“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