Hoodie Part 25

"I'm afraid not. It isn't the kind of bird that ever learns to speak,"

she replied, as gravely as before. "But I shouldn't wonder if it learns to know you very well--to come in a moment when it hears you call, and to show you that it is pleased to see you."

"Oh how lovely that'll be," said Hoodie, dancing about with delight.

"Fancy it coming on my finger whenever I say 'Birdie dear, come and pouch.' I'll _never_ let it hear me speak c'oss, Cousin Magdalen.

Whenever I feel _it_ coming I'll go out of the room and shut the door tight so it sha'n't hear me."

"Whenever you feel what coming?" asked Magdalen.

"_It_," repeated Hoodie, "c'ossness, you know. It must come sometimes--_all_ chindrel is c'oss _sometimes_," she added complacently.

"Well, but suppose some children were to make up their minds to be cross _no_ times," said Magdalen with a smile. "Wouldn't that be a good thing?

Suppose a little girl I know, not very far from here, was to set the example."

Hoodie laughed.

"Cousin _Magdalen_," she said, with an accent on the name that she always gave when amused. "Cousin _Magdalen_, how funny you are! I know who you mean--yes, I do, kite well. But she couldn't, that little girl couldn't help being c'oss _sometimes_."

She shook her head sagaciously.

"Well, any way," said Magdalen, "try and let the 'sometimes' come as seldom as possible. Won't you do that, Hoodie?"

Just then there came a tap at the door.

"Miss Hoodie," said Martin's voice. "Come to tea, please. It's quite ready."

Hoodie gave an impatient shake. Fortunately the bird was no longer on her finger, otherwise its nerves would have been considerably startled.

Hoodie had been on the point of putting her hand into the cage to entice it to hop on to her finger and thus to lift it out when Martin's summons came.

"I don't want any tea," she said; "do go away, Martin. You _alvays_ come for me when I don't want to go."

"Hoodie," whispered Magdalen, "the bird will be quite frightened to hear you speak like that."

Hoodie looked startled.

"Oh dear," she said. "I quite forgot. You see, Cousin Magdalen, it _will_ come. There's no good trying to keep it away."

"Yes, there is," said Magdalen. "There's good in trying to keep it away, and there's good in trying to send it away even after it's come. You're sending it away now, Hoodie, I think."

"Am I?" said Hoodie, doubtfully. Then with a sudden change of tone, "Well, I _will_ then. I'll go goodly with Martin. Martin," she said amiably, turning to her nurse, "I'm coming. I'll go out of the room kite goodly and quiet, and then perhaps birdie won't remember about my speaking c'oss."

"I daresay he won't," said Magdalen encouragingly. "I'll give him some fresh seed to eat, as it's rather low in his box, and that will give him something else to think of. But I won't speak to him, Hoodie. I never do, because I want him to learn to know your voice."

"That's out of the Bible," was Hoodie's parting remark, as she went off with Martin, quite "goodly," as she had promised.

Day by day Hoodie loved her bird more and more, and her love was repaid by great success in taming the little creature. It grew to know her wonderfully well, to hop on to her rosy finger when she called to it, adding always, "Birdie, birdie, come and _pouch_," with a soft clear note of delight that it was quite a pleasure to hear. Its cage was placed in the window of a little ante-room, out of which Miss King's room opened. There had been some talk of putting it in the nursery, but Hoodie pleaded against this. The cat _had_ been known to enter the nursery, for Hec and Duke were rather fond of old p.u.s.s.y, and Prince was a frequent visitor there. And besides this, Hoodie could not feel quite sure that her little brothers might not be some day "temptationed" to touch her favourite. It was pretty clear any way that birdie's residence in the nursery would be a source of quarrels, so Mother and Magdalen and Martin agreed that the ante-room window would be the best and safest place.

"It isn't as if winter was coming instead of summer," said Magdalen. "In that case a room without a fire would be too cold for it. But every day, now, the weather is getting brighter and warmer. What are you looking so grave about, Hoodie?"

Hoodie looked up solemnly.

"I were just thinking," she replied, "what a pity it would be if winter comed back again instead of summer, just when we've settled about my bird so nicely--by mistake you know."

"But winter and summer don't come of themselves, Miss Hoodie," said Martin. "You know G.o.d sends them, and He never makes mistakes."

"But _supposing_ He did," said Hoodie, "you are so stupid, Martin. You might _suppose_."

"Hoodie!" said Magdalen, warningly.

Hoodie gave a wriggle, but said no more. Not that she was vanquished however. She waited till bed-time, and then, after saying aloud as usual her little evening prayer, added a special clause for Martin's edification. "And p'ease, dear G.o.d, be sure not to forget to send the nice warm summer for my little bird, and don't let cold winter come back again by mistake."

