Virginia Sharpe Patterson - Dickey Downy

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How my heart sickened as I gazed at these pleasant, refined,
soft-voiced women flaunting the trophies of their cruelty in the
beautiful sunlight.

Had they no compassion for the feathered mother who had been robbed of
her young for the sake of a hat?

"Oh, how can they do such dreadful, such wicked things!" I moaned. My
mother heard my lament and signaled for us to come up where she was
perching.

"You see now who are our worst enemies," said she. "The cat preys on
us to satisfy his bodily hunger, but women have no such excuse. We are
not slaughtered to sustain their lives but to minister to their vanity.
For years the women of Christian lands have waged their unholy war
against us. We have been driven from our old haunts and forced to seek
new places. We have been shot down by thousands every season until now
many species are destroyed from the face of the earth. There is no
security for us in any place. The hunter with his gun penetrates into
the deepest forests, he perils his life in scaling the most dangerous
cliffs, he wades through bog and marsh and mud and tracks us to our
feeding grounds to surprise us with the deadly shot, and kills the
mother hovering over the nest of her helpless offspring with as little
compunction as if she were a poisonous reptile instead of a melodious
joy-giver. And all this horrible slaughter is for women."

I grew feverish with excitement at this terrible arraignment of the
"gentler sex."

"But why are they so cruel? Why do they do this wicked thing?" I asked.

"For the sake of Fashion," said my mother.

"Fashion, what is that?"

My mother was very patient with me, so when I asked questions she did
not put me off by telling me she didn't know, or advise me to fly away
and play, or tell me she was busy and couldn't be bothered just then,
therefore she now took pains to make me understand.

"You ask me what is Fashion," she began. "Well, Fashion is an exacting
ruler, a great, tyrannical god who has many, many worshipers, and these
he rules with an iron hand. His followers cannot be induced to do
anything contrary to his wishes. He sits on a high throne from which
he dictates to his slaves what they must do. Often they do the most
outrageous things, not because they like to, but because he demands it.
He is constantly laying down new laws for their guidance, and some of
these laws are so unreasonable and absurd that a part of his followers
frequently threaten to rebel. They do not hold out against him long,
for he manages to make it quite unpleasant for those who disobey him or
refuse to come under his yoke."

"Has he any men slaves?" asked my brother.

"Yes, he has some slaves among men, but the larger number of those who
wear his most galling fetters are women. If he but crooks his little
finger these bond-women rush pell-mell in the direction he points.
They are thus keen to do his bidding, because each woman who is the
first to carry out his rules in her own particular town or neighborhood
acquires great distinction in the eyes of the other worshipers."

"His slaves are nearly always rich women, aren't they?" asked my
brother.

"By no means. Many of them are poor working women who have to labor
hard for a living. But they will rob themselves of necessities and
needed rest to get the means to follow his demands. Often it takes
them a long time to do this, and perhaps just as they have accomplished
the weary task he suddenly proclaims a new law, and all this toiling
and drudging and stinting must begin over again. In this way the
unhappy creatures have never a breathing spell. It is utterly
impossible for them to conform to the new law when it is first
proclaimed by the god, and so they are always struggling to keep up.
Their chains are never lifted or lightened a particle."

"If the chain is so heavy why don't they break it?" I asked impatiently.

"Because they are afraid," she replied.

"Afraid of the god?"

"No, no, child, they are afraid of each other. They are afraid the
richer slaves, who are able to comply with the demands will laugh at
them and ridicule them, and that is why they strain every nerve to
follow the god's wishes. A slave, whether she is rich or poor, grows
more cringing year by year, until at last she loses all her
individuality, and becomes a mere echo of the god."

"What about the slaves who rebel at first and afterward yield?"

"Oh, they denounce the god very severely when he lays down some new law
they don't happen to like, but as all the other slaves are obediently
complying with it they dislike to be set off by themselves as
different, and so they reluctantly give in after a time. Sometimes
they try to compromise with the god by going half-way."

I inquired what the other slaves thought of that.

"They mildly tolerate them," said she. "Sometimes they look askance at
them when they meet, and try to show their superiority as being
obedient, full-blooded, genuine slaves, while the others are only
lukewarm servants of the monarch!"

