The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

“They are sweet,” he said, “are they your own, Molly? or have you tamed them?”

Mary shook her head.

“They didn’t need taming,” she replied. “They lived in the tree there,” and she nodded towards it. “They have known me ever since I came to live in the Square, and I have watched them, as I told you the other day. The remains of their old nest are still there, but I am sure they are not going to build there any more. They only fly over here to see me, and I give them crumbs and water whenever they come.”

“Oh,” said Michael, “that was what the bit of bun was stuffed into your pocket for.”

Mary smiled.

“But, Mike,” she said gravely, “you know – I am afraid you did not believe me when I told you about the Cooies.”

It was Michael’s turn to redden a little now.

“The – the what-d’ye-call them?” he said, trying to avoid a reply.

“The Cooies. It’s my name for them,” said Mary, “because of the sweet way they coo. But Mike, do tell me – did you believe me?”

“I don’t quite know,” answered her cousin, honestly. “I didn’t think you were making up a regular story – an untruth, I mean, – I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I did think perhaps you’d fancied part of it. You might have seen other birds flying about, that you let yourself imagine were wood-pigeons, and certainly the remains in the tree scarcely look like a nest, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” said Mary. “The wind tore it to pieces that night it blew so.”

“Yes, I understand it all now,” said Michael, “except – it’s quite wonderful how you’ve managed to tame them so. They are like pet doves – I really am afraid I couldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” and as he spoke, he very gently stroked Mr Coo’s opal-coloured feathers.

“They have tamed themselves, the darlings,” said Mary. “I think wild creatures would soon learn to know me.”

“It’s wonderful,” Michael repeated. “I have heard of some people who have a kind of power over animals, and perhaps you are one of them.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Mary. “Then, Michael,” she went on, “you haven’t told any one about the Cooies, have you? not about my telling you of them, and your not quite – ”

“Of course not,” said Michael, interrupting her, “and please don’t say any more about that part of it.”

“Well, I won’t, then,” Mary replied, “but I want you not to speak about them at all to any one. You see they are going away – they are not going to build here any more, and nurse, and even auntie perhaps, would scarcely – oh yes, of course they’d believe you. But still, I’d rather no one heard about them. I do so wish they hadn’t got tired of these gardens.”

“It’s better than for them to stay to be caught by cats,” said Michael.

This was a possibility which had not struck Mary before, and she shivered at the thought.

“Oh dear, yes,” she said, “what a dreadful idea!” and when Michael, hearing his mother calling, left the room, she turned to her little friends.

“Thank you so much, dear Cooies,” she said, “but I won’t ask you ever to come back to see me if there is the least fear of anything so dreadful.”

“We did not like to mention it before,” said Mr Coo, “but it was in our minds, and not without reason. Now we must fly off, but – you will see, Mary – we shall meet again before long.”

Mary shook her head. She was very nearly crying.

“Cheer up,” murmured Mrs Coo, who was still perched on her shoulder.

Then off they flew.

Chapter Four.

“We Shall Meet Again Before Long, Mary.”

It was not easy for either Mary or her aunt to keep up their spirits when the two days were over, and from the drawing-room window they watched their dear Mike driving away.

“To think,” said his mother, almost in a whisper, “to think of the long, long way he is going – and the many, many days and nights that must pass before we see him again, and all the dangers and risks he must pass through – ” but a tiny sob beside her made her stop short.

“Mary, dear,” she exclaimed, “I did not mean to make you cry,” and she kissed the little girl very lovingly.

They were quite alone, as Mary’s uncle, Mike’s father, had gone with him to the port from which Michael’s ship was to sail.

Mary wiped her eyes and kissed her aunt in return.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” she said, “Mike told me to cheer you up, auntie. And I think he is very happy. If I were a boy like him, I’d love to go sailing all over the world and to see all the strange wonderful places he is going to see. I’m sure he likes being a sailor awfully.”

“Yes,” her aunt agreed, “I am sure too that he was right in choosing the life. Most boys have a fancy for it, but with many it goes off, and Michael loves it more and more. And he is growing so strong – you would scarcely believe, Mary, that long ago, before you came to us, he was rather a delicate little boy, not nearly as sturdy as Fritz.”

“I remember hearing that he was very ill, with that fever,” said Mary, “when – ,” but she did not finish the sentence, and her aunt understood why. There had been other children – two dear little daughters were between Michael and Fritz, in that family.

Auntie gave Mary another kiss, and something in Mary’s voice made her look at her.

“Molly, dear,” she said, – she did not often call her by this pet name, but it seemed as if she used it now for Michael’s sake, – “you are looking rather pale, as well as sad. I am afraid town doesn’t suit you as well as the country.”

“It is that I can’t bear – ‘people,’” Mary was going to have said, but it struck her that wood-pigeons were scarcely “people,” and she was thinking of them as well as of Michael, “I can’t bear goings away,” she said.

“Could you not bear to go away yourself – for a little while?” said her aunt, “for a little change?”

Mary shook her head.

“No, auntie, dear,” she said, “I’d rather stay with you.”

“But it is dull for you, dear, and I am afraid I shall not be able to have you with me as much as I would like, while our cousins are here.”

Mary’s face fell.

“I’d forgotten about them,” she said.

The cousins were an elderly lady and gentleman who paid a visit every year to Mary’s uncle and aunt, and expected a good deal of attention.

“Never mind, auntie,” she went on, after a moment’s silence, “I won’t be dull. I’ll play a lot with the little ones.”

“But wait a minute, dear,” said her aunt. “I won’t force it upon you, but it is only right I should tell you of an invitation I have for you – from one of your godmothers – Miss Verity, do you remember her?”

“No,” said Mary, “I don’t remember her, but she always sends me a present on my birthday, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” said her aunt, “she is very kind and very nice every way. See here, dear, this is her letter; I think you can read the writing; it is so clear.”

It was beautiful writing – almost too fine and small, but such perfectly shaped letters that it was as easy to read as printing.