Birds and Beasts 5

Birds and Beasts 5

The little goldfinch was quite sure this horror would never end, that

the trees would never grow green again, that never more would the

harvest clothe the fields in green, that gaiety, sunshine, and youth

were vanished away for good and all.

 

Cowering in the hollow of an old branch, he watched the days go by like

a procession of white phantoms, each uglier than the other, and his

little feet all stiff with cold, his feathers frozen together with

hoar-frost, sad and shivering, he thought many and many a time his last

hour was come.

 

In vain the old birds told him of a re-birth; he could not believe in

the resurrection of things when this dreary time of mourning should be

over.

 

 

III

 

Little by little, however, the snowstorms grew rarer, stray sunbeams

pierced the murkiness of the heavens, and a verdant down, at first light

as a vapour, but which presently grew denser and soon took on the

solidity and sheen of satin, hemmed round the sombre garment of the

fields. A mildness filled the air—something restful, calm, and kindly,

that was like a benediction, something the winds distilled, the sun

diffused, the growing grass and humming insects and fragrant violets

spread abroad, something which, like a river fed by a myriad rippling

rills, gushed forth along the torrent-bed of creation.

 

A door seemed to open in the sooty firmament of winter, and this portal,

rolling back on golden hinges, suddenly revealed the sun in his

splendour, like a king stepping forth to bring peace to the peoples.

Then sounded the first chord in the plain-song of the woods; waters,

sky, and earth joined in the harmony with a deep, long-drawn note that

rose and swelled, sobbed and sighed, grew louder and louder, assumed the

majestic breadth of an orchestral symphony, and waxing gradually, ended

by filling the depths and heights of air with a mighty diapason, as if

all mouths, all voices, all breaths were raised together in one vast

unison.

 

I leave you to guess if the goldfinch lifted up _his_ voice in this

universal hymn of praise!

 

So it was true, then! The sun had indeed returned! A fine lacework of

filmy greenery began to clothe the tree boles, and the water-springs to

sparkle in the shy recesses of the forest; the air was free; once more

he and his comrades could laugh and sing, flit idly to and fro, pilfer

and steal, plunder the orchards, peck the flowers, drink in from a drop

of dew intoxication to last the livelong day, and revel in that

twice-blessed existence that is full of a fine frenzy of delight to make

the thrushes envious.

 

Good-bye to the winter covert, the crevice in the protecting bough, the

moss that still keeps the impress of his little body! Nothing will

satisfy him now but the wild fields of space; and with a bold sweep of

wing the masterful goldfinch has left his dolorous refuge, never to

return. A second piece of ingratitude, another act of forgetfulness!

Yes, it must be allowed a little bird’s head has small room in it for

remembrance.

 

 

IV

 

Good times began again. White and pink, the orchards blossomed like

bridal bouquets. It snowed butterflies’ wings and flower stamens in the

tall grass; lilacs hung in clusters over the walls; like a good priest

saying mass, the earth donned a golden cope, and all Nature trembled and

loved.

 

Then was the time for our pretty bird to abandon himself to endless idle

wanderings and loiterings, hopping hither and thither, always on one

leg, barely lighting and then off again, shaking the leaves with an

incessant flutter of wings, twittering and chirping, flirting with the

daisies, ruffling the hawthorn, hooting the holly. At peep of dawn he

never failed, when the harebells rang their morning summons, to come

down to attend the good God’s church whither the flies and sparrows

assemble, still half asleep and blundering against the pillars; next the

beetles get under way along the roads, teased and tormented by the

butterflies and ladybirds; then the linnet leaves her bough and flies

off to where the bells tinkle, but of a sudden darts back again, finding

she has left something behind, lost something—more often than not her

head—for the poor lady generally wears it wrong side before! Thither fly

the chaffinches too, and the grave-faced oriole, the pretty bullfinch,

and the chattering cock-sparrow. Then the cockchafers come, too, too

often, alas! trailing after them the thread of captivity clinging to

them—the burly cockchafers that, with the bumble-bee, are the bass

voices of the underwoods. Plain and woodland are all alive, for there is

never a creature at this fair hour of daybreak, while the skies are

brightening, but is eager to come and make its orison to God in His

temple.

 

So the little goldfinch followed their example; he preened his feathers,

looking at himself admiringly in a dewdrop the while. Then, his toilet

done, like all the rest of the world, he bustled off to his business and

his pleasures.