I wondered how the slaves regarded the woman who was independent and
wouldn't worship the god.

My mother twittered softly at my question, and I knew she was smiling
to herself. "Why," said she, "they call that kind of a woman a
crank--whatever that is."

It was very evident that this god Fashion was a cruel tyrant, and it
was clearly through his influence that we were killed, and I so told my
mother. She looked very sorrowful as she replied:

"Yes, the women do not hate us. They do not dislike to hear our pretty
songs; they have no revenge to gratify; but the god orders them to have
us killed, and they do it. He tells them that to wear our poor
mutilated dead bodies will add to their appearance, and so we are
sacrificed on the altar of their vanity and silly pride. As members of
humane societies women have denounced the docking of horses' tails as
cruel, but from what I know of woman's indifference to the sufferings
of the innocent birds, I venture to assert that were Fashion to say
that she should trim her cloak with horse tails there would not be left
an undocked horse in the country."

I knew my mother was very excited or she would never have been so
vehement.

"Just hear how those birds twitter," remarked one of the ladies,
looking up into our tree. "One would think they were holding an
indignation meeting over something."

"Yes, the dear little things; I love to hear them chirp," commented
Miss Katie, turning a sweet glance toward us, and then the party moved
to go and we saw the six hats loaded with their mournful freight file
off to the house. We followed the retreating hats with sad eyes till
they were lost to view.

My brother broke the silence by asking, "Are there any Christian women
who wear birds, and are among the god's worshipers?"

My mother's manner grew very grave and solemn. "That is not for me to
say," she replied. "They know whether they are guiltless of our
wholesale slaughter, and they know too, how the gentle, merciful Christ
regarded us when he declared that 'not a sparrow is forgotten before
God.'"

CHAPTER IV

DICKEY'S COUSINS

Another of my airy creatures breathes such sweet music out of her
little instrumental throat that it might make mankind to think that
miracles are not ceased. We might well be lifted up above the earth
and say, Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven,
when thou affordest bad men such music on earth?--_Izaak Walton._

The fine pasture adjoining was a popular resort for some handsome birds
that often visited it as a playground. They were said to be relatives
of ours, but I do not think they were closer than seventh or eighth
cousins, which is so distant that it doesn't count--especially if one
doesn't want it to.

All I know is that their family name was the same as ours, _Icteridae_,
and means something or other, I forget what. It was a good honorable
name, however, and our branch was as proud of our ancestry as any
Daughter of the American Revolution could possibly be.

There were some tall weeds growing along the margin of a little stream
in the pasture which produced quantities of delicious seeds, and to
these we often repaired when we wanted a choice breakfast, as well as
to watch the playful pastimes of these queer bipeds.

What would you think of a bird taking a bareback ride on a cow? They
were extremely fond of settling themselves on the cattle which browsed
in the field and presented a truly comical picture as they complacently
gathered in little groups on the backs of those huge animals. Moving
slowly along munching the dewy grass, first on one side, then on the
other, the cows did not seem particularly to mind their saucy bareback
riders. Occasionally they would toss their heads backward, when up all
the birds would fly into the air only to descend again as soon as the
cattle were quiet.

As I said, they were very handsome. At a short distance they looked to
be clothed in black, but the breast and neck were really a very rich
brown, with the rest of the body like jet and as lustrous as satin.
They were not general favorites with the other birds on account of some
dishonorable tricks which they did on the sly. For instance, they
never troubled themselves to make nests, but watched their chance to
sneak in and lay their eggs, only one in a place, in the nests of other
birds. For some reason their eggs always hatch a little sooner than
the eggs rightfully belonging there, consequently the foster-parents,
not knowing of the deception, are quite delighted with the first little
one that comes out of the shell, and immediately fly off to get food
for it. This is very unfortunate, for during their absence their own
eggs get cold and will not hatch. After a time the old birds grow
disgusted and tumble the poor eggs all out of the nest and bestow their
whole attention to the juvenile cowbird, entirely ignorant of the fact
that they are the victims of a "put-up job."

