Part I Chapter 8 Doctor Dolittle and the Green Canary by Hugh Lofting
Aunt Rosie's House
'At the mouth of the pit,' Pippinella began the next evening, 'there was a sort of cab or hired coach waiting for the old lady. And into this she put me and got in herself. And then we drove a long, long way through the country. I saw at once that she was a kind person, but dreadfully fussy and particular. She kept moving my cage from one part of the cab to another.
'"Little birdie mustn't be in a draught," she would say. And she'd take me off the seat and put me on the floor. But two minutes later she'd lift me up on to her lap.
'"Little birdie getting enough air down there?" she'd ask. "Tweet–tweet! Like to sit on Aunt Rosie's lap and look out of the window? See the corn sprouting in the pretty fields? Doesn't that look nice after living in a coal–mine, little birdie?"
'And it did look nice even thought Aunt Rosie's chatter was tiresome and silly. She meant well. And nothing could have spoiled the beauty of the country for me that morning. Spring was in the air. I had lived through the winter underground, and now when my release had come the hedges were budding and the crops showing green in the plough furrows. Out of the carriage window I saw birds hurrying here and there, in pairs, looking for places to build their nests. I hadn't talked to another bird for months and months. Somehow, for almost the first time since I had left my parents, I felt lonely for company of my own kind. I started to figure out exactly how long it was since I had spoken to another bird. But I was interrupted by Aunt Rosie speaking again.
'"Little birdie sing a song?—Tweet–tweet!"
'And then it flashed upon me that I had been practically dumb ever since I left the Fusiliers. I had sung them my marching song as they tramped to the town where all the fighting had been. I wondered if without practice for so long my voice was still any good at all.
'"Little birdie sing a song?" Aunt Rosie repeated.
'With a flourish of wings I sprang to the top perch and threw back my head to begin The Midget Mascot, but just at that moment two more birds, a thrush and his wife, sped by the carriage window with bits of dried grass hanging from their mouths.
'"I've never built a nest," I thought to myself. "It's spring, and I'm tired of being alone. It must be lots of fun to have a whole family of young ones to bring up. Aunt Rosie doesn't know whether I'm a cock or a hen. If I sing then I'm a cock, so far as she's concerned. But if I don't perhaps she'll decide I'm a hen and get me a mate. Then I'll build a nest the way mother and father used to do. It's worth trying anyway. All right; I'll stay dumb for a while longer."
'The town to which the old lady brought me in her cab was very different from the one we had left. It was what is called a cathedral town. Here no factories blackened the air with smoke or poisoned the trees with bad air. Here no droves of pale–faced workers hurried the underground in the early morning and dragged their weary bodies up again at night. In this town all was peace and leisured, comfortable life. The old, old cathedral rose in the centre of it, grey against the sky, and choughs and crows circled around it and built their nests in the belfry tower. Soft–toned, deep–voiced bells rolled out the hours through the day, chiming a pleasant little tune at all the quarters. There were lots of nice gardens and old houses, substantial and well built—and all different style.
'The front of Aunt Rosie's house was right on a street, but it had a fine garden at the back. It was the kind of house and the kind of street that she would live in. When my cage was first hung in the window I noticed two peculiar things. One was that the other window to the same room had a small mirror fixed outside of it on a little bracket. I wondered what this was for at first. But later on, when the old lady sat in her armchair and did her knitting, I saw that it was for watching the neighbours. From where she sat she could, in the mirror, see who was coming down the street. And I noticed that several houses across the way had similar arrangements fixed outside the windows. Apparently watching the neighbours pass while you did your needlework was a favourite occupation in this town. It was the kind of town where people had time to sit at their windows.
'The other thing that I observed was a street lamp outside, close to the wall of Aunt Rosie's house. It was not more than a few feet from the bottom of my cage. And every evening an old lamplighter would hobble round with a ladder and climb up and light this lamp, and in the very early morning he'd come and put it out. The light used to shine right into the room—even though the blind. It kept me awake the first few nights—until the old lady noticed that it disturbed me. Then she always put the cover over my cage as soon as the street lamp was lit. She embroidered a special one herself, made of heavy dark stuff, so that the light wouldn't shine through.
'I made a number of quite interesting friends while I stayed at Aunt Rosie's house. And the hobbling lamplighter was one of them. I never talked to him. But his arrival every night and morning was a regular and pleasant thing to make a note of. Life generally here moved along regular and pleasant lines.
