Читать книгу The Lady-with-the-Crumbs - Flora Klickmann - Страница 4

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But down in the Windflower Wood, the Little People Who Live There had something far more exciting to talk about. From one end of the wood to the other the tidings went flying around―

“The Lady-with-the-Crumbs is here!”

Everybody started to tell everybody else the news.

“She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!” the thrush sang, over and over again.

“Who-o-o? Who-o-o?” inquired an owl, who had been fast asleep in the hollow beech, only the clamour woke him. “Who-o-o is it?” he asked again. “Who-o-o is it?”

“It’s the Lady-with-the-Crumbs,” replied an obliging linnet. “You know her, don’t you? Oh, but of course you don’t, because you always go to bed by day, when all sensible birds get up.” But seeing that the owl was beginning to look fierce, he added hurriedly, “I mean―er―hum―I mean, when all unfortunate birds who haven’t the dole have to turn out and work for their living. Of course things are different for an aristocratic gentleman like you.”

“Oh, do get on with it,” said the owl, “and tell me Who-o-o is it?”

“Well, the Lady-with-the-Crumbs doesn’t live here always, but when she comes and stays in the Flower-Patch House she gives everybody the loveliest things to eat. Puts crumbs on all the window ledges, and on the three bird-tables,―cake crumbs and rolled oats and currants and raisins and cheese (only Bushy Tail gobbles that up, first go). We have a garden-party there every day. Why don’t you come and join us like a sociable bird?”

“Any mice there?”

“Certainly not! What a question!”

“No good to me then. My doctor doesn’t allow me to take anything else. But how do you know she’s here?”

“We saw her dog just now. That’s a sure sign.”

“Chut! Chut! Chutter! Chut!” said a blackbird, as he always does when he’s cross. “Won’t someone pat that poor old owl on the back and send him to sleep again? or he’ll be asking conundrums all night. I woke up in a fright last night, thinking there was an air-raid, only to find it was that noisy wretch talking to his cousin across the river.”

“Well, if you won’t come,” said the linnet, “there will be all the more for us. Good-night and happy dreams,” as the owl was settling down again into its Cosy Corner.

“Much chance of happy dreams!” he grumbled. “Just listen to the cackle!”

And, sure enough, everything that lived in the wood was having a say on the subject.

The pigeons were planning to be up at the house as soon as it was daylight, and they were telling their children all about it. As a rule they send their little ones to sleep by cooing: “Take two pears, Tommy; take two pears, Tommy; take two more, Tommy, do!”

But, to-day, all they could say was “Oh the Cr-r-rumbs! the Cr-r-rumbs! the Cr-r-rumbs! You’ve no idea how delicious they are!”

Then there was Mr. Rook, who had been left in charge of the children while Mrs. Rook went to visit her sister, who lived across the valley in a lovely grove of oaks. Mrs. Rook had said she would be back before bed-time, and would bring the children something nice for supper if they were good.

But Mr. Rook couldn’t wait till supper-time to tell her the great news. He simply flew to the topmost branch of the tallest tree in the wood and called out “Maud! Ma-aud!! Mau-au-d!!” as loud as ever he could, and Mrs. Rook (whose name was Maud), hearing her husband calling her, was quite sure that one of the little Rooks had fallen out of the nest on top of his head. So she hurried home as fast as her wings could carry her, and entirely forgot to bring any treat for supper!

Great disappointment, of course! For there the children were, with their beaks wide open, expecting her to drop a tit-bit in. Naturally!

“Ah me! It’s a sad world,” was all they could say to each other, when they found their beaks were still open, and nothing doing, because father and mother were simply talking, talking, talking!

Mrs. Robin was also very excited, and only wished her husband would come home so that she could tell him all about it. But he was off, as usual, having a little disagreement with the black and yellow tits.

He said they were not to come hunting caterpillars on his Oak Tree.

They inquired who gave it to him, and what right he had to it more than they?

That was the way the quarrel started. But by the time it wasn’t nearly ended they had found such a number of fresh things to argue about that no one remembered exactly how it began. That’s often the way with squabbles, I’ve noticed!

However, Mrs. Robin didn’t intend the great news to be wasted. At least she would send word to her sister, Mrs. Twitter. Bobbie could take a note, as she couldn’t leave the baby, who was rather delicate. Bobbie, the eldest of the children, was beginning to be quite useful. Though his father said if he would only stop asking questions for one day the world wouldn’t be so short of breath!

Mrs. Robin was a very particular lady, and she liked her children to be well-mannered. She used to say to them, “Of course you can’t sing like your father; he has the most wonderful tenor voice of any robin that ever lived. But at least you can speak nicely.” And in order to show them how to do it, she talked to them in poetry (except when she was in a great hurry and forgot).

Having written a note on the back of a laurel leaf with a pointed twig from a blackthorn tree (and it’s quite easy to do this, you just try), she called Bobbie, and told him exactly how to get to his Aunt Twitter’s house.

This was the way she told him he had to go:

“Round the shady corner

By the hart’s-tongue fern;

Past the bank of strawberries.

Then you take a turn

Down the lane with nut-trees

Where the rabbits play;

Over clover where the bees

Buzz about all day.

When you reach the foxgloves,

Ring their bells and wait.

Auntie will unfasten

The prickly bramble gate.

Say ‘Good-morning’ nicely;

Mind you raise your hat!

And―oh! be sure you wipe your feet

Upon the oak-leaf mat!”

Do you know that robins usually put a few oak leaves for a mat outside their front-door when their nest is made in a bank, or on the ground? They do! So look out for it.