Part 5

“Well, if I must, I must,” said the child, with a sigh; “but may I not wait till Sunday, to ask Miss Louisa what she thinks?”

“That you may, with all my heart,” returned her mother; “she is sure to tell you what is best.”

Peggy appeared pleased with this short respite. Perhaps, indeed, she hoped, as I did, that her benefactress would advise her not to part with her favourite. It happened, however, quite otherwise. Louisa contrived to visit the cottage once more before her departure, and when little Peggy, with artless simplicity, told her all that was in her mind, the excellent girl refused to deprive her of her _pet_, (as she called me,) but advised my being sent to her friend Amelia.

I was much distressed at this decision; yet I could not help admiring the disinterestedness and prudence displayed in Louisa, who well knew that the child would gain more than an equivalent by the sacrifice; and for herself, though I am sure she would have liked to possess me, she was too generous to deprive Amelia of an object she so ardently desired.

In pursuance, therefore, of her advice, Willy took me on the following morning to Wyndham Hall. His poor little sister shed some tears on parting with me. “My poor little Bob!” said she, “you may get a finer house and better food, but you will not find a mistress who loves you better than I do.”

I felt as much grieved as herself, and had I been able to speak, would have told her that I did not desire any thing better than she had provided me; but as my language was unintelligible to her, I could not afford her even this consolation.

On our arrival at the hall, Miss Amelia received me with apparent delight, and having put me safely in a very handsome cage, ran to show me to her mamma, and to request that she would give the child something in return. Mrs. Wyndham, who could not bear that her daughter should be under an obligation, particularly to a poor person, made now a very judicious return for the favour, far, indeed, exceeding its value. She ordered a good milch-cow to be sent back with the boy. This was, indeed, a valuable present to the poor woman, as it not only supplied her family with milk, &c., but enabled her to sell some to the neighbours, which, with the promised assistance of Mrs. Carleton, no doubt made her circumstances tolerably easy. And I must acknowledge, that these considerations consoled me for the separation. Besides, I felt myself of more consequence than heretofore, as I had been the means of affording relief to an amiable family, who stood much in need of it.

The first fortnight I spent at Wyndham Hall, passed very agreeably; for Miss Amelia was continually seeking something new to please me. I cannot say, however, that my esteem for her was equal to the kindness she lavished on me, for she was not so assiduous in striving to please every body; and not only the servants, but even her too-indulgent mother, sometimes felt the effects of her peevish humours. Besides, not having been accustomed to occupy her time steadily and usefully, she was perpetually changing the objects of her attention. This fickle disposition made me conclude, that novelty was my chief recommendation, and that, consequently, some new favourite would soon supplant me. My conclusions were but too well founded, for her attention to me gradually diminished, and was shortly after engrossed by a new object.

By the time I had been with her a month, I found myself little noticed. However, as Amelia minded appearances very much, she thought proper to order me a new cage, not thinking the one I had, sufficiently ornamental to the drawing-room. A bird-fancier, with whom she had formerly dealt, was accordingly sent for, to receive her directions about it. He came, and I observed that he regarded me with particular attention, and listened earnestly to my song. He soon after asked my mistress, in an apparently careless manner, where she got that bird. “It is a Robin,” added he, “but it has not the right song.”

Had Miss Amelia read some of the nice books which remained untouched in her library, she would, perhaps, have known, that the circumstance he mentioned greatly enhanced my value; but, though surrounded with the means of obtaining knowledge, she was very ignorant. Guided, therefore, by the man’s manner of speaking, she seemed suddenly to lose all regard for me, and by her answer convinced him that he might get me at a very easy rate.

“Ah, Miss,” said he, “as to song, you should hear a bird I have at home!”

“What bird?” demanded Amelia, eagerly.

“A piping-bullfinch, Miss: he has learned _Rule Britannia_ and the _College Hornpipe_, and”——

“Do you mean to sell him?” interrupted Amelia.

“Why, as to that, Miss, I could get more by keeping him to teach others; yet I would not much object selling him to some particular customer, like you, Miss, for example.”

“What do you ask for him?” said Amelia, to whom the idea of one bird teaching another was quite novel, and who was also flattered by being termed _a particular customer_.

“Why, to you, Miss,” answered the man, “I could sell him for five guineas; though that is too little, for there is not another bird like him in the kingdom.”

This last observation of the cunning bird-fancier, decided Amelia; she produced her purse, but, alas! the contents did not amount to four guineas. “What shall I do!” exclaimed she, “mamma is out, and will not return till just before dinner, and I did so wish to surprise her with my piping bullfinch.”

“Why, Miss,” said the man, “as you seem to have no great fancy for that silly bird yonder, if you like, I will take him and his cage for what is wanting, and send home Piping Tom in the new cage you have ordered, and all in time before your dinner.”