Once when we were dining in the pasture we found out the cause of the
booming noise we had often heard sounding through the woods. Two men,
each carrying in his hand a long club, shaped large at one end,
appeared in the meadow and began looking among the long grasses which
sheltered the nests of some meadow larks. A number of the larks were
on the wing, others sat on the rail fence rolling out cadenzas in
concert in a gush of melody from their downy throats. The men moved
cautiously nearer under cover of the weeds. Raising their long clubs
to their shoulders they gazed along their narrow points a moment.
Without exactly knowing why, we took alarm, and larks, bobolinks, and
cowbirds sped upward like the wind. At the same instant something
bright shimmered in the sunlight, and with it a horrid burst of noise
and a puff of smoke. We did not all get away, for some of the
beautiful larks fell to the ground pierced by the sportsman's deadly
hail.

Again and again, all through that long, sad day we heard the ominous
booming crash, and knew the savage work of killing was going on.

Among our acquaintances was a lame redbird who at one time had been
trapped and made a prisoner, confined behind the bars of a wire cell
for many weeks and months. Luckily he made his escape one day when his
grated door was accidentally opened, and he speedily made his way back
to his dearly loved forest.

During the period of his imprisonment in the city he had picked up a
great deal of information regarding the bird trade, and some of the
facts recited by him of the terrible cruelties perpetrated and the
carnage which had been going on for years, almost caused our feathers
to stand upright in horror as we listened.

CHAPTER V

"DON'T, JOHNNY"

Farewell happy fields, where Joy forever dwells.
--_Milton._

A very pleasant, sociable fellow was this redbird, and often when on
hot afternoons we were hiding in the treetops from the rays of the sun
he told us stories and anecdotes about the people he had seen while he
lived in the city.

He and his brother had been caught in a trap in the woods set by a
farmer's boy. One cold spring morning when the boy came to look at his
trap he was overjoyed to find he had snared two redbirds, and forthwith
carried them to the village nearby and sold them to the grocer for five
cents apiece, which sum he said he was going to invest in a rubber ball.

As he put the dime into his coat pocket he told the man that one of the
birds was named Admiral Dewey and the other Napoleon Bonaparte. The
groceryman agreed that these names were good enough names for anybody,
but he thought he'd change Bonaparte's name to Teddy Roosevelt, as
being easier to pronounce, and the two birds were accordingly given
these titles then and there. Not having any cage at hand to put them
in, the man thought that for a few days the new-comers could share the
quarters of an old sparrow he had in the rear end of the store until an
extra cage could be procured.

But alas for Teddy Roosevelt! The very first night he was
ignominiously whipped by the spiteful occupant of the cage, who
resented having these country visitors thrust into his house without
his leave. Poor Teddy died the next day. Admiral Dewey stood the
battle better than his unfortunate friend, but he too was pecked at in
a way so threatening that the groceryman concluded it would be wise to
get rid of him immediately. Because the admiral had not defended
himself better from his pet's attack, the grocer regarded him with some
disgust.

"Being as there was two of you and only one of the sparrow, 'pears as
if you hadn't much grit," he said. "I would better take your
high-soundin' name away from you and call you something else besides
Dewey, if you can't fight."

For all the man's censure, the redbird knew that if Teddy Roosevelt had
killed the sparrow instead of being killed by it, the grocer would have
been much more grieved at the loss, for he had heard him say the
sparrow was like one of his family. The man forgot that the result
might have been different if the redbirds had been older.

Having decided to dispose of the admiral, the grocer, who had an errand
in the city the next day, carried the bird with him. He knew of a
probable customer for it in a gentleman named Morris, who had been
advertising in the papers for a redbird. He soon found the street and
number where was located the gentleman's office, at which the
advertisement was to be answered, and displayed the admiral.

"Your bird looks kind of ragged, as though he hadn't been treated
well," said Mr. Morris, as he examined the scarlet plumage. "My boy
wants a redbird, and I promised him one if he would get the highest
grade in arithmetic in his class this term and he did it, so of course
I must keep my word. What d'ye ask for this bird?"

"He'd be cheap at five dollars," answered the groceryman. "A nice
redbird is hard to get, and they're powerful nice singers, but bein' as
it's for your boy that has earned it by studying his lessons so good--I
always like a boy that is fond of his books--you can have it for two
dollars and a quarter."