'The old lady had lots of friends, all women. Several times a week they would come in to take tea with her, and they always brought their sewing with them. And so every new lot that came Aunt Rosie told the story over again of how she had bought me out of a coal–mine, way down under the earth. Then they'd gather round my cage and gaze at me.
'All through this I still kept mum and never a note did I sing, though often enough I felt like it, with the trees in the street growing greener every day and spring coming on in leaps and bounds. It was a nice place I had come to. But I wanted company of my own kind. And I was determined I wouldn't sing till the old lady got me a mate.
'It was on one of these sewing–circle occasions that a very peculiar incident occurred. Aunt Rosie was telling my story to a new group of women friends; when one of them stepped forward and peered closely at me through the bars of my cage. Although her face seemed familiar I couldn't, at first, remember where I'd seen her before. But suddenly, because of a queer way she had of squinting one eye when she looked at me, it came to me.
'She was the wife of one of my gallant Fusiliers!
'I forgot all about my determination not to sing and burst out with The Midget Mascot song.
'Aunt Rosie was so astonished to hear me sing that all she could say was:
'"Why, good gracious! My birdie is singing!"
'"Of course she's singing!" declared the woman. "She's one of the finest songstresses in the country!"
'"How do you know that?" asked Aunt Rosie, looking very puzzle indeed.
'"Because this is the same bird that belonged to my husband's regiment," replied the woman. "He told me before he went off to India that she'd disappeared during the mine riots and that no one had seen her again. Naturally the whole regiment assumed she'd been killed…. I do declare!" she muttered. "This is the strangest thing I've ever seen."
'By this time Aunt Rosie was as excited as the woman was.
'"Are you sure it's the same one?" she asked. "You know, I found him working in a miserable coal–mine. It cost me twelve guineas to get that miner fellow to give him up."
'"He's not a he," the woman said, laughing. "He's a she! And her name is Pippinella."
'"Pippinella!" cried Aunt Rosie. "What a beautiful name. But if it's a hen how is it that she sings? I always understood hens couldn't sing."
'"Nonsense!" declared the woman. "Hens sing just as well as cocks.—Especially this one."
'Well,' Pippinella continued, 'I was glad at last to be identified. For a long time now I had been called Dick or Birdie—or just simply "it". But, of course, now I had to worry about Aunt Rosie discovering I could sing. How would I ever make her understand that I wanted a companion of my own kind?
'But it came about quite simply. I suppose I must have got to look rather sad and mopey after a while. It wasn't intentional, but the old lady noticed it. For one day, when she took the cover off my cage and gave me seed and water, I was delighted to hear her say:
'"Dear, dear, tut–tut–tut! How sad we look this morning. Maybe my little Pippinella wants a mate. Yes? All right. Aunt Rosie will got and let her another little birdie to talk to!"
'Then she put on her bonnet and went off to the animal shop to get me a husband. Well, I wish you could have seen the husband she brought back.'
Pippinella closed her eyes and shrugged up the shoulders of her wings.
'He was a fool—a perfect fool! I've never seen such a stupid bird in my life. The old lady supplied us with cotton wool and other stuffs to build a nest with. Now, building a nest in a cage is a very simple matter, provided the cage is big enough. And ours was amply large. My new husband—his name was Twink—said he knew all about it. We set to work. He didn't agree with anything I did; and I didn't agree with anything he did. And then he'd argue with me—my goodness, how he argued! Just as though he knew, you know! First it was about the position of the nest. I'd get in half done in one corner of the cage, and then he'd put his empty head on one side and say:
'"No, my dear, I don't think that's a good place. The light will shine too much in the children's eyes. Let's put it over in this corner."
'And he'd want to pull it all down and rebuild it the other side of the cage. And the next time it would be the way the inside was lined. Even when I was sitting in the nest he'd come fussing around, pulling bits out here and there—right from under me.
'Finally I saw that if I was ever going to get a brood raised at all that year I had better just rule him out of the building altogether. Then we had a violent row, during which he pecked me on the head and I knocked him off the perch. But I won my point. I told him that if he touched the nest again I wouldn't lay a single egg.
'But one thing must be said for Twink. And that was that he had a marvellous voice.'
'Better than your own?' asked the Doctor.
