The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

“Yes, Miss Mary,” said the maid, pleased at her tone, “that is just what it is. It has two windows, and from one you could almost touch the trees. The other window is larger and gets the morning sun, so the room is not at all dull or chilly, indeed all our rooms are bright, though just at the edge of the forest.”

“I love forests,” said Mary, “at least I mean trees. I have never seen a real forest, only woods. Are there many birds in Levin Forest?” she went on, half timidly.

“A great many in the spring and summer time,” said Pleasance; “not so many now, of course. But enough to keep it cheery, so to say. And my lady has been very pleased lately at finding that the wood-pigeons have come over more to our part than they used. There’s a new road making across at the opposite side, and Miss Verity thinks perhaps that’s the reason; for though wood-pigeons are trusting sort of creatures, they don’t like being disturbed. And I daresay my lady’s right, for we’ve never heard them cooing like this year. It’s just beautiful.” Mary’s heart beat so fast with pleasure that she could scarcely speak. Could it be her own Cooies’ voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost too lovely to hope for.

“I love wood-pigeons,” she said.

“Then you and my lady will be the best of friends,” said Pleasance, “for I almost think they are her favourites of all the creatures about.”

Thus beguiling the way with pleasant talk, like the travellers in the Pilgrim’s Progress, the little journey soon came to an end, and long before the autumn afternoon had given any signs of drawing in, the train slackened and pulled up at the small roadside station which was the nearest to Dove’s Nest, though a two-miles’ drive off.

And on the platform stood a lady whom Mary would have guessed to be her godmother, even if Pleasance had not exclaimed, “Here we are, Miss!” as she gathered Mary’s wraps and small luggage together.

Miss Verity had quite white – snow-white – hair. Just at the very first moment, somehow, this gave Mary a little start. She had not expected it, and she was not used to it, as her aunt and those she lived with had always been younger people. And there is something just a very little “uncanny” – till you get used to it – about very white hair and dark bright eyes; it is almost too like a “fairy godmother” to seem quite natural. But these dark eyes, though bright, were very, very sweet and soft too.

“If my godmother is at all a fairy,” thought Mary to herself, “she is a very good, kind one.”

So, though her cheeks had got rather pink with the surprise and a sort of sudden shyness, she held up her face to be kissed without hesitation, and slipped her hand into her godmother’s, feeling a pleasant sort of “sureness” that all that her aunt had told her about Miss Verity was going to come true.

There was a little pony-carriage waiting just outside the station gates, and standing in it was a rather fat piebald pony. The carriage only held two, and for a moment or so Mary wondered how she and her godmother and Pleasance were all to get to Dove’s Nest, as the maid had told her it was two or three miles from the station. But just then, glancing round, she saw that there was also a two-wheeled spring-cart, drawn by another piebald; and Miss Verity noticing Mary’s glances, smiled, as if she were answering an unspoken question.

“Yes,” she said, “they are both my ponies. Their names are Magpie and Jackdaw. Sometimes I drive them together, and then we do go pretty fast, though Magpie does not look as if that often happened, does she?”

Magpie was the fat pony that Mary had first noticed, though Jackdaw certainly was not thin!

“No,” said Mary, “she doesn’t. But she is very pretty,” she went on, feeling – as Magpie just then turned her head as if she was listening – that perhaps it might hurt her to hear herself spoken of as at all lazy; “she is very pretty, and I daresay she is fat because she is good-tempered.”

She looked up in her godmother’s face as she spoke, and again there came the quick smile which seemed to say better than words that Miss Verity understood her thoughts.

“Yes,” she replied, “there is a good deal in that. Magpie is very good-tempered; and poor Jackie is not bad-tempered, only a little bit fiery now and then. Won’t you pat them, Mary? It will be a sort of ‘How-do-you-do?’”

Mary was only too pleased to do so.

“You shall give them each a lump of sugar every morning,” said Miss Verity; and at this the piebalds pricked up their ears.

“I am sure,” thought Mary, “that they understand what godmother says, just as well as the Cooies understand me.”

And in this she was not far wrong.

Chapter Five.

“A Little Bird Told Me.”

It was a pretty drive to Dove’s Nest, even though the summer and early autumn beauty was past, and some of the trees that bordered the road were already bare. But when they had turned a corner of the road they came into clear view of the forest, and then Mary felt perfectly happy.

For a moment or two she did not speak, then she turned to her godmother and said rather shyly – “It’s like some of my fairy stories – the forest, I mean; isn’t it, godmother?”

Miss Verity smiled, and by the look in her eyes Mary saw that she understood.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that is why I like to live close to a forest. It seems full of fairy stories.” Mary gave a little sigh of pleasure. It is very nice to feel that big people know what you mean, even though you cannot say what you are feeling in very clear words. Then she sat silent again, gazing before her and feeling that she was already enjoying herself very much.

Magpie trotted along in her usual placid way; now and then pricking up her ears and switching her tail, though there were no flies about.

“What does she do that for?” asked Mary.

