The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

A charming nest it was – no little girl could have helped being delighted with it Miss Verity was rewarded for the trouble she had taken to make it nice for Mary by the look on her god-daughter’s face, and the cry of pleasure that she gave.

There was a little bed in one corner, with pink and white curtains at the head, a dressing-table to match, and a wicker-work chair with cushions covered with the same dimity. And all the furniture was light and small, so as to leave plenty of room for moving about Mary’s trunk had already been brought in, and when she had time to notice it Mary wondered how the servants had got it up the tiny staircase. But just at first, the thing that caught her eyes was the view from one of the windows. No, one can scarcely call it a “view,” a “look-out” is a better word, for, as Pleasance had told her, it was really into the trees. Standing there you almost felt as if you were living in a tree yourself. And after a happy glance round, Mary flew to this window.

“It is all lovely,” she said, “but this is the nicest of everything.”

The window was half open. Miss Verity followed her to it, and laid her hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“Listen,” she said.

And then from the depths of the dark green shade came, what to Mary was almost the sweetest sound in the world, – “Coo-coo,” and again “Coo-coo,” as if in reply.

“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity, and the little girl smiled to herself at her godmother thinking she did not know. “Isn’t it sweet? I have never heard them so near as the last few days. Just as if it was to welcome you, Mary!”

And at this Mary’s smile almost turned into a laugh.

Then Miss Verity opened a door in a corner which Mary had not seen before, and again there was a short flight of steps, leading downwards.

“This is the near way into my room,” said her godmother, “so you will never feel lonely. If you tap at the second door,” for there was one at the foot of the steps as well as at the top, “I shall always hear you. Sometimes the door is locked, but I will keep it unfastened while you are here. It is so now, as your trunk has been brought through this way. Now, take off your things, dear, and come down to tea. You will find it and me waiting for you in the drawing-room.”

And so saying she went on into her own room. Mary ran back and took off her things as quickly as she could. But before she went downstairs, she could not resist standing a moment at “the forest window” as she had, in her own mind, begun to call it.

“Cooies,” she said softly, “dear Cooies, if it is you —my Cooies – that I heard just now – do you know that I have come?”

And from a little distance, a little farther off than they had seemed before, came the reply – at least Mary felt sure that it was one, —

“Coo-coo,” and again, “Coo-coo.”

She could not stay longer just then, but she felt very happy indeed, as she made her way down the cork-screw staircase and along the passages and downstairs again to the drawing-room. She could scarcely help singing as she went, and her face looked so bright as she came into the room that her godmother thought to herself that it was quite a mistake of Mary’s aunt to have written to her that the little girl would most likely be very grave and shy at first.

I don’t think Mary ever enjoyed anything more than that first tea with Miss Verity. She was very hungry, to begin with, and everything tasted delicious, and the room was so cosy and yet fresh, with little flutters of air and scent from the garden outside, as one window was a tiny bit open. And there were pretty autumn posies here and there in china bowls about the room, the faint fragrance from which mingled with that of dried rose-leaves and lavender, which the house had never been without since Miss Verity’s grandmother had come to live there as a bride, long, long ago.

All these things joined to make Mary feel very happy, though she did not think of them all separately, but behind everything in her mind was the looking forward to seeing her dear Cooies again. She gave one of her little sighs of content, which her godmother quite understood, though she did not seem to notice it.

When tea was over, Miss Verity proposed that Mary should go up to her room again, to see Pleasance unpack her trunk, and explain about her things.

“I have dinner at seven o’clock,” she said, “which is of course earlier than your uncle and aunt dine, so I have got leave for you to dine with me, or at least to sit at table with me, though you will not care to have much to eat.”

“No, I couldn’t be very hungry, so soon after tea,” said Mary, gravely, “but sometimes when auntie was alone, I have been at her dinner, and she gave me a little soup, and pudding, and fruit.”

“Yes,” said Miss Verity, “that is just what I mean.” Then Mary went up to her turret, where Pleasance was already busy, and showed the maid which were her best frocks, and sashes, and hair-ribbons, and everything, and herself arranged the few books, and writing things, and little treasures she had brought with her. There was a small bookcase all ready, on which stood some tempting little volumes that Miss Verity had looked out for her.