'Oh, by far,' said Pippinella. 'In the upper register—well, it almost seemed at times as if there wasn't any note he couldn't reach. And even in the bass his tones were wonderfully clear and full. Of course, like all husbands, he didn't care to have his wife sing. But, as a matter of fact, I never attempted to compete with him, because when eggs and youngsters have to be looked after we women don't get much time for it.
'And Aunt Rosie may not have known a great deal about canaries, but she knew enough to see that I got quiet and peace during setting time. She kept the cover on, half over the cage, even during the day, so that I shouldn't be disturbed by what was going on in the room. The only direction I could see in was outward, through the window. It was an ideal town anyway for hatching eggs—so restful. Nothing ever happened in the street more exciting than the regular visits of the old hobbling lamplighter, the arrival of the muffin–seller, with his bell and tray, or an occasional organ–grinder, who stopped before the house and ground out wheezy tunes till Twink sang songs to drown his sour music.
'So, while Aunt Rosie sat at her window and over her needlework watched the neighbours pass, I sat at mine and over the hatching of the eggs watched the leaves on the shady trees grow greener and denser—watched the spring turning into the summer. And every time the old lamplighter put the lamp out in the morning I'd say to myself: "Well, that's another day gone. I have only so many left now before the children will break open their shells."
'There was great excitement the day when our family at last appeared. They were five strong, healthy birds. Aunt Rosie was even more thrilled and worked up than we were. Ten times a day she would come to the nest and peer in; and every group of her friends who visited her would also be brought to have a look. And they all said the same things: "Oh, my, aren't they ugly!" Goodness! I don't know what they expected newborn birds to look like, I'm sure. Maybe they thought they ought to be hatched out with bonnets and capes on.
'It was now that the real work began for me and my husband. Feeding five hungry children is a big job—even when there are two of you at it. Aunt Rosie used to bring us chopped eggs and biscuit crumbs six times a day. Each lot only lasted about an hour and a quarter, for we had to shovel it into those hungry mouths every thirty minutes. And then there was the lettuce and apple and other green stuff which had to be given them as well.
'But it was lots of fun, even if it was hard work. Twink, I found, after the nest–building problems were over, was not nearly so stupid and irritating. We got along very well together. He used to sit on the edge of the nest and sing to me when I was keeping the children warm between meals, and many were the beautiful lullabies he made up.
'When the brood was strong enough to leave the nest we both felt awfully proud with the five hulking youngsters crowding on the perch, all in a row beside us. Of course, they quarrelled, the way children will, and the two biggest tried to bully it over the rest. Twink and I had our hands full keeping them in order, I can tell you. With seven full–grown birds in it, the cage was now none too big.
'Well, the day came when Aunt Rosie decided she would have to part with some of the family. Many of her friends wanted canaries, and one by one my children went off to new homes, till finally only Twink and I were left. And then because one of her friends had told the old lady that cocks sing better if they are alone (which is perfectly true) she gave Twink a separate cage and put him in another room.
'So towards the end of the summer I found myself alone again, now watching the leaves turn brown on the shade trees in the street. The old lamplighter used to come earlier in the evenings now and later in the mornings, because the days were shorter and the nights longer. A swallow had built her nest under the eaves of the roof, just above my window. During the course of the summer I had watched her hatch out two broods and teach them to fly. Now I saw her with many of her friends, gathering and chattering and skimming around the house. They were getting ready to fly south to avoid the cold of the coming winter. I wondered what adventures and strange things they would see on their long trip. And once more I had a vague sort of hankering for a free life which would let me wander where I would.
'For a whole day the swallows kept gathering, more and more arriving all the time. I could not see them sitting on the gutters of the roof, because it was out of sight from my window, but I could hear them twittering, making no end of noise. And the top of the street lamp was covered with them. In tight–packed rows, their white breasts framed the edges of it, presenting a very pretty picture. Seeing them made me feel like travelling, the way people going off always does.
'At last, with a great farewell fluttering and whistling, they took to the air and set off on their journey. I felt rather sad in the silence that they left behind. But presently through the window I saw Aunt Rosie's white Persian cat slinking along the street with a bird in her mouth. And once more I was reminded of the security and comfort I enjoyed as a cage bird; once more I consoled myself, as the old man came and lit the lamp, that a quiet, stay–at–home, regular life had its compensations. Who knows whether, if Twink and I had built our nest in some forest or hedgerow, instead of raising our brood to fine healthy growth, we would not have seen our children carried off before our very eyes by some prowling cat?'