menu_book Chapter 13

CHAPTER XIII. LITTLE HOUSETOP Now as to pigeons, said Hank a few hours later, in a pompous and comfortable voice, Tilda Jane, do you know anything about them? I know they like to be fed regularly, said the little girl reproachfully. Hank gave an unctuous giggle. Ho-ho, Mrs Huffy, because I would have my own supper before I attended to pigeons. Birds and animals have to watch while their masters feed.

But do they like it? she asked keenly. Hank shrugged its shoulders. Not more than we do, I expect. But you know, Tilda, half the world has to wait while the other half feeds, and sometimes they starve while they're waiting. It isn't right, she said decidedly. The Lord made enough to go round. Now you're trying to draw me into a discussion, and I ain't going to be drawn, said Hank. And he spread his arms out on the dining room table and gazed good-naturedly about him,

and then particularly at the pigeon who was sitting stolidly in a basket. Tilda Jane, get me first a newspaper. The little girl handed him one, and he spread it carefully over the red tablecloth. Now cut me a slice of fresh bread and bring it to me on a plate with some boiling water and a kettle. You ain't going to feed that bird boiling water, called Paletta, from the doorway, where she stood wiping a plate on a towel in a slow and dawdling manner.

Not while I'm alive and fighting. Especially fighting, returned Hank. Oh, ain't she a peach! And he shook with suppressed laughter until slow tears formed and rolled down his cheeks. Tilda, he said when he recovered himself, have the water fiery. A slow boil won't do. It must be a jumping one. Hush, Paletta, said Tilda Jane as she passed her on her way to the kitchen. Mr. Hank wouldn't hurt that bird. He's only tweeting you. He doesn't hurt it, grumbled

Paletta, still keeping a wary eye on the mischievous young man. I'd not trust him alone with no bird nor perp. He's all right with horses. Now little Tilda remarked Hank, when she came back, what do you think I'm going to make? I don't know, Hank, she said. Well, get me a saucer full of rolled oats, the kind you use for mush, and you'll see. Tilda Jane ran to the pantry, and when she came back found Paletta in a state of desperation, alternately advancing into the dining room and

retreating to the kitchen, for Hank sat with the little brass water kettle uplifted, as if he were going to pour some of its contents down the pigeon's throat. Hank exclaimed Tilda Jane rebukingly, and becoming sober he said, now sissy, watch, because you'll have to do it yourself next time. See, I pour some water on the slice of bread, enough to soften it. Then I put on rolled oats and mash them together in a sticky mess. Then I knead it with my hand. Look, just as if I was

making bread in the old-fashioned way. Go get me a few grains of rice to put in. Now I'm going to make pills from this dough, and your little lean paws will be better at that than my big ones. Take notice, this way, not brown pills, long ones. Tilda Jane eagerly manipulated her part of the dough, and made several well-shaped long morsels. That's fine, said Hank, now get me a shawl for Pidgey. A shawl, repeated Tilda Jane in surprise. Yes, a cloth, anything to go over his shoulders.

It's pretty warm here, she said, surveying the glowing fire in the stove near them. Hank laughed. It isn't for heat, sissy. Do you suppose that pigeon's going to stand still and let us feed him? No, sir, he would for his father, but not for us. Paletta, give you that dishclout. Glad of an excuse to come into the room, Paletta handed him her towel, and folding it neatly shawl-wise, Hank bounded about the wings of the pigeon, then addressed Tilda Jane. Open his beak,

sissy, not too far, don't throw his head back, let him stand in a natural position. Now dip the pill in water, and slip it gently back in his beak. He will take charge of it going down his throat. Well, well, said Tilda Jane thoughtfully. I never knew that was the way to feed pigeons. I'd have tried it with a spoon. There's another way, said Hank, of letting him feed through your fingers. You know old pigeons feed their young ones by pumping the food down their throats.

Yes, I've seen them out on the barn roof, said Tilda Jane. You spread your fingers apart, continued Hank, and the squab will often help you by gobbling down what you put in his beak. But this fellow's pretty old. I guess pills are better. A pity he isn't younger, if you want to keep him. Why, won't he get tame? asked Tilda Jane. Not as tame as if you'd had him as soon as his eyes were opened. How did you know so much about pigeons? asked the little girl wonderingly. I once

travelled along with a show of them, and I learned a lot. I didn't know you ever belonged to any show, but the creamery business, said Tilda Jane, opening her black eyes wide at him. I didn't, sissy. I just happened to be going from place to place at the same time as this vaudeville affair. There was a man connected with it that had tame pigeons, and whenever he exhibited them, he brought down the house. They were as tame as kittens and did tricks for him, and followed him wherever he

went. How did he make them like him? asked Tilda Jane. That was his secret, sissy. He wouldn't tell anyone, for he said if he did, everyone would be going into the pigeon trick business, but I found out, and a simple enough thing it was. What was it, she inquired eagerly. I said to him one day, Smith, I believe your whole trick is to get those fellows when they're young, and he told me it was. He went to pigeon lofts and chose the birds he wanted, and took them out of the nest before their