Amelia readily acceded to this proposal, and I was taken by the bird-fancier, to supply the place of Piping Tom, whose removal I considered no more enviable than my own, unpleasant as it was.

My new situation was extremely uncomfortable, for I had always been more or less accustomed to liberty. Here I was closely confined, and what was to me worse than all, my cage was seldom cleaned, and my food and water remained so long unchanged, that I frequently found it almost impossible to touch either.

This sad condition would, I think, soon have delivered me from the possibility of any other misfortune; and here, gentle reader, my history would have terminated, had not my master, who was not ignorant of my talents, now thought proper to turn them to some account. When he told Miss Amelia that my song was not that of a Robin, he spoke truth, but not the whole truth. He affected to depreciate my value, that he might get possession of me. I was separated so early from my parents, that I did not learn their song, but being naturally disposed to music, and hearing no other than that of the piano-forte, when with my first dear mistress, I had contrived to pick up a few notes here and there, and put them together at my leisure; thus forming a kind of wild melody, not resembling the song of any other bird. Had Miss Amelia been aware of this circumstance, she certainly would not have parted with me; for, as I observed before, she valued things in proportion as they were difficult of attainment. Well had it been for her if this disposition had extended to her studies: in this instance they might have been subservient to her darling propensity. But such is the lot of those who are wilfully ignorant; they are continually duped by the artful, and not unfrequently defeat their own plans of enjoyment, by not knowing how to pursue them.

But to return to myself. I was now to assume a new character—no less than that of preceptor. My master procured some very young birds, so young that several of them died for want of that delicate attention which the parent alone can bestow. Two or three survived, and these were placed in small cages near mine, that they might hear my song and adopt it. I sincerely pitied the early misfortunes and captivity of these poor little creatures, and sang rather to sooth and cheer than to instruct them. As they grew older, however, they tried to imitate my note, and soon acquired it so exactly, that my master sold them to great advantage.

I must say I regretted losing my little pupils, particularly one, a linnet, who had evinced great affection towards me; but I consoled myself with the assurance, that they must be better off any where than with the mercenary bird-fancier, who valued them only as a means of getting money.

CHAP. IX.

My business for the year was now finished, and I mournfully resigned myself to my fate, expecting no release from prison, nor any amusement in it, till the following spring, when my mind would be at least relieved by a similar occupation. My deliverance was, however, much nearer than I expected, for the lady who had purchased my pretty linnet, came to enquire particularly of my master about its song, with which she was much pleased.

“I suppose he learned it of some foreign bird,” said she, “for I never heard any wild note like it.”

This lady was very rich, and a good customer to my master, so he thought it best to satisfy her entirely; he therefore produced me as the instructor of her bird, relating all he knew of my history, at least, all that was creditable to himself. The lady admired me very much, and offered to purchase me.

Oh! how my heart beat while I heard my master enumerating my services to enhance my value, that he might obtain a high price for me, or deter the lady from becoming a purchaser; for he did not like to sell me, though he could not well refuse her the favour.

At length my anxiety was relieved by the lady’s saying: “Come, come, do not hesitate; I will give you the price you ask, and what is more, I will lend him or the linnet to you, for a month or two next spring, if you wish either of them to be your singing-master.”

An offer so advantageous could not be refused; the bargain was concluded, and I, exulting in the hope of happier days, was placed in the carriage, and conveyed to the lady’s house.

I cannot express the joy I felt on seeing my dear little pupil the linnet, nor describe his demonstrations of pleasure on our meeting. Here we were, indeed, comfortable! What an alteration we found! I almost rejoiced that we had been at the bird-fancier’s, for privation had given a greater value even to common enjoyments: cleanliness, comfort, and occasional liberty, were now luxuries.

Our good mistress had many other birds, to all of which, as well as to ourselves, she was extremely indulgent; but I was particularly noticed by her, not only for my song, but for my familiarity also, for I took every opportunity of showing her how happy I was, and how grateful I could be. I had, to be sure, no way of expressing my gratitude, but by flying to meet her, perching on her shoulder or her arm; but I found that she understood my caresses, and valued me for them.

I had been some time with this good lady, having every thing I could desire, and regretting only that there were no children in her house, (for I have always been extremely fond of children,) when I one day heard her giving directions about beds and other things, that were preparing for her two grand-children, who were coming to spend a few weeks with her. I was greatly delighted at the prospect of again having it in my power to observe the manners and behaviour of young persons. Besides, I had a presentiment that my mistress’s grand-children were well-disposed and amiable; supposing she would not otherwise be so anxious as she appeared to be to give them pleasure. I am happy to assure you, my young readers, that I was not at all disappointed in my expectations, for when they came, every favourable prepossession was realized. But, perhaps, you will like better to judge for yourselves, so I will describe them as well as I can.

