Birds and Beasts 13

Birds and Beasts 13

The poor little mouse saw nothing, heard nothing. A soft, fanning sound

from the night-bird’s velvety pinions was the only warning that anything

untoward was near; but already the ravisher had seized his prey; there

was a stifled squeal, and all was over!

 

Every ten minutes—the same regular interval has been observed in all

owls questing for food—he would bring fresh provender to the nest. The

darkest night was no hindrance; his shining eyes, with their widely

dilated pupils, pierced the blackest shadows as if they were

transparent, and there was no hole or corner where the little night

prowlers did not go in terror of their lives.

 

Meanwhile the mother-bird was feeding her brood, sometimes when the

mouse was particularly tough, tearing it piecemeal for her little ones

to devour more easily.

 

At other times father and mother together would guide the little family

along the roofs, patiently teaching the inexperienced wings to fly, and

giving a helping touch with beak or wing when they stumbled and tumbled

in their attempts. At full moon they carried the youngsters to a

neighbouring tree, he taking one, she another, and it was pretty to see

their amazement when, craning their little necks, they watched the dim

outlines of moving objects against the blue distance.

 

But they were getting big now, and the old owl lectured them sagely, as

his father had lectured him; he would tell them of the joys and sorrows

of life, and advise them to marry. No, it was not callousness—far from

it; he loved them tenderly, for by reason and instinct he was a pattern

of all the domestic virtues. But he was a wise and far-seeing parent,

who dreaded what their fate would be, should he and his mate one day

meet the doom all owls are liable to. Perhaps one morning a yokel would

climb to their hiding-hole and carry them off to kill them. True, the

good Curé, whose house sheltered them, had forbidden their being

molested; but he was an old man now, and nobody cared much what he said;

then, with a ladder, it was so easy to reach the nest! The old owl

always spoke like a philosopher; the future did not terrify him, and he

seemed quite resigned to the cruel lot men mete out to his species. His

words were without gall or bitterness; but a deep-seated melancholy gave

them the gravity that ever marks creatures born to suffer.

 

In younger days he had known rebellious thoughts, and the sense of human

injustice had oppressed his spirit; he had even dreamt of flying his

country for the lands the swallows in September told him of, and far

away from cruel men, living in peace and quietness with the mate who had

joined her life to his. But time had softened these resentments; he had

bowed his head, recognising a higher power above him, and content to

live on, harmless and obscure, asking only to repay good for evil.

 

One morning the young birds deserted the nest.

 

Then, alone once more, they resumed their former existence in the dark

hollow of the old oak, so solitary and silent now; they bore their

children’s departure as only another of nature’s inevitable necessities.

They seldom stirred from home now, seeing hardly a soul except a couple

of old friends sometimes on Sabbath days; as of old, they held long,

long talks of nights with the moon. Perched side by side on the eaves,

their dark shapes threw long black shadows across the roof; there they

sat stiff and still, save when, from time to time, they spread their

wings, swooped down on their prey, then resumed the same rigid attitude.

These murderous assassins were at heart the most peaceable of good

citizens. It was never their way, coming home at night, to wake the

other birds asleep among the foliage; no one ever heard them quarrelling

or shifting the furniture or pecking at the wall, as the cuckoos,

linnets, and chaffinches are so fond of doing; only, six or eight times

in the night, to advertise the country folk, they would cry _To-hoo!

to-hoo!_ if next day was going to be fine, and _To-whit!_ if it was

going to rain, at regular intervals, like talking barometers.

 

A pair of young turtle-doves nesting on the next roof found this habit

annoying, and went to the judge of the district to lodge a complaint.

 

The judge was a very old raven, whom years had only made more sly and

artful; he was said to be a hundred, and certainly his bald pate was as

shiny as a polished stone. He lived in a crevice in the rocks, alone

with his own thoughts. But these thoughts, unlike most old men’s, were

full of mockery for all created beings. This feathered Methuselah had

seen so much in his day! and experience had only taught him to laugh at

griefs and joys and everything else.

 

While appreciating his usefulness, he did not like Mr. Owl, and was not

sorry to make things unpleasant for him; he could always dismiss the

case in the end, after getting his fun out of it, if the turtles proved,

as he half suspected, to have been in the wrong after all.

 

Three blackbirds he employed as constables arrived at break of day at

the owls’ front door and knocked. Three times they had to repeat the

summons, so fast asleep was the worthy couple, till, roused at last, the

latter poked out their heads in great alarm to ask what was wanted with

them. Both looked so upset, he, poor fellow, in a nightcap, and she,

good dame, in morning deshabille, that the blackbirds, who are always

fond of a joke, burst into such a peal of laughter it took them ten

minutes to recover their gravity.