As he had paid but five cents for it this advance in price would be a
fine business speculation. After a little further talk, Mr. Morris
counted out the money, and the man went back to his home doubtless
wishing he had a hundred more redbirds to sell at the same handsome
profit. After he had gone, Mr. Morris went to a box hanging against
the wall, and turning a handle began talking to the box as if it were a
human being. Though it was just a plain wooden box, the admiral said
there was something mysterious about it, for Mr. Morris actually seemed
to be carrying on a conversation with it, though the bird could not
hear what the box answered, but he felt sure it talked back.

Mr. Morris' residence was a fine stone house with wide porches and
sunny bay windows, over which were trained graceful creeping vines. A
boy of about eleven years of age and a very pretty lady stood arm in
arm on the broad steps leading up to the front entrance that evening
when Mr. Morris and the admiral arrived. They were Johnny Morris and
his mother, who had already learned that Mr. Morris had bought the bird
and would bring it when he came to dinner. The admiral discovered the
next day that Mrs. Morris owned a box like the one at the office, into
which she talked, and that it was called a telephone. He often
mentioned this mysterious box as one of the most remarkable things he
saw during his stay among men.

Johnny Morris capered and danced and jumped so hard in the exuberance
of his joy at receiving the redbird that all the way to the sitting
room his mother was coaxing him to be quiet.

"Don't act so foolishly," she begged; but he only capered and kicked up
his heels still harder. When the cage was placed on a stand in the bay
window he pranced around it, whistled and chirped, threw the bottom of
the cage floor full of seed and splashed the water about so recklessly
in his attempts to be friendly as nearly to frighten the poor admiral
to pieces.

"Now, Johnny, don't," pleaded his mother.

"Johnny, don't do that," commanded his father every few minutes.

It was a constant "Don't, Johnny, do this" and "Don't, Johnny, do
that," until, the admiral said, the conversation was so mixed up with
"Don't-Johnny's" as made it almost unintelligible. Of course these
expostulations made not a bit of impression on Johnny Morris. To be
sure, he might stop for the moment, but the next second he was doing
something else which brought a fresh round of "Don't-Johnny's" from
each parent.

He was such a generous, affectionate, pretty boy, with his rosy cheeks
and wavy yellow hair, it was a great pity that he should keep a whole
household in a state of constant commotion by his habit of not promptly
minding when he was spoken to. His father and mother were very
indulgent to him, and the admiral believed he had every kind of a toy
known to the boy world. He also had a machine to ride on, which they
called a "wheel." On this he went out occasionally, although Mrs.
Morris declared she never felt at ease a minute while he was gone,
because he never came back at the hour he promised he would. Besides
this, he had a dear little pony, named Jock, on whose back he often
cantered about the big park. Frequently from the bay window the
admiral watched him as he mounted Jock and rode away, while his mother
stood on the house step and called after him as long as he was in
sight: "Don't ride in that reckless way, Johnny; you'll tumble off," or
"Don't, Johnny; the pony will throw you," at which Johnny would laugh
and make the pony go faster.

Among the boy's other possessions was a parrot, which the admiral
asserted was the smartest bird in the world. She was a highly educated
parrot, and much time had been spent on her training, and she was
usually very willing to show off to company all her various
accomplishments. Occasionally she assumed an air of offended dignity
when asked to display her talents, and no amount of threats or coaxing
could change her purpose. At such times she impatiently flapped her
wings and croaked "No, no" in her harshest tones.

Her favorite retreat when her temper was ruffled was on the back of an
armchair, where she would sit with her bill in the air and her head
cocked disdainfully on one side, pretending not to hear or see any one.
In her affable moods, however, no one could be more complaisant and
entertaining than Bessie.

Her name was an uncommon one for a parrot. Strangers usually accosted
her as Polly, at which mistake she was greatly displeased.

"No, no--not Polly; call me Bessie," she would scream, so angrily that
it always made people laugh, which angered her still more.

Bessie could sing a verse of an old-time song, at least she thought she
could. The admiral said nothing could have induced him to sing for
company if his voice had been as harsh and cracked as hers, but he said
it was a fact that everybody seemed to enjoy her noise more than his
music; that when she took up her position on top of the piano to sing,
they crowded around and called her "nice Bessie," "nice lady," and
praised her, and gave her bits of sugar, as if she were the finest
singer in the world. The admiral thought they showed very poor taste,
for her music was simply horrid and couldn't compare with the warblings
of the woods birds. It is well, however, to make allowance for the
admiral's opinion, for musicians are proverbially jealous of each other.