Now it is probably expected that I should mention the colour of their hair, their eyes, and enumerate all the charms of their persons. But as we do not contribute any thing either to our personal graces or defects, and consequently cannot derive any merit from the former, or disgrace from the latter, I consider those points of no importance, therefore, shall pass them over in silence. Mary, the eldest, was about nine years of age, her brother Henry about seven: the former, I understood, had been some time at school: it was now her vacation. Both of these children seemed to have been well brought up, for they were never at a loss for employment or amusement; were never lounging about on the chairs or sofas, or leaning listlessly against the fire-place. But what I particularly admired in them was the affection they evinced towards each other, and the attention they paid to every wish of their parents, though absent from them. In short, all their conduct seemed to proceed from some principle superior to self-gratification, or, in other words, they sought _true_ gratification, where only it was to be found—in the performance of their duty.

As I was naturally fond of all children, it is easy to imagine that I became particularly attached to these, amiable as they were. I do not, however, mean to represent them to my young readers as models of perfection, for such would be as far beyond their imitation as they are from resembling nature. I have observed that all children have their faults; but those who are most patient of reproof, and most open to conviction, are also most likely to amend their trivial failings; for great defects such cannot have. Henry and Mary were certainly every thing their parents could wish, and their sensible grand-mamma was greatly delighted with them, yet she never extolled them when present: a single word of approbation, or an affectionate smile, repaid all their endeavours to please her. And, indeed, so sweet was her smile, so judicious her approbation, that the dear children seemed to desire nothing more.

Though my good mistress did not indulge her young visitors in an unlimited manner, or teach them to be selfish by making their recreations the price of their good behaviour, yet she found means to amuse and improve them at the same time, by taking them to museums, manufactories, &c. where they saw a profusion of the works of nature and art. These morning excursions furnished subjects for conversation in the evening, which, with a magic-lantern, representing some of the most remarkable occurrences in history, a geographical game, and other similar recreations, filled up their time so agreeably, that the hour of rest always seemed to arrive too early; yet they did not on that account repine or loiter when the maid came for them, but went off immediately and cheerfully.

In this manner three weeks elapsed. I grew very fond of these interesting children, and they were no less so of me: all the family had been so cheerful since they came, that I anticipated their departure with great regret. One day, when Henry and his sister had accompanied their grand-mamma to a menagerie, where they had seen a fine collection of birds, the former said, on his return: “Well, dear grand-mamma, of all the birds I have seen to-day, not one pleased me so well as your little Robin. Some of them, to be sure, were beautiful, but they had not that docility and tameness which I admire in him.”

“The difference, my dear boy,” replied my mistress, “proceeds from education. You may observe that children who are well brought up, are generally docile and intelligent, while those who are neglected or spoiled, are usually destitute of those amiable qualities. But,” continued she, “my dear Henry, I think you seem to respect the old tutor, so I will make you a present of him; and may you, my dear boy, improve your talents for the benefit of your fellow-creatures, as he has done.”

I felt much gratified by this encomium, and I could perceive that Henry was no less delighted with the thought of possessing me, though he modestly declined the offer, saying, he did not like to deprive his grand-mamma of her favourite, and observing, that, perhaps, his sister might like to have me.

“Your sister,” said my mistress, “shall have her choice among my Canary-birds, but you, Henry, shall have the Robin: you shall keep him for my sake. Come, Mary, my love,” continued she, “and choose your bird.”

Mary had been present during the whole of this conversation, her countenance expressing the greatest pleasure at her brother’s acquisition, and beaming with tenderness when he offered to resign it to her. She had not spoken, but all she felt was fully expressed in her mild and ingenuous features. Now summoned by her grand-mamma, she said: “Indeed, Ma’am, I should like a Canary-bird very much; so much that I could not bear any one to feed or attend it but myself, and as I am mostly at school, I could not do that; so I think I am better without one. You know I have the little pug you gave me last Midsummer. Henry feeds him while I am away, yet, whenever I return home, he knows me again and loves me as well as ever: but birds are not so sagacious.”

“Your reasons are so good, my dear,” said my mistress, “that I feel as much pleased as if you had accepted my offer; and that is saying a great deal, for I have real pleasure in bestowing my little pets on good children.”

The entrance of a servant with letters, here interrupted the conversation. One of these was from Henry’s papa, requesting that his little ones might be sent home early in the ensuing week, as Mary’s vacation had nearly expired, and an elder brother of Henry’s was expected from college, whose instructions were likely to be useful to the little boy.