eyes were open. He brought them up by hand, and they always thought he was their father. Even after they learned to feed themselves, yes, sissy, he always stood by them, whereas you know an ordinary pigeon throws off one brace of young ones to raise another. The pigeons stood by him, too, and it was cute to see them lie all over him, and rub his face with their beaks, and look in his pockets for seeds. What did he give them to eat? All sorts of grains and seeds. Pigeons don't eat

much green stuff, unless they're obliged to. He was as fussy about their diet as you are about dad's. Nothing was too good for them, and why shouldn't he have looked after them? They brought him in a nice tidy income. Pigeons are dear birds, said Tilda Jane thoughtfully, so big and plump. I'm always afraid to handle little birds. And they're smart, said Hank, why a homing pigeon is as knowing as a dog. Look out there, Tilda. Handy Andy is crawling off of father's knee to get those

pills. Naughty boy, said Tilda Jane, tapping the mischievous brindle paws, stealing from a poor orphan pigeon. Grandpa, who had first watched the feeding of the pigeon with interest, had fallen asleep. Hank gently took the pup from him, and carried him out to the kitchen, where he soon had the little creature engaged in a game of ball. Tilda restored the pigeon to its basket, and lavishing all sorts of blandishments on it, tried in vain to win its confidence. The pigeon sat coldly

and timidly staring at her. No use, sissy, said Hank presently from the doorway. Wait till after you've fed it a few days. Tilda Jane, perforce, had to wait, but day by day the pigeon thawed. He could not resist the affectionate attention bestowed on him, and at the end of a week he would utter hoarse, appealing cries and shake his wings whenever he saw his little loner approaching him. I just love little housetop, Tilda Jane said enthusiastically, but don't be jealous, dogs.

She went on, addressing Poacher and Gippie, who sat dumbly eloquent before her. This birdie slipping into a tiny corner of my heart won't crowd you two dogs nor the puppy, she added, as Handy Andy came dancing into the kitchen, his pink tongue out, his wicked eyes looking for mischief. Poacher and Gippie were sensible enough not to interfere with the pigeon, not so the wild Irish pup lord Scatterbrain. He sprang at it whenever he saw it, caught its tail

feathers between his teeth, forcing Tilda Jane to keep it mostly upstairs, where puppy was not supposed to go. On this particular evening, the pigeon, who spent a good deal of his time sitting on her shoulder, had descended to the kitchen on this his favourite perch. Tilda Jane was just about to go to bed. Hank had retired, and Paletta was tidying the kitchen, preparatory to ascending to her little room. Tilda Jane watched her as she went to and fro, picking up the pup's toys and

pushing the chairs back in their places, straightening things on the shelves and raising the window curtains so that the room would be light when they descended in the morning. She isn't slack, though she is unhandy, said the little girl to herself. Perhaps I ought to tell her. A pat on the back makes the heart light. Paletta, she said aloud, you're getting to be quite a housekeeper. Paletta, who was winding the clock, gave her a peculiar look.

You're glad you came here, aren't you? continued Tilda Jane. It's better than the asylum, isn't it? Better in some ways, worse in others, the big girl said ungraciously. Would you like to go back to the asylum? asked Tilda Jane. No, blurted the other. Back to the asylum? No. Would you like another place? inquired Tilda Jane. We could get you one if we tried. I know you're not happy here. A place? I want a home, Paletta burst forth wrathfully. Ain't I worth it?

It's a pity you can't settle down here, said the little girl with a trace of irritation in her tone. Sometimes you act as if we were all against you. Paletta was talking to herself as she often did. This suited her better than giving a direct answer. Some folks get all the petting. Oh, sweetie, dearie, how spruce you be. Cute little girlie, she ran away, did she, from the wicked asylum. She wanted a happy home, oh my. And Paletta threw back her big head and laughed

hysterically. Paletta was having one of her queer fits and the better way round it would be to leave her. But Tilda Jane, in spite of her two years of peace and plenty, was by no means a model young girl yet. You're all wrong inside, she said hastily. The fault isn't with us, it is with yourself. Paletta stared at her angrily. And at this instant, Hank most unfortunately made his appearance in the stairway, a tumbler in his hand. He was in his shirt sleeves and had been reading in his room

until he became thirsty and had descended for a glass of water. What's going on? he asked, eyeing the two excited girls. Paletta, you look mad enough to bite the stove in two. And she looks mad as a wet, Hank cried the big girl, pointing an accusing finger at Tilda Jane. Tis true, said Hank meditatively. But I bet it's your fault. From Maine to Texas, there couldn't be a woman such a master hand at riling as you. Now you just go to bed and leave Sissy alone.

Paletta drew in her breath. Then, to borrow her own expression, she began to call Hank all the abusive names she could lay her tongue to. At first he was furious until the Jane fell into despair at having precipitated a quarrel between the two persons who usually confine themselves to brief personalities. Paletta for once had lost all fear of Hank, but she soon spoiled the effect of her words by using such peculiar phraseology that Hank from rage passed to amusement, then to ridicule.