The song the parrot sang was "Listen to the Mocking Bird," to which
Mrs. Morris played a little gliding accompaniment on the piano. Great
hand-clappings always followed the performance. These Bessie accepted
with an air of studied indifference. But if for the purpose of teasing
her they did not applaud her performance, she shrilly screamed:
"Bessie's a good bird, a good bird I tell you," raising her voice
higher and higher at each repetition.

Then she would wait a moment for some one to assure her that she was
indeed a very good bird, quite the smartest bird that ever breathed.
But if these soothing assurances were not quickly forthcoming, she
would retire to the back of her favorite chair and, elevating her bill
to show her disdain, sulk in silence.

"Did she like you?" I asked the admiral one day when he was telling us
about her funny tricks.

"No, she was a little bit jealous of me; yet she was not unfriendly,
except when Johnny or some other member of the family paid me
attention. She always wanted to be the center of attraction herself,
which showed she was a vain creature. No matter how silent she had
been or how firmly she might have refused to talk only the minute
before, if Johnny came to my cage and called, 'Hello, Admiral! you're a
daisy,' Bessie immediately struck up such a chattering as would almost
deafen one.

"'Johnny dear, open my cage. I want to take a walk,' she would say in
her most coaxing manner. If she happened to be already out of her cage
and walking about the room, she endeavored to get him to leave me by
saying: 'Here, Johnny, boy, put me on your finger. Kiss poor
Bessie--p-o-o-r Bessie.'

"Mrs. Morris used to laugh at these schemes of the parrot to attract
notice, and said Bessie reminded her of some people she had met who
always wanted to monopolize the conversation."

"Monopolize?" said I. "That's a large word. I don't know the meaning
of it."

"Well, I think it means getting the most of anything and crowding other
people out," replied the admiral; "and it was true in Bessie's case,
for she always wanted the most attention. A gentleman friend of the
Morrises had this habit too. He had been a general in a war that took
place in the South a good many years ago, and was often entertained at
dinner at the Morrises'. Though he was a well-informed, genial man, he
was almost rude in making himself heard, so determined was he that
people should listen to his jokes and stories, which were generally
something about himself. At a large tableful of guests, General
Peterson's voice was always heard above that of every one else. He
seemed to compel the rest of the company to listen. His big voice
drowned the others out. Though Mr. and Mrs. Morris liked him very
much, when they were alone they often ridiculed this disagreeable habit.

"'Bessie and General Peterson are just alike,' Mrs. Morris used to say
jokingly, when the parrot pushed herself into notice by her loud
jabbering. 'Neither of them can endure to have any one else receive
attention when they are present.'

"Although Bessie had not a pony to ride on as Johnny had, she took a
great many jaunts around the parlors on the cat's back. This cat was a
great pet in the house. A very striking-looking cat he was too. He
was jet black with a flat face and long white whiskers. Johnny always
said he resembled an old colored man who used to be their coachman, and
he wondered if they were any relation to each other.

"When Bessie was out of her cage the cat did not often visit the
parlor, because he was afraid of her. He always appeared to be much
relieved when she did not notice him. If she had decided to take a
ride, however, he never was quick enough to get away from her. With a
shrill laugh of triumph she would fly upon his back, and holding on by
digging her claws into his fur, around and around the room they would
go, the poor cat feeling so completely disgraced that he dragged his
body lower and lower at every step, until his legs could scarcely be
seen at all.

"Bessie enjoyed it greatly. She seemed to take a wicked satisfaction
in making poor Jett ridiculous, and laughed and chuckled and scolded
till the cat looked as if he were ready to drop from very shame.
Urging him on with, 'Get up, get up, you lazy thing,' she refused to be
shaken off till his body was actually dragging on the floor, a sign of
his complete humiliation. As soon as he threw off his unwelcome
burden, Jett always ran away to hide. With his tail slinking, his ears
drooping, and crawling rather than walking, he was the most
abject-looking, miserable cat in existence. Bessie meanwhile flirted
herself saucily and chuckled with the conscious air of having done a
very smart thing."

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