The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank – large enough for herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down – something made her sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom frightened, her two friends settled themselves.

Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed her eyes.

Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round the great arbour – so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that each “family” of her own Cooies’ numerous relations kept itself distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which pleased her to see.

But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance, and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost holding her breath.

Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar – something told her to do so – at last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement, not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then – on the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life. A large white dove – so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment’s gleam of something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if you can picture such a thing to yourselves.

It was Blanche’s dove – Mary felt sure of it now.

Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music – whether the words that came to Mary’s ears would have sounded to others like murmuring “coo-coo” only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter, for the little human guest understood.

“The procession may pass,” said the Queen.

Then from every cluster two birds detached themselves, all meeting together behind Mary’s seat. And in another moment, reminding her a little of a long line of tiny choristers that she had once seen in a great cathedral, they appeared two by two – fifty couples or more – and passing forward, each pair stopped in front of the Queen and laid down a feather at the foot of her pillar. White feathers they all were.

It was so pretty – the birds’ perfect order and slow movement – the Queen’s stately beauty – that Mary forgot for a moment that she herself was to take any part in the ceremony, till a little peck on her cheek told her that the right-hand Cooie was calling her to attention.

“It is your turn now,” he whispered. “Draw out your feather. We will lead the way.”

And they did so, Mary following, the precious feather in her hand, till at the foot of what to herself she had begun to call “the throne,” she felt she should stop, and with the prettiest curtsey she could make, she laid her treasure down, a very little in front of the long row already there, and then, still guided by the two wood-pigeons, made her way back to her place, where, however, she did not sit down again, but remained standing, her heart beating rather fast, for even in the instant’s glimpse of the others that she had had, it seemed to her that hers was the whitest!

The Queen flew down from her pillar, and passed slowly along the front, looking carefully at the feathers. Then she bent down and picked one up in her beak and flew back with it. Mary shut her eyes for a moment, afraid to look, but when she opened them again and dared to glance before her, she saw that her hopes had been well-founded – Michael’s gift was no longer where she had laid it.

And there stood the Queen, the quill of the feather in her beak, so that the rest of it lay across her own snowy plumage, not snowier than it, however. She was quite silent for a minute, as if she wanted them all to see for themselves, and then came again the beautiful tones of her voice.

“This feather,” she said, “has won the prize. It has come from the islands across the sea – the islands of gorgeous colours and rich fragrance – this simple snow-white feather. Our human guest, Mary, our child-visitor, has brought it, and you see for yourselves that it has won the prize. It is the whitest of them all,” and she bent her head towards the feathers on the ground, “beautiful as they are.”

Then there came a great wave through the air; a murmur of many voices, which sounded like one solitary note on some strange soft organ: then silence again, till again Queen White Dove spoke.

“I see you all agree with me,” she said, “and I think you are generous and kind. For there is one thing to be said still, before the prize is given. You, my birds and relations, have been for many weeks seeking to win the prize: you have worked for it; you have travelled far, many of you. But Mary has not needed to do any of these things. Her feather came to her without any effort on her part – ”

“Never say roast larks don’t drop into some people’s mouths,” whispered Mr Coo, who by this time was perched on his old place on Mary’s shoulder. Mary gave a little shrug, but he clung on all the same.

“And therefore,” continued the Queen, “I think it is only fair that a short trial and test should be laid upon her.”

Mary began to feel rather frightened. What was the Queen going to do? Turn her into a wood-pigeon perhaps, or something of the kind. But such fears were soon laid at rest.

“It is not a severe test,” the Queen continued, and Mary felt that she was now speaking to herself directly, and that her tone was very gracious. “It is this. For one week you must keep the feather as spotless as it is now, and if at the end of that time you bring it here again – perfect and unsullied – you will have gained the prize. Do you agree?” Mary hesitated. She felt somehow a little confused. Mr Coo gave her an invisible peck.

“Say ‘Yes, I will,’” he murmured.

“I do, you mean,” whispered Mary, rather pleased to snub him. And she made another curtsey, and said in a clear voice, —

“I do.”

“Then come forward,” and Mary did so, till she was close to the pillar, on which Queen White Dove was again standing. It was not much higher than Mary herself. The Queen raised one dainty claw, and taking the end of the feather from her beak, she placed it just inside the brim of Mary’s close-fitting fur hat, or cap, where the grey feather had been on the day of Mary’s first visit to the “forest’s secret.”

“It is safe and firm,” she said. “It will be by your own fault, Mary, if it drops out or is in any way spoilt.”

And Mary curtseyed for the third time, murmuring thanks, and went back to her place, wondering to herself what was going to happen next.

The two wood-pigeons were there as before.

“We are all about to disperse,” they said. “Lie down and close your eyes for a moment, till the rush is over.”

She did so, and again came the great noise of wings, and – when she looked up, reassured by the silence, she was half-sitting, half-lying at the gate of her godmother’s garden, the basket, well filled with cones, beside her, and the two Cooies perched on it!

And just then, Pleasance came out of the house and rang the big bell.

Chapter Twelve.

“Come Back in the Spring, Mary.”

Mary sprang up. She had been half-sitting on the little gate, for the surprise of finding herself at home again so quickly had almost taken away her breath. But the wood-pigeons calmed her down.

“You need not hurry,” they said. “Pleasance never expects you for ten minutes or longer after she has rung. Sit down on the basket and we will keep you warm.”

And when Mary had done so, they flew on to her shoulders and spread out their little wings as if ready for flight, and Mary felt a nice soft glow of heat going through her.

“Now,” they continued, “we can talk comfortably – do you want to ask us anything?”

“Of course I do,” said Mary. “A great big thing. I want to know how I can keep my feather perfectly white.”

“The Queen told you almost as much as we can,” was the reply. “She said it would be your own fault if it dropped out or got spoilt in any way.”

“I know she did,” said Mary, “but that’s very puzzling. I can’t go about with my hand to my head holding it in.”

“You don’t need to do so. As the Queen spoke of ‘fault’ – ‘your own fault’” – said Mr Coo, “I would advise you to think over what is most likely to be a fault of yours.”

“I know,” said Mary quickly. “Hasty temper – that’s my worst fault. Auntie always says so. But sometimes when I’ve been very unhappy about it, she has said any way it doesn’t last long; she has said it to comfort me, you see, and it’s true – I scarcely ever feel cross with anybody for more than a minute.”

“A minute may leave many minutes of trouble behind it,” said Mrs Coo, gently.

“I know that,” said Mary. “Once at home poor baby got a knock that was black and blue for a week, just because we’d given him a little push to get him out of the way.”

“Then be on your guard,” the wood-pigeons replied, “and this day week come to the meeting-place in the forest again, at the same time. You will have no difficulty.”

“And shall I not see you till then?” asked Mary, rather dolefully, “a whole week?”

But she was speaking to the air! Her Cooies had disappeared.

“A whole week,” however, sometimes passes very quickly, though sometimes, it is true, a week seems to have leaden wings. This time it was not so. Miss Verity was more than kind in her ways of interesting and amusing her little god-daughter; so that even though the weather grew dull, and rainy, and disagreeable, and it was scarcely possible to go out, either driving or walking, Mary was happy and bright. The only thing that she felt uneasy about was as to the appointed day for her visit to the secret of the forest.

“If it should be a regular bad day,” she said to herself, “godmother will certainly not let me go out, and it would seem silly of me to expect it.”

But she wisely consoled herself by remembering that, so far, nothing that had to do with the wood-pigeons had gone wrong. And as it was a “fairy” matter, she might safely leave it in fairy hands!