Wood Magic: A Fable
"It is no use your asking the brook why they come, because even if he
ever knew, he has forgotten. For the brook, though he sparkles so bright
in the sun, and is so clear and sweet, and looks so young, is really so
very, very old that he has quite lost his memory, and cannot remember
what was done yesterday. He did not even know which way the moor-hen
went just now, when I inquired, having a message to send to my relations
by the osier-bed yonder.
"But I have heard the heron say--he is talkative sometimes at night when
you are asleep, dear; he was down here this morning paddling about--that
the birds in the beginning learnt to sing by listening to the brook, and
perhaps that is the reason they pay him such deep respect. Besides,
everybody knows that according to an ancient prophecy which was
delivered by the raven before he left this country, if only the birds
can all bathe in the brook on Midsummer Day and hold their tongues, and
not abuse one another or quarrel, they will be able to compose their
differences, and ever afterwards live happily together.
"Then they could drive away the hawk, for there is only one hawk to ten
thousand finches, and if they only marched shoulder to shoulder all
together they could kill him with ease. They could smother the cat even,
by all coming down at once upon her, or they could carry up a stone and
drop on her head; and as for the crow, that old coward, if he saw them
coming he would take wing at once. But as they cannot agree, the hawk,
and the cat, and the crow do as they like. For the chaffinches all fight
one another, you heard them challenging, and saw them go to battle, and
then when at last they leave off and are good fellows again, they all
flock together and will have nothing to do with the goldfinches, or the
blackbirds. It is true the wood-pigeons, and the rooks, and the
starlings, and the fieldfares and redwings are often about in the same
field, but that is only because they eat the same things; if a hawk
comes they all fly away from each other, and do not unite and fight him
as they might do.
"But if once they could come down to the brook on Midsummer Day, and
never quarrel, then, according to the prophecy I told you of, all this
diversity would cease, and they would be able to do just as they
pleased, and build three or four nests in the summer instead of one, and
drive away and kill all the hawks, and crows, and cats. They tried to do
it, I can't tell you how many years, but they could never succeed, for
there was always a dispute about something, so at last they gave it up,
and it was almost forgotten (for they came to the conclusion that it was
no use to try), till last year, when the mole, the one that spoke to the
grasshopper just now, reminded them of it.
"Now the reason the mole reminded them of it was because one day a hawk
came down too quick for his wife (who was peeping out of doors), and
snapped her up in a minute, so he bore the hawk a grudge, and set about
to seek for vengeance. And as he could not fly or get at the hawk he
thought he would manage it through the other birds. So one morning when
the green woodpecker came down to pick up the ants with his tongue, the
mole looked out and promised to show him where there was a capital
feast, and to turn up the ground for him, if in return he would fly all
round the forest and the fields, and cry shame on the birds for letting
the hawk go on as he did when they could so easily prevent it, just by
holding their tongues one day.
"This the woodpecker promised to do, and after he had feasted off he
went, and having tapped on a tree to call attention, he began to cry
shame upon them, and having a very loud voice he soon let them know his
mind. At which the birds resolved to try again, and, do you know, last
year they very nearly succeeded. For it rained hard all Midsummer Day,
and when the birds came down to the brook they were so bedraggled, and
benumbed, and cold, and unhappy, that they had nothing to say for
themselves, but splashed about in silence, and everything would have
happened just right had not a rook, chancing to pass over, accidentally
dropped something he was carrying in his bill, which fell into the flags
there.
"The starling forgot himself, and remarked he supposed it was an acorn;
when the wood-pigeon called him a donkey, as the acorns were not yet
ripe, nor large enough to eat; and the usual uproar began again. But
afterwards, when they talked it over, they said to each other that, as
they had so nearly done it, it must be quite possible, and next year
they would all hold their tongues as tight as wax, though the sun should
drop out of the sky. Now the hawk, of course, being so high up, circling
round, saw and heard all this, and he was very much alarmed, as they had
so nearly succeeded; and he greatly feared lest next year, what he had
dreaded so long would come to pass, as the raven had foretold.
"So he flew down and took counsel of his ancient friend the weasel. What
they said I cannot tell you, nor has it been found out, but I have no
doubt they made up something wicked between them, and it is greatly to
be regretted that you let the weasel go, for the hawk, sharp as he is,
is not very clever at anything new, and if he had not got the weasel to
advise him I suspect he would not be much after all. We shall see
presently what they have contrived--I am much mistaken if they have not
put their heads together for something. Do you keep quite still, Bevis
dear, when the birds come, and take care and not frighten them."
"I will," said Bevis; "I will be very quiet."
"It is my turn to tell you a story now," said a green flag waving to and
fro in the brook. "The reed has been talking too much."
"No, it is my turn," said a perch from the water under the bank. Bevis
leaned over a little, and could see the bars across his back and sides.
"Hold your tongue," replied the flag; "you ate the roach this morning,
whose silvery scales used to flash like a light under the water."