 

 

V

 

Goldfinches’ hearts are made much the same as men’s; the spring awakes

both to thoughts of love.

 

Our hero had remarked in his neighbourhood a sweet little hen-goldfinch.

She lived with her parents in the tall branches of an apple-tree; more

than once, coming home at evening, he had admired the fascinating smile

of her beak at the window, embowered in foliage, where she sat watching

for his going-by.

 

Was it his fancy? Was it really and truly a modest blush, or only the

rosy reflection cast by the setting sun? Yes, sure—he had seen her

redden. It needed no more to decide him to ask her hand in marriage.

 

One morning he made his bravest toilet, scented himself with lavender

and thyme, polished up his little claws, and in this gallant array he

set out, with a shining face but an anxious heart, to see the parents.

They received him politely, but could not make up their minds, and

begged him to come again.

 

He came again and again, and the more he saw of his little sweetheart,

the deeper he fell in love. She was as pretty as seven in her little

brown mantle with yellow facings, and her dainty head in its red hood

was poised on her neck with an incomparable grace. Saucy and alert, she

was as slight and slim as a flower waving in the breeze, as bright as a

sunbeam piercing through the leaves, as agile as the wind. Dewdrops

seemed to sparkle in the depths of her little round pupils. She was a

vision of the spring-tide made into a bird!

 

True, our hero was no less brave to see. Gallant and gay, he cocked his

beak boldly and carried the colours of his race with becoming pride.

 

At last the wedding-day was fixed; but the bride’s trousseau was still

to seek. No doubt birds are able to start housekeeping at small cost,

neither needing tables and chairs nor pots and pans; still, there must

be some little fitting-out to be done.

 

And so thought the bride’s parents, who were prudent people, and loved

their daughter.

 

A fine to-do there was, to be sure, on the bough where the old couple

had their home; a stir that never ceased all day long kept the green

hangings of the house shaking, and the doors banging; everlasting

comings and goings turned the stairways upside down. Pale and

eager-eyed, the little hen-goldfinch awaited the happy hour when she

could fly away with her mate.

 

 

VI

 

Soon the news of the betrothal spread amongst the neighbours. The

nearest trees were all agog; nothing was to be heard but twitterings and

whisperings, not to mention backbitings, for envy is to be found

everywhere in this world. The tomtits above all took a delight in saying

evil of the bride, calling her a silly, insipid little thing; they

chirped and chattered, whistled and whispered, pecking and pulling to

pieces the poor innocent child’s good name. In vain the bullfinches,

good, decent bodies, tried to interfere: the tomtits’ cackle quite

drowned their grave remonstrances. The critics had enlisted a naughty

grisette, a chaffinch, a minx who had kicked over the traces in her day,

and was renowned for her spiteful tongue; a blackbird too had joined the

conspiracy, and now, perched all together on a high branch, from which

they could spy upon the comings and goings of the goldfinch household,

they kept up a famous uproar.

 

The Master of Ceremonies of the birds’ parish arrived in the afternoon;

he had come to inquire the hour at which the young folks were to be

married, and if they wanted choristers to attend. It was agreed to

engage a lark and a chaffinch; nightingales were too expensive. A pretty

carpet of green would be laid down, as green as on the finest summer’s

day; the porch was to be decorated with anemones, and the chancel with

daisies; the sun would be ordered for five o’clock, to make a grand show

of purple and gold. Of course the drones would be at the organ, and they

would ask the wind to give them a helping hand by roaring in the pipes.

The harebells would strike up a merry peal at peep of day, and ring till

the bridal pair arrived. The holy-water stoup would be filled with dew.

As for incense, the violets would see the censers were well filled, and

the bees would keep them swinging all through the ceremony.

 

I forgot to tell you that a wedding breakfast had been ordered, at

which, besides flies and worms galore, they were to regale themselves on

a cricket and a locust—a magnificent spread indeed. The nearest spring

would supply the wine; they were to have corn-berries for dessert, and

the table would be laid in the thickest of an apple-tree in full

blossom, where a cloud of gnats was always buzzing and making beautiful

music. A yellowhammer was invited; he was a rollicking blade, and there

was nobody to match him at singing a comic song.

 

All was going as well as could be; yet how long seemed the hours of

waiting to the little bridegroom! To and fro he flitted, up and down the