Peggy Raymond's Vacation Part 24

"Oh, birds!" The boy's face lighted up. "Birds is different. They've got their own way of doing things, and one kind ain't any more like another than folks is. You ought to see a pair of old birds teaching a young one to fly. If he hasn't got s.p.u.n.k enough to get out of the nest himself, they'll push him over, and then they'll fly around him, and keep on talking and talking and saying how easy it is, and show him how. And then when he tries they praise him up, as if he was a perfect wonder, and he begins to think he's pretty smart himself." Jerry chuckled, as if recalling such a scene as he was so vividly describing, and Peggy watched him thoughtfully but without speaking. She had learned long before that Jerry was most likely to discuss the subjects nearest his heart when stimulated by silent attention.

"Some people talk as if folks was the only things with sense," Jerry continued, "but seems to me they've got about the least. Why, you can't lose a bird or a bee. And the orneriest little spider knows enough to play dead if you poke him. Inside he's pretty near scared to death, but he's got too much sense to cut and run the way a man would. He curls up his legs, and makes himself look withered up, so you'll say, 'Oh, shucks! he's dead already. What's the use of killing him over again?'"

Peggy's smile proved her to be paying close attention, and Jerry went on. "Now, most folks think one bird's as good as another. Why, there's thieves and robbers among birds same as men. A blue-jay's one of the worst, and my, how the other birds hate him! Once I saw a whole crowd of 'em chasing a jay. It was a reg'lar bird mob, all kinds in it, thrushes and cat-birds, and robins, and song-sparrows. They were all small birds 'longside of the jay, but together they were too much for him, I can tell you. And he dodged and ducked around till he see 'twasn't no use, and then he dropped what he'd stole and they let him go."

"And what had he stolen?" asked Peggy.

"A little bird just hatched out of some nest. You needn't tell me that birds don't have a language. The father and mother, they hollered to some of their neighbors that a jay was 'round kidnapping, and the chase started. And every bird they met, they'd say, 'Come on, boys! Let's make it hot for this old robber.' And they did too." Jerry caught himself up, and cast a suspicious glance at Peggy's attentive face. He had early learned to keep to himself the dialogues he imagined as taking place between his friends of field and forest, as any attempts at confidence on his part had invariably called out derision or reproof. He was glad to a.s.sure himself that Peggy was listening respectfully, though he realized that her silence had lured him on to say much more than he had intended.

"Jerry," remarked Peggy, breaking the brief pause that had fallen between them, "did you ever hear of Audubon?"

"What's that? Do you mean the language for everybody to learn, so that j.a.ps and Dagoes and us folks can talk together, same as if we'd been raised 'longside each other?"

"Oh, no! That's Volapuk you're talking about, Jerry. Audubon was a man."

"Oh!" Apparently Jerry had lost interest.

"And the reason I wondered if you knew about him is that sometimes you remind me of him."

"Oh!" And the change in Jerry's inflection showed the change in his mental att.i.tude.

"Yes, he loved birds just as you do. d.i.c.k had to write a composition about Audubon last spring, and I helped him in reading up for it. That's how I happen to know so much about him."

With this preface Peggy began. The life of the great ornithologist would need to be told very unsympathetically, not to be a dramatic and appealing recital. The story of the enthusiast who found no toil irksome which furthered his research, however unreliable he might prove in the humdrum occupation of earning a livelihood, was calculated to impress the boy who realized that his matter-of-fact neighbors had long before catalogued him as a thriftless ne'er-do-well. The great man's hards.h.i.+ps, his persistence, and his prosperous and honored old age, made up a fascinating story. Peggy, noticing the effect upon her listener, was more than satisfied.

"Well, he got there, didn't he?" Jerry kicked a pebble out of his way, and frowned reflectively. "I guess the folks that thought him a good-for-nothing must 'a' been surprised."

"But there were a great many who believed in him," Peggy suggested. "I think he was very fortunate in his friends. In fact, that was one of the things that helped him. He made friends wherever he went."

"Well, that ain't like me." Jerry's tone indicated a grim satisfaction in the extent of his unpopularity, which Peggy recognized as a bad sign.

"That's a pity," she said gravely. "Because n.o.body's big enough to get along all by himself. Everybody needs friends to help him."

Jerry became meditative. That he had rightly interpreted the meaning of Peggy's story, and applied it as she wished, was apparent when he broke out impatiently, "Why, if I should try to draw pictures of birds, folks would just laugh at me. I couldn't make 'em look like anything."

"No, I suppose not. Audubon had to learn. That's another mistake of yours, Jerry, to think that you can get along without books and teachers. You've found out a lot by yourself, but that's no reason why you shouldn't have the help of all the things other people have been discovering. It's just as I said about friends. Everybody can help, and everybody needs to be helped."

"I'm too old to go to school," Jerry replied despondently. And the answer, coupled with his dejected manner, was to Peggy an indication of a success she had hardly dared to hope for. Jerry realized his lacks.

The armor of his complacency had been pierced. Then there was hope for him.

"How old are you, Jerry?"

"Sixteen in September." He hung his head, as if ashamed of his advanced years. And at Peggy's laugh, his face flushed hotly.

"The reason that sounds so funny," Peggy explained, "is because I was thinking of a friend of my father's. He's a college professor, and sometimes he comes to visit us in his vacation. He was twenty when he first learned to read and write. How's that for a late start? And see where he's got to!"

Jerry leaned toward her confidentially. "It's this way," he said. "I wouldn't mind going to school if it 'twasn't for ringing in with a lot of kids. I couldn't stand that, you know." He looked at Peggy, expectant of her ready sympathy. But to his surprise, her lip had curled slightly.