 

They laughed so heartily that the sparrows of the neighbourhood were

attracted by the noise, and began to turn and wheel in flocks above the

roof, while a horrid hubbub, a vile chirp! chirp! chirp! broke out,

deafening and confusing the poor owls still more.

 

The blackbirds, when they had done laughing, called for silence, which,

however, it took some time to establish. Then they announced—

 

“We, assistant officers of justice of this district, and by order of His

Honour the Judge, do hereby summon you to appear this day before stroke

of noon at his Court, situate, to wit, in the first crevice on the right

hand, beginning from above, of the cliff bordering the Great Meadow.”

 

This order was promulgated in shrill, nasal tones amid the rustling of

the wings of all present, who, the instant the last word was uttered,

began to amuse themselves by screaming in frantic delight. On the

blackbirds departing, a number of sparrows lingered on to enjoy the

confusion of the two owls.

 

These had shrunk away into the deepest recess of their lair, terrified

yet resigned, and their inquisitive tormentors heard none of the

lamentations they expected.

 

What black deed had been laid to their charge? The blackbirds had given

no indication, and they began mentally to review their past, searching

in vain for any crime they could be accused of. They had not robbed

other people’s goods, nor slandered their neighbours; they had never,

no, never caused any one’s death, while they had honestly and honourably

performed the duties Nature had given them to do. What more could be

asked of them?

 

The Judge was waiting—they must be off. It was a woeful pilgrimage. The

bright daylight dazzled them, and they went along blindly, running

against everything and perpetually losing their way; twenty times over

they lost their bearings and had to retrace their steps, covered with

confusion, while their dusky plumage made a dirty-looking blotch in the

fresh morning air.

 

“This way!” cried some tomtits, flying ahead of them—and, taking their

word, they blundered into a nest of yellowhammers, which luckily

happened to be empty.

 

“Don’t listen to them—come along with us,” the chaffinches advised them

next—and they went crash! head first into a wall.

 

A cloud of small birds followed behind. They were clawed and scratched,

and half-dazed, as they wandered about like phantoms of the night

masquerading at high noon.

 

When at last, after a thousand tribulations, with eyeballs starting from

their heads, battered and beaten and jeered at, they reached the Court,

another swarm of tormentors was waiting to receive them. There were at

least eight hundred, and every second others kept coming up, who, after

flying wildly about in search of places, lighted here and there and

everywhere, chattering and squabbling. The rock was soon so crowded from

top to bottom that a linnet, who had been detained at home feeding her

chicks, could not find a perch anywhere, and fluttered up and down the

tumultuous ranks, beseeching the audience in vain to sit a little

closer. The ladies especially seemed determined not to give up a single

inch of room, and all vied together in raising a hubbub, shrieking and

laughing and chattering as if they would never stop.

 

“Accused,” ordered the raven suddenly, “stand up. Our Clerk of the Court

will now read the statement of misdemeanours charged against you.”

 

For a little while the uproar still continued, mingled now with sharp

calls to order and appeals for silence; then, diminishing gradually,

died away into the light rustle of many wings. Then a magpie was seen to

rise briskly to his feet; his dark eye rolled roguishly, as he unfolded

with his beak a huge sheet of paper scribbled all over with writing and

read out in a dry, rasping voice—

 

“We, Clerk of the Court, &c., &c., do hereby certify that the

appellants, to wit M. Narcisse Tourtereau and his consort, Mme. Virginie

Tourtereau or Colombelle, have duly appeared before us and deponed that

the said appellants, cohabiting near by the messuage whereat the Owls,

man and wife, have taken up their abode, are nightly awakened by the

clamours, complaints, moans, groans, and quarrels of the aforesaid Owls,

who, instead of sleeping in their beds during the interval of time

falling betwixt sunset and sunrise, as do all the other birds, do choose

these selfsame hours, that are customarily devoted to repose, for

robbing and murdering and maliciously and mischievously disturbing their

neighbours’ night’s rest by reason of unseemly and uncouth noises.—I

have spoken.”

 

The magpie flirted his tail four times in token of satisfaction at his

own performance, snapped up a gnat to clear his throat, and, resuming

his seat, devoted himself to an endless succession of smiles directed to

the feminine portion of his audience. An approving murmur greeted the