Nothing material occurred before the day of separation. Great regret was evinced, both on the part of the children and that of their dear grand-mamma; but her promise to visit them the following summer, and the prospect of meeting their parents, soon consoled the former, and they set out for their paternal dwelling, about twenty miles distant, taking me with them.

CHAP. X.

It was not till I had been some time with my little master that I could fully appreciate his amiable character: nor do I, indeed, think that I was ever acquainted with the whole extent of his goodness; but so many admirable traits fell under my immediate notice, that I became daily more attached to him. He was extremely kind to me, procuring me every comfort and indulgence in his power, and giving me liberty whenever he was at home. I might frequently have taken advantage of his confidence in me, had I wished to escape; but I loved him too well to think of leaving him, and had also experienced such vicissitudes, that I had no desire to go in quest of new adventures. Here I had every thing I could wish for, and I felt happy under the protection of a master whom I could at once admire and esteem.

Henry was by no means insensible of my regard. “Dear mamma,” he would frequently say, “I am sure my bird knows me, and loves me too, for he is always so much rejoiced when I return home, if I have been absent ever so short a time.”

His dear mother always seized the occasion, when he made these observations, to inculcate some amiable impression, or draw some useful inference. “You see, my dear boy,” she would observe, “what pleasure there is in pleasing. You are kind to your little bird, he is, in return, affectionate and grateful; his caresses, though of no real value, are delightful to you. In them you experience what I have so often represented to you, that trifling acts of kindness and gratitude, though in themselves unimportant, are of inestimable value to the receiver. You in some measure resemble your little bird, when you display affection and gratitude towards your parents, and I trust that the pleasure you now feel from his acknowledgement of your kindness, is but an earnest of that you will enjoy when you are able to be useful to your fellow-creatures. I have to add, though, that you are not always to expect gratitude for your kindness; that is not the reward I would wish you to seek, but rather that recompence of which no one can deprive you—the approbation of your own heart.”

Perhaps my young readers will not admire this long digression, but I cannot forbear repeating, occasionally, some of the excellent advice I so frequently heard; and I hope there are some children whose hearts will (as Henry’s did on similar occasions) expand with a noble emulation to approve themselves every thing their parents’ most sanguine hopes can anticipate. Henry’s father was no less sensible than his mother, nor was he less indulgent. His time was much occupied in a professional employment, but he still found leisure to improve, and frequently to amuse, his little boy. Henry’s favourite amusement was riding. Hitherto he had ridden only a donkey, but his kind papa had promised to purchase a poney for him the ensuing spring, provided he profited by his brother’s instructions.

The little boy was usually diligent and attentive, but on this occasion he displayed so much assiduity, and so entirely satisfied his papa, that the promised reward was already earned; and Henry, in idea, mounted his poney and rode beside his dear papa, though the winter had yet to elapse before his idea could be realized.

The season was peculiarly severe, and I had great reason to rejoice that I was not exposed to its inclemency; for I frequently observed from the windows multitudes of little birds flying in every direction, in search of that sustenance the snow-covered earth refused them. I pitied them very much, and would gladly have shared my food with them, but as I could not express my benevolent wishes, they were, of course, fruitless, and compassion was all I could bestow. Happily, however, Henry observed their distress, and soon found means to relieve them. He obtained his mamma’s permission to have the window-sash taken out from a small empty room, and there he put abundance of food every evening, but never went in during the day. The plan succeeded according to his wish, for the birds meeting with no interruption, came there every day to feed, and the dear boy had frequently the pleasure of seeing his numerous little pensioners busily employed about the window of his aviary.

The snow continued very long on the ground, but as Henry was a robust boy, that did not prevent his walking out. One morning he came home, and ran hastily into the room where his mamma was sitting.

“How now, my Henry,” said she, “why you have been up to your knees in the snow. That is not like your usual obedience.”

“Dear mamma,” said Henry, “I am sure you will excuse me when you know the cause. Look at this poor little fellow,” added he, producing a redbreast of the preceding spring; “he flew a few paces before me on the path where I was walking, and then stopped, as if unable to proceed: when I advanced he made another effort, and reached the foot of a tree, where he sat quite still for some time, and I, fearing that he was dying, ventured across the snow and brought him home. I think we may, perhaps, recover him, mamma.”

“We will hope so, at least, my dear,” said his mother; “but do not bring him near the fire, rather place him on the window-frame, the warmth of the sun through the glass will be sufficient for him at first.”

Henry, in pursuance of his mother’s advice, placed his little nurseling on the window-frame, where, finding some comfort from the warmth, he fell asleep. Henry was delighted at the idea of having saved the bird’s life, but I, who understood the nature of birds better than he could, saw only the torpor of approaching death in his apparently tranquil slumber, and pitied my poor little master, for I knew what his tender heart would feel when he was undeceived.