"I will nibble you," said the perch, very angry. "I will teach you to
tell tales."
"I will ask the willow, he is a very old friend of mine, not to shake
any more insects into the brook for you from his leaves," replied the
flag.
"It was not I who ate the roach," said the perch; "it was the pike,
Bevis dear."
"Indeed it was not," said the pike, coming forward a little from under
some floating weeds, where he had been in hiding, so that Bevis could
now see his long body. "The perch says things that are not true."
"You know you hate me," said the perch; "because your
great-great-grandfather swallowed mine in a rage, and my
great-great-grandfather's spines stuck in your great-great-grandfather's
throat and killed him. And ever since then, Bevis dear, they have done
nothing but tell tales against me. I did not touch the roach; the pike
wanted him, I know, for breakfast."
"I deny it," said the pike; "but if it was not the perch it was the
rat."
"That's false," said the rat; "I have only this minute come down to the
brook. If it was not the pike nor the perch, depend upon it it was the
heron."
"I am sure it was not the heron," said a beautiful drake, who came
swimming down the stream. "I was here as early as any one, and I will
not have my acquaintance the heron accused in his absence. I assure you
it was not the heron."
"Well, who did it then?" said Bevis.
"The fact is," said a frog on the verge of the stream, "they are all as
bad as one another; the perch is a rogue and a thief; the pike is a
monster of iniquity; the heron never misses a chance of gobbling up
somebody; and as for the drake, for all his glossy neck and his innocent
look, he is as ready to pick up anything as the rest."
"Quack," cried the drake in a temper; "quack."
"Hush!" said a tench from the bottom of a deep hole under the bank--he
was always a peacemaker. "Hush! do stop the noise you are making. If you
would only lie quiet in the mud like me, how pleasant you would find
life."
"Bevis," began the reed; "Bevis dear. Ah, ah!" His voice died away, for
as the sun got higher the wind fell, and the reed could only speak while
the wind blew. The flag laughed as the reed was silenced.
"You need not laugh," said the perch; "you can only talk while the water
waggles you. The horse will come down to the brook to-morrow, and bite
off your long green tip, and then you will not be able to start any more
falsehoods about me."
"The birds are coming," said the frog. "I should like to swim across to
the other side, where I can see better, but I am afraid of the pike and
the drake. Bevis dear, fling that piece of dead stick at them."
Bevis picked up the dead stick and flung it at the drake, who hastened
off down the stream; the pike, startled at the splash, darted up the
brook, and the frog swam over in a minute. Then the birds began to come
down to the drinking-place, where the shore shelved very gently, and the
clear shallow water ran over the sandy bottom. They were all in their
very best and brightest feathers, and as the sun shone on them and they
splashed the water and strutted about, Bevis thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful.
They did not all bathe, for some of them were specially permitted only
to drink instead, but they all came, and all in their newest dresses. So
bright was the goldfinch's wing, that the lark, though she did not dare
speak, had no doubt she rouged. The sparrow, brushed and neat, so quiet
and subdued in his brown velvet, looked quite aristocratic among so much
flaunting colour. As for the blackbird, he had carefully washed himself
in the spring before he came to bathe in the brook, and he glanced round
with a bold and defiant air, as much as to say: "There is not one of you
who has so yellow a bill, and so beautiful a black coat as I have". In
the bush the bullfinch, who did not care much to mix with the crowd,
moved restlessly to and fro. The robin looked all the time at Bevis, so
anxious was he for admiration. The wood-pigeon, very consequential,
affected not to see the dove, whom Bevis longed to stroke, but could
not, as he had promised the reed to keep still.
All this time the birds, though they glanced at one another, and those
who were on good terms, like the chaffinch and the greenfinch, exchanged
a nod, had not spoken a word, and the reed, as a puff came, whispered to
Bevis that the prophecy would certainly come to pass, and they would
all be as happy as ever they could be. Why ever did they not make haste
and fly away, now they had all bathed or sipped? The truth was, they
liked to be seen in their best feathers, and none of them could make up
their minds to be the first to go home; so they strutted to and fro in
the sunshine. Bevis, in much excitement, could hardly refrain from
telling them to go.
He looked up into the sky, and there was the hawk, almost up among the
white clouds, soaring round and round, and watching all that was
proceeding. Almost before he could look down again a shadow went by, and
a cuckoo flew along very low, just over the drinking-place.
"Cuckoo!" he cried, "cuckoo! The goldfinch has the prettiest dress," and
off he went.
Now the hawk had bribed the cuckoo, who was his cousin, to do this, and
the cuckoo was not at all unwilling, for he had an interest himself in
keeping the birds divided, so he said that although he had made up his
mind to go on his summer tour, leaving his children to be taken care of
by the wagtail, he would stop a day or two longer, to manage this little
business. No sooner had the cuckoo said this, than there was a most
terrible uproar, and all the birds cried out at once. The blackbird was
so disgusted that he flew straight off, chattering all across the field