"Oh, of course," she said, "if you're afraid--"

"Afraid!" Jerry flung back his head. "Me! I'm not afraid of nothing. Did I ever show you the rattle I got off that big snake I killed? That doesn't look much as if I was easy scared."

"I didn't know," returned Peggy, quite unmoved, "but that you might be afraid of being made fun of."

Jerry had nothing to say. Peggy proceeded to occupy the interval of silence.

"A boy graduated at one of our high schools a year ago, who had plenty of pluck, I thought. He came from Russia, a Jew, you know, and when he got here he couldn't speak a word of English. He was fourteen then, and they started him in the first grade. That was the only thing to do, I suppose. Well, it really was a funny sight to see him going into school with those first-grade tots. He was a big boy for his age, and he had to curl himself up to sit at one of those tiny desks, so he must have been awfully uncomfortable. And, of course, it looked queer. If he'd been a cowardly sort of boy," observed Peggy significantly, "I suppose he would have given up."

Jerry made no comment, unless an uneasy movement might have been interpreted as such.

"But he didn't give up, and after a few months he was promoted to the second grade. And it took him even less time to get into the third. And then it got so that we'd ask every morning what grade David had been promoted to. Instead of laughing at him, everybody was proud of him."

Still no comment on Jerry's part.

"Well, as I said, he graduated from the high school a year ago last spring. He stood second in his cla.s.s. The boy who was ahead of him is the son of a circuit judge. David was nineteen. In five years he had gone from the very beginning to the end of the high school course. Now he's in college, and I don't know what he'll do after he graduates, but I'm sure it will be something fine. Don't you think that's better than being afraid of being laughed at, and settling down to be an ignorant laborer all his life?"

"Oh, I guess it's all right, if he felt like it." Jerry spoke with an elaborate carelessness. "Well, I must be going." There was a trace of resentment in his tone, more than a trace in his heart. Jerry's high opinion of Peggy had originally sprung from her appreciation of his good qualities. It was a rather painful surprise to find that she recognized his lacks. In fact, Jerry was inclined to think that she exaggerated them.

"I ain't no coward, just because I don't want to be cooped up in school with a lot of kids," he told himself angrily, as he walked away. Yet his morning's talk with Peggy had clouded his spirits. Long before Jerry had come to accept with cheerful philosophy the disapproval of his neighbors. They understood crops and dairying. He understood birds and trees, and, in his own opinion, he was at no disadvantage in the comparison, but rather the opposite. He regarded their knowledge as humdrum, and it did not disturb him that they looked on his acquisitions as worthless.

But with Peggy it was different. The naturalist who had impoverished himself in his eagerness to study birds, she had held up to his admiration as a great man. Jerry was sure that his neighbors would not so estimate him. They would call him "s.h.i.+ftless," the adjective that had been applied times without number to Jerry himself. Peggy approved such research, and yet she found fault with him. She thought he needed the help of the schools, of books, of friends. Undoubtedly she had implied that he was a coward. Jerry winced at the recollection.

"I don't have to go to school just to please her," Jerry boasted, but his declaration of independence failed to a.s.suage that curious uneasiness that was almost pain. He had disappointed a friend. His effort to forget that fact in manufacturing resentment against Peggy proved quite unsuccessful.

As for Peggy, she watched the vanis.h.i.+ng figure rather ruefully, and was inclined to think her morning's effort wasted, if not worse. Like most amateur gardeners, Peggy was fond of immediate results. She liked to see shoots starting when the seed had hardly touched the soil, leaf and blossom following with miraculous swiftness. Nature's slow processes were trying to the patience. Peggy watched Jerry out of sight, and then, her face unusually thoughtful, made her way to the front porch which presented an unusually populous appearance that morning. The day was rather warm, and a forenoon of idleness had appealed to the household as preferable to a more strenuous form of entertainment.

"Aren't they any better?" asked Elaine, noticing the gravity of her friend's face, but misinterpreting it.

"Who? Oh, the chickens." Peggy roused herself. "I can't say that I see any improvement. And if there's anything that looks more sickly than a sick chicken, I don't know its name."

"Well, anyway, Freckles is perfectly healthy," Ruth said encouragingly.

"And it's all the more to your credit because you brought him up yourself." Some time before, the speckled chicken had a.s.serted his individuality to such an extent that a name had seemed a necessity, and after considerable canva.s.sing of the matter, "Freckles" had received a majority vote. Freckles had long ceased to impress the observer as a pathetic object. He was an energetic, pin-feathery creature, noted equally for his appet.i.te and his pugnacity. Dorothy who had not hesitated to bestride Farmer Cole's boar, and was absolutely fearless as far as Hobo was concerned, retreated panic-stricken before Freckles'

advances. For owing to reasons not apparent, Freckles found an irresistible temptation in Dorothy's slim, black-stockinged legs.

Peggy shooed away the persistent Freckles, who had given up his designs upon the gravel walk at her approach, and was pecking frantically at her shoe-b.u.t.tons, evidently under the impression that they were good to eat.

"Oh, he's healthy enough," she replied. "It begins to look as if he'd be all I'd have to show for my poultry raising experiment, and I had it all planned out how I'd spend the money for the whole eighteen chickens."

Peggy joined in the laugh against herself before she added cheerily: "Well, even if air-castles tumble down, it's fun to build them."

"And to build them over again," suggested Aunt Abigail with a smile.

"Like castles little children build out of blocks."

It was fortunate that Peggy was able to take so philosophic a view of the situation, for, before night, two of the little sufferers had succ.u.mbed to their malady, and the yellow fowl, who could not wholly disclaim responsibility for the misfortunes of her family, was left a hen with one chicken.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CASTAWAYS