'The manager himself came down first to announce their coming. He asked the foreman of the gang in which my owner worked to see that the visitors were shown everything and were treated politely. And a little later the party itself arrived. There were about six of them altogether, ladies and gentlemen. They all wore long coats with the manager had lent them to protect their fine clothes from the coal dust and dirt. They were greatly impressed by things which to us miners were ordinary, everyday matters. And many were the sarcastic remarks the workers made beneath their breath as their fastidious folks poked around and asked stupid questions.
'Among them was an old lady, a funny, fussy old thing, with a plain but very kind face. She was the first in the party to notice me.
'"Good gracious!" she cried. "A canary! What's he doing here?"
'"He's for the gas, ma'am," said the foreman.
'And then, of course, she wanted to know what that meant and the foreman told her all about it.
'"Good gracious!" she kept saying. "I had no idea they had canaries in coal–mines. How very interesting! But how dreadful for the poor birds! Can I buy this one? I'd just love to have a canary who have lived in a coal–mine."
'My heart jumped. The chance had come at last, a chance to get back into the open air—to a decent life!
'A long talk began between the old lady and the foreman and my owner. My owner said I was a specially good bird for gas, very sensitive and gave warning at the first traces. But the old lady seemed very determined. She really wanted to help me, I think, to give me a better kind of life. But she was also greatly attracted by the idea of having a bird who had lived in a real coal–mine—as a sort of souvenir, perhaps. Also she seemed to have a good deal of money. Because every time my owner shook his head she would offer him a higher price. Till finally she got to ten guineas. Still he refused, and still the old lady went on higher. The workmen stood around listening, gaping with interest. But they weren't half so interested as I was. For on the result of this bargaining my life, or at least my happiness, depended.
'At last, when the bidding had gone to twelve guineas, my owner gave in. I suppose I ought to have felt very proud, for it was a tremendous sum for a canary to cost. But I was much too busy feeling glad to have time for any other kind of sentiment.
'My cage was taken down from the wall and handed to the old lady. She gave the man her address—where he was to come the following day to get his money.
'"Is it a cock? Does it sing?" she asked.
'"I don't know, ma'am," said the man. "I understand it was a cock. But he hasn't sung a single note since he's been with me."
'"I'd like to know who would—here," growled one of the miners.
'"Well, I'll take him anyway," said the woman. "I dare say he'll sing when he gets into the air and sunlight."
'And so ended another chapter in the story of my adventures. For when the old lady, with the rest of the party, took me up in the sliding box I left the lift of a miner behind me for good. I often thought afterwards of those poor wretches toiling away underground and wondered how the other canary got along who took my place. But, oh my, I was glad that for me it was all over and some new kind of a life was in sight!'
'I should think so!' declared the Doctor. 'I've always felt terrible sorry for canaries who were forced to do such disagreeable work.'
'Why must they use birds?' asked Whitey. 'Wouldn't cats do just as well? I'm sure it would be a great relief to know that some of them were shut up in the coal mines.'
The Doctor laughed at the mouse's remark.
'Yes, Whitey,' he said. 'For a mouse or a bird that would be a comfort. But, you see, birds—especially canaries—have a very sensitive respiratory system. They can detect the faintest odour of gas while any other animal would be unconscious of its presence.'
Then the Doctor closed his notebook for the night.
'Dab–Dab,' he said. 'Could we have some cocoa and toast before we go to bed. I feel a bit hungry. How about the rest of you?'
'Hurray!' cried Gub–Gub. 'There's nothing I like better than cocoa and toast—unless it's cauliflower.'
'Cauliflower!' howled Jip. 'That horrible stuff! I'd rather eat horseradish root!'
'That's good, too!' said Gub–Gub, smacking his lips.
'Well, there's not going to be any cauliflower—or horseradish root,' snapped Dab–Dab. 'It will be cocoa and toast—as the Doctor ordered—OR NOTHING!'
So they all sat down to steaming cups of cocoa and heaps of hot buttered toast which they finished to the last drop and crumb. Pippinella, remembering the happy days that followed her miserable sojourn in the mines, sang them a tender lullaby which she had composed while living at Aunt Rosie's house.
8
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.