"It'll do no harm to _'amind_ G.o.d, any way," she observed with satisfaction, as she lay down in bed and composed herself for her night's repose.

Weeks pa.s.sed on and the nice warm summer came. Hoodie's devotion to her bird seemed to increase as time went on, and so much of her time was spent beside its cage that the nursery peace and quiet were much greater than before its arrival.

One day, just after the nursery breakfast, she hastened to her pet as usual. Rather to her vexation she saw that her two little brothers were standing by the cage, of which the door was open, Miss King beside them.

Hoodie frowned, but did not venture to say anything.

"See, Hoodie," said Magdalen, "see how very confiding birdie has learnt to be. He has actually hopped on to Duke's finger when he whistled to him the way you do. It will do him no harm now to be friendly to other people too--now that he knows you so well. Look at him."

"See, Hoodie," cried Duke in delight, holding up his stumpy little forefinger, on which birdie was contentedly perched.

An ugly black cloud came over Hoodie's face. She darted forward, furious with anger.

"I _won't_ have him pouch on your finger, Duke," she cried. "I won't have _anybody_ call him but me. I won't. I won't--he's the only thing that loves me and n.o.body's to touch him. Go away, naughty Duke; ugly Duke."

She pushed Duke aside with one hand and with the other attempted, gently, notwithstanding her pa.s.sion, to take the bird. The window was wide open, and the children were standing beside it. Magdalen, who was at the other side of the table on which stood the cage, hurried forward, but too late. Startled by Hoodie's loud voice, not recognizing in the furious little girl its gentle mistress, and with some instinct of self-preservation, the greenfinch, with a frightened uncertain note, flew off Duke's finger, alighted for one instant on the window-sill, from which it seemed for a moment to look at the group in the room, as if in farewell, then, before Magdalen could do anything, before Hoodie had taken in the idea of the misfortune that threatened her, raised its pretty wings with another soft reproachful note, and flew away--away out in the bright sunny garden, over the bushes and flowers, away--away--to some leafy corner up among the high trees, where there would be no angry voices to startle it, no quarrelsome children to frighten its tender little heart--no sound but the soft brush of the squirrel's furry tail among the branches, and the gentle flutter of the summer breeze. Away, away! But what did that "away" mean to poor broken-hearted Hoodie?

She stood motionless with surprise and horror--she did not dart to the window as one would have expected--ready almost to throw herself out of it in fruitless pursuit of her favourite--she stood perfectly still, as if turned into stone. But the expression on her face was so strange and unnatural that Miss King felt frightened.

"Hoodie," she exclaimed. "Hoodie, child, don't stand like that. Come to the window and call to your bird. Perhaps he will hear you and fly back."

She said it more to rouse Hoodie out of the depth of her misery than because she really thought the bird would return, for in the bottom of her heart she feared much that it had truly flown away, and that once it felt itself out in the open air its natural instinct of freedom would prevent its returning to its cage.

Hoodie started.

"Come back? Do you _think_ he'll come back, Cousin Magdalen?" she exclaimed, and rus.h.i.+ng to the window, and leaning out so far that Magdalen was obliged to hold her for fear she should fall over, she gave the soft clear call which her cousin had taught her--over and over again, till, tired and out of breath, she drew in her head and looked up in Magdalen's face despairingly.

"He won't come," she said, "he won't come. P'raps he's flied away too far to hear me. P'raps he can hear me but he doesn't want to come. Oh dear, _oh_ dear, what shall I do? My bird, my bird--you always said he would fly away if he heard me speak c'oss, and I did speak c'oss, dedful c'oss. _Oh!_ what shall I do?"

Hoodie sank down on the floor--a little heap of tears and misery. Hec and Duke flung their arms around her, beseeching her not to cry so, but there was no comfort for Hoodie.

"It was my own fault," she kept repeating, "my own fault for speaking so c'oss. The bird will never come back. Oh no, Hec and Duke, dear Hec and Duke, it isn't no good kissing me. I'll never, never be happy again, and it's my own fault."

It was impossible not to be sorry for her. Magdalen felt almost ready to burst into tears herself. She took Hoodie up in her arms and tried to comfort her.

"I don't think you should quite lose heart about birdie, Hoodie. He may come back again, once he has had a good fly. We must keep the window open, and you must keep calling to him every now and then, in the way he is used to. And perhaps it would be a good plan to go out in the garden and call--he may perhaps have flown up among the trees at the other side."

Hoodie was only too ready. Patiently, while her cousin went down to her breakfast, the little girl stood at the window calling to the truant.

Every now and then the sobs that would continue to rise, made a sad little quaver in the middle, and once or twice poor Hoodie was obliged to stop altogether. But she soon began again, and every now and then between her whistles, she said in a beseeching, half heart-broken tone--