And through all the pleasant little bustle of the unpacking there came to Mary’s ears every now and then the sound they were so ready to hear, of “coo-coo,” “coo-coo.”

But she was not alone in her room again at all that evening, for Pleasance came to dress her for dinner, and to help her to undress for the night – not at least, till after she was in bed. And she did not dare to get up and open the window after the maid had gone, for Pleasance had told her it was raining, and that she had therefore shut both windows closely.

“It would never do for you to catch cold here,” she said, “otherwise your auntie would not let you come again.”

So Mary had to console herself by thinking that most likely the Cooies were fast asleep, and by hoping that the next day would be fine and mild.

And so it was!

Mary slept very soundly. When she woke it was already full daylight, and some bright though pale rays of sunshine were creeping in at the side of the blinds and sparkling on the pretty flowery paper of the walls. She rubbed her eyes and could not, for a moment or two, remember where she was – you know the queer, rather interesting, puzzled feeling one has, the first morning in a strange place? and then by degrees it all came back to her, and up she jumped and ran to the window. But it was cold, so she very wisely peeped out for a moment only, just to satisfy herself that it was a fine day, and then hopped into bed again.

She had not long to wait before there came a knock at the door, followed by Pleasance and a younger servant with a big can of water for her bath.

“Wide-awake already, Miss Mary?” said the maid, in her kind cheerful voice. “Well, I am glad it is a nice morning for you; the rain last night was only a heavy shower after all, for the trees are scarcely wet and the birds are chirping away as if it was the spring.”

“And are the pigeons cooing?” asked Mary.

“You may be sure of that,” said Pleasance. “They are always the first to be heard about here, though I’ve never known them to roost so near the house as this last week or two. I’ll unfasten the window bolt, so that you can push it open a bit after you’ve had your bath, and listen to them. It is sweet, like wishing you a happy day.”

“I’m sure I am going to have a happy day,” said Mary, jumping out of bed.

You may be sure her bath did not take very long that day. She was soon dressed; at least enough to open the window as Pleasance had proposed, and while finishing her morning “toilet,” she listened for the familiar sounds she was hoping to hear.

Yes – she was not disappointed – they came, the sweet caressing “coo-coo,” ever nearer and nearer, till at last, just as Mary was fastening her belt, a little flutter close at hand was followed by the alighting of two feathered figures on her window-sill. One glance told her they were her own Cooies.

“Oh, you darlings,” she exclaimed, “how sweet of you to come the first morning! How did you find out I was here?”

Mr Coo glanced round him cautiously, before he replied.

“Ah,” he said, “we have ways and means of getting news that would surprise you. There is more truth in the old saying, ‘a little bird told me,’ than the people who use it in jest have any idea of. Did we not tell you, dear Mary, that we should meet again before along?”

“Yes, yes, indeed you did,” said Mary, “and I believed you, you see. Auntie would not have forced me to come, but when I heard of Levin Forest, I felt sure you knew about my godmother living here, and so I said I’d like to come.”

“Just so,” said Mr Coo, and “just so,” Mrs Coo repeated.

“We would have flown here last night to welcome you,” Mr Coo went on, “but we thought you might be tired.”

“And it came on to rain,” added Mrs Coo, “and we did not wish to be wet and draggle-tailed for our first visit.”

“No, it would have been a pity,” said Mary, “and you are both looking so pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed before, how very white your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them.”

Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be admired.

“You have never seen us to advantage before,” said Mrs Coo. “Near a town it is impossible to keep one’s feathers so fresh.”

“Talking of white feathers,” began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as just then the breakfast-bell rang. “We will come again,” he said, “we have a great deal to tell you, Mary.”

“We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Coo.

“How kind of you!” said Mary. “And when will you come again?”

“I think,” said Mr Coo, “the best plan will be for us to have a signal. We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say ‘cooie, cooie,’ we are pretty sure to hear you.”

“All right,” said Mary, “and thank you so much. I wonder what you are going to tell me about white feathers.”

She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.