to learn. he performed the melody upon a small instrument given him by pierre lacroix, his comrade on the expedition, the notes of which were curiously like the birds' own. jerry truly had marvellous need of patience. but he knew—none better—that it is only by slow means that perfect trust is gained. his pupils sat for a considerable time sulking, perhaps with deeply injured feelings, being dinnerless; and they were, doubtless, bewildered by the darkness of the room. they were not deceived into thinking that the night had fallen, not they! as a proof, they made no attempt to sleep. they simply sat puzzling out, with suspicion, the mystery that surrounded them.
by and by, some sharper, brighter wit among his fellows began to listen to the music, so curiously familiar, with his tiny head on one side; and he was won over! presently he tried, timidly and cautiously, to pipe a few faint notes in imitation—just a few. then he halted.
'not so bad for a beginning!' delightedly murmured jerry, under his breath.
bully, on his part, rather seemed to like the sound of his own voice. with a vain perk and a flutter, he tried again, his note more assured. lo! there was a duet. a neighbour finch had joined in; another bully was won over, and jerry chuckled softly. old pierre had been perfectly correct, then! the thing was possible. it was jerry's own first attempt, and he had been careful to follow out the frenchman's directions, though, until he heard with his own ears the result, he had been secretly somewhat sceptical.
in a few moments more there was a feeble chorus piping in unison with the tiny bird-organ which jerry continued to softly play. the other finches had summoned up courage to join their brethren.
as an instantaneous reward the teacher let a flood of light into the dark room, in accordance with pierre's code. more, he proceeded to give his hungry pupils a little—only a little—food, enough, in fact, to make them ravenous for more. then he plunged the little room in sudden darkness again by shutting out the light. thus jerry gradually educated the birds into connecting the idea of food and light with the sound of his little instrument's melody.
after two or three repetitions of this performance, it followed that the finches, kept on short commons, no sooner heard the notes of the bird-organ always playing the one unvarying tune, than they, too, attempted to sing it, in the sheer hope of being fed, and of seeing the hated darkness disappear. jerry being ever careful not to disappoint their expectations, the result came to pass that the particular melody was committed to memory—the tune was learned, more or less correctly; for the feathered pupils were like human scholars, in that the few, not the many, arrive at perfection.
after this reward for his enormous patience, jerry blunt's next move was to board out his pupils in the village with trustworthy boys who were selected for the posts of pupil-teachers. one boy was appointed to each bird, in order to carry out the business of teaching the tune by whistling it incessantly until the air was firmly fixed in those tiny memories, which, if they had not been exactly 'wax to receive,' proved 'marble to retain.' as the finches grew perfect in their one life-lesson, the scottish ditty resounded sweetly all over the village of northbourne. after that, the pupils being pronounced 'finished,' jerry blunt set forth, with his batch of performers, to london, where he got a fairly good price for his well-trained songsters. his birds sold off rapidly, each of them going off to be the pride and joy of some girl or boy's heart with the tuneful old melody—
'o where and o where has my hieland laddie gane?'
and jerry returned home with orders for many more bullfinches as he could procure.
these orders, however, he was doubtful of executing; the finches were getting too advanced in age to prove docile pupils. still, jerry would do his best, and he set off to trap some young birds that had already left the parent-nests. the work of training these advanced birds was quite as difficult. however, jerry was a persevering individual, gifted with wondrous patience, an untiring teacher. he succeeded beyond his hopes, and as time went on was enabled to earn what he called a 'tidy' sum.
''tis wonderful strange, jerry, my son, that ye can train the morsels o' critters to sing what we may call human tunes! nobody, of course, could do it but yer own self, i'm sure,' grudgingly admitted his mother, when success became sure.
'the idea! that's so like you, mother!' laughed jerry, as he softly tickled the head of the bullfinch he had retained as a gift for miss theedory out of the first and best batch. 'you're that conceited, you think that your own son can do all things better than other folk. but i could tell you a true story, now, of what others have done.'
and in his own words jerry related, while his mother knitted in the firelight, how a great musician had, as a youth, trained a young bullfinch to pipe 'god save the king.' the musician was much attached to the bird, and the bird to him. love begets love, with the animal creation at least, which is, undoubtedly, the simple secret of the strange power possessed by some human beings over birds and beasts. if you desire to be their masters, you must, first of all, love the dumb creatures. where love is, all things are possible. bull-finches, in particular, have a strongly developed faculty for attaching themselves. and the simple logic is easy to follow out. in the training already described, music and pleasure—that is, the food and sunlight, which constitute bully's pleasure—are inseparably connected. hence it follows soon, that the bird, to show his joy at the sight of his owner, learns to greet him with the one tune his little life has been spent in learning.
the musician, having cause to go abroad, left his petted bird in charge of his sister. on his return to this country, his first visit was to that lady, who told him, sorrowfully, that bully had pined himself into a serious illness, evidently in the grief he felt at his master's absence. the grieved owner went hastily into the room where the cage was, and spoke gently to the ailing bird, which stood huddled up into what looked like a ball of feathers on his perch. instantly, at the sound of the loved master's voice, the dim, closed eyes were opened wide. there was a feeble flutter of the faded plumage; the drooping head was raised. half creeping, half staggering, the little creature attained the outstretched finger, on which he had barely strength to steady himself. with a supreme effort, as it seemed, he piped out feebly, in low, half-muffled notes, 'god save the king.' and then—bully fell dead!
jerry's voice had a slight choke in it as he finished his pathetic little story. as for his old mother, she had thrown her apron over her head, and was quietly sobbing under its shelter.
'well, my lad,' she said, by and by, when her tears were dried, 'i've aye said that you were the best son mother ever had, and for the same a blessing will, no doubt, rest upon your head. and as for the bits o' birds an' beasts well, i've heard the old passon—mr. vesey himself—say, an' i never forget the words, as—
'"he prayeth best who loveth best
all men and bird and beast;"
so, to my thinkin', that's how 'tis wi' you. ye love the mites, and ye can do all things wi' them. that's yer secret!'
and undoubtedly jerry's old mother was right.