“I think it is just a little sign of friendliness,” said Miss Verity. “We know each other so well, you see – Magpie and I, I mean; we often jog along together like this for hours and hours. And now and then I talk to her a little, and she answers me in her way. So perhaps when she hears my voice talking to you, she thinks it is to her.”

Just then Magpie gave a very big switch Mary laughed.

“Do you know,” she said, “I believe she means to be very polite to me. I think that is why she switches her tail and cocks her ears to-day, and she wants us to know.”

Miss Verity laughed too.

“I daresay you are right,” she said. “And now, Mary,” she went on, “keep your eyes open even wider than usual, for Dove’s Nest comes in sight all of a sudden.”

Mary’s face sparkled with eagerness. She glanced about her from side to side, and at last there came in view a stop in the hedge at the left side, which, as they got quite close, proved to be the entrance to a fairly wide grassy lane; and a little way farther on a white gate was to be seen, or rather the white posts at each side, for the gate itself was hooked back among the green bushes, so as to leave the entrance open.

“Here we are,” said Miss Verity, and as Magpie turned in, her mistress allowed her to go slowly, which the piebald never objected to, even at her own door, so as to let the little guest have a good first sight of the house and garden.

It – the house, I mean – really was rather like a nest. The stone it was built of was a soft browny-grey colour, and the carefully-trained ivy had grown over it so prettily that even the colour of the walls was shaded and in some places hidden by the rich dark green. And as Mary gazed, a funny fancy came into her head that the windows, which were always kept very bright and clean, were like kind twinkling eyes looking out to welcome you. There was a cosy-looking porch, the roof of which was thatched in a queer fancy way; it looked like moss, and made one think still more what a good name Dove’s Nest was for the house.

“I think it’s lovely,” said Mary, after she had taken a very good look at it all, “lovely and sweet.”

Miss Verity seemed pleased. I think it is very nice to say pleasant things to our friends when they want to please us. It is a stupid, selfish kind of shyness that makes children – and big people, too, sometimes – keep back from saying something pretty and admiring, even when they really feel it and would like to say it. And afterwards, perhaps, when it is too late, or the chance is gone, one wishes one had said the pleasant little thing.

Yes, a great deal of the sweetness of life depends on very little things. A smile or a loving look, or a word or two of pleasure and admiration are like roses and honeysuckle in the hedges.

“I hope you will like it inside as much as outside,” said Miss Verity.

“I’m sure I shall,” Mary replied.

And so she did. It would be difficult to describe the whole house, of course, but I must tell you how pretty the drawing-room was. It was almost quite round, with windows at one side, and the fire-place, in which a nice bright fire was burning, underneath the middle window, so that while sitting in front of it and feeling as warm as a toast, you could glance up to the sky, and see the trees moving in the wind and the birds flying across, while the creepers, twined round the panes, nodded at you in a friendly way.

Below the other windows, which were not so high up, were cushioned seats, very tempting, as from them one could see the prettiest parts of the garden and the many birds, who at all seasons of the year had been encouraged by Miss Verity’s kindness to look upon Dove’s Nest as a home of pleasure and safety. The rest of the room was very pretty too, though just a little old-fashioned. There were not quite so many sofas and low chairs and cushions as one sees in drawing-rooms nowadays, for when Miss Verity was young such things were considered only suitable for quite old people or invalids, and Mary’s godmother was certainly not an invalid, and did not feel herself very old either, though her hair was so white.

But Mary’s eyes travelled at once to the windows, and she darted across the room to look out.

“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely lawn, and what dear little birds hopping about!”

“I am so glad you like it,” said Miss Verity, “for your room at one side looks out the same way. My own room is over this, the birds and I say ‘How-do-you-do?’ to each other every morning. Shall we go upstairs at once for you to take off your hat and jacket, and then we can have tea.”

Mary was delighted to follow Miss Verity, for Pleasance’s description had made her eager to see her own corner of Dove’s Nest. Her godmother crossed the square hall and opened a door which led into another little hall or anteroom, from which a wide shallow-stepped staircase led to the next floor.

Here they found themselves in a long passage – Miss Verity walked on quickly, passing two or three doors, and stopping for a moment at one which was slightly open.

“That is my room,” she said, and Mary, glancing in, saw the same round shape with windows at one side as downstairs, “and yours,” Miss Verity went on, “is really almost next it, though I daresay you would not have guessed it, as it seems a long way off.”

Then she opened another door, a little farther on, and to Mary’s surprise and pleasure a second staircase came in sight. This time it was a narrow “twisty-turny” one, leading up into a kind of turret at one end of the house. This turret was so covered with ivy and other evergreen, or almost evergreen, creepers, that from the outside it was scarcely to be distinguished from the mass of trees in the background. The staircase was not high, as the house was really only a two-storied one, but when Miss Verity got to the top there was another door to open, then a short passage, at one end of which were a few steps leading to a small landing, nearly all window, and at the other end two or three steps down again into another little landing, almost like a room, and across this at last, Mary’s own “nest.”