What's that you say? he ejaculated suddenly. I'm Womblecropped, what in creation is that? I thought I'd heard fellows laying for each other, but upon my word you out-celebrable any jockey I ever listened to. Where did you get those sweet names Stormyhead? Hold on, I'll make a list. And he pretended to be fumbling in his pocket for pencil and paper. Paletta, in an overpowering, speechless rage, poured the air wildly with her two big hands. Then she rushed from the room and

Tilda Jane, after a few inarticulate remarks, followed her example. Fields clear, I can make for the water faucet, said Hank philosophically. It's lucky I dropped on him when I did, or Big Girl would likely have had little girl's hair all thawed out. Big Girl had better leave, she's too hippopotamacy for us. Tilda Jane, panting breathlessly, had rushed to her room, and pulling aside the curtain at the

window was gazing out at the starlet night. Oh dear, she gasped, I'm all tuckered out and it's my own fault. Temper marched on ahead and I trotted behind. Why didn't I let Paletta alone? She paused and throwing up her window turned first one hot cheek and then the other to the cool night breeze. How many times in her careworn life had she gone to her window at night and gazed out on a sleeping world? She did not know, poor partially educated girl, that she had one

thing in common with the best and greatest of the earth. Dear Mother Nature could always pour balm on her wounds. Weak and frail as she was, she had a great heart and presently she felt calm and soothed by the beneficent influence of the night. Seems as if I lose Paletta when I look up at the stars, she said in an awed voice as she raised her little dark face to the magnificence of the sky. They're so awful quiet. Teacher tells me there are other worlds, maybe there are other Palettas in

them. Oh Lord, I'm only a little girl and I live in a little place and I shouldn't make too much of myself but still I'm somebody. I must do better by Paletta and try to be more loving because she craves affection. I'll try to pretend she's pretty and has got big blue eyes and curly hair. I wish she wasn't so ugly inside and out but she can't help it. Lord bless all the world because Sissacat is only a small bit of it. Make it nicer for the people and the birds and the

animals and don't let folks suffer too much. Kill them quick oh Lord because it's the pain that counts. She fell into a sudden and long silence until a faint musical faraway sound reached her ear. It's Jean Melanchcon she said, coming home singing and her black eyes tried to pierce the darkness of the night in the direction of the singer. Soon the soft wind blowing up the river brought her the words. May God preserve the Canada, though child among the nations,

Mid proudest land, strongest hearts and hands, shall claim for thee a station. Land of the forest and the lake, land of the rushing river, our prayers shall rise for thy dear sake forever and forever. It's just what I said she murmured when the sweet boyish voice was still. There are other nations, those French people don't forget their own land and God loves us all, French people and Americans and English and all the world. If only we could be better. She sighed and gave a long

last look at the sky, the quiet garden and the road. She could not see the river but she felt the soft wind blowing from it and whispering the spring is coming maybe Paletta will be happier when she can get outdoors more. She drew the curtain and began to get ready for bed. It seems as if we might all be happy she solitized as she folded her garments neatly and laid them across a chair. Grandpa is, he's lying in that room downstairs warm and cozy with that frisky pup like a baby at

his feet. He's quiet in his mind now and Hank is cheery as the day is long, his health is good and he stands well with the folks here. I'm happy because I've got dear old Gippy and that sweet and lovely poacher and this cute little house top. And approaching the pigeon she allowed him to rub her cheek affectionately with his beak and out in the barn she continued his milkweed munching on her good sound oats and hay and Ruthanne the cow chewing her cud and the hens next door with their

scaly legs all well and their crops sticking out with good things and the pigeons and sparrows gone to sleep in the nice warm winter houses Hank put up on the side of the barn for them and we've got a hall stove and all the houses like summer and I can sit upstairs and sew a spell when I want to be alone with house top. Only Palletta is ugly and is it our fault or isn't it? Hank says it isn't, that she just has a chip on her shoulder and no one will ever get it away from her. Poor Palletta,

she frets me. Maybe her badness is more my fault than I think and with a disturbed face the little girl mechanically stroked her bird. She thought afterwards with a pang at her heart how especially dear her little pigeon seemed to her that night. He had grown considerably since she got him and surveying his little plump body with pride she went to her closet and took out some of the choice oily hemp seed that Hank had got her as a treat for him. Little house top making a low murmuring

sound of gratitude greedily swallowed the seeds as Tilda Jane put them in his beak and fluttered his wings for more. No no she said gently but you may have a drink of water and she took the mug from her wash stand and held it out to him. He had learned to drink by this time though he could not yet eat and dipping his beak he drank long and heartily and then flew to the big cracker box filled with straw that Hank had got for him. Even after getting into bed it seemed as if Tilda Jane

could not get her bird out of her mind and once she sprang up and moved his box away from the window. Dear Pidgey if you took cold while I was warm in bed I would never forgive myself she said to him. Sleep warm little brother. The bird uttered a gracious coup he had become so fond of her that he would respond to her call any time of the day or night. Tilda Jane soon fell asleep bad dreams disturbed her. She felt that she had done wrong in yielding to a fit of impatience and this knowledge

pursued her though she slept soundly enough not to hear a heavy stealthy footstep in her room an hour later. Poor child her awakening would be sad but this knowledge was mercifully kept from her. End of chapter 13 recording by Shanna Burns