



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Wood-Pigeons and Mary
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by H.R. Millar
Published by Macmillan and Co, Limited, London.
This edition dated 1901.

The Wood-Pigeons and Mary, by Mrs Molesworth.

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THE WOOD-PIGEONS AND MARY, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

CHAPTER ONE.

"SUCH BIG TEARS."

"Mary is crying," said Mr Coo.

"No!" replied Mrs Coo.

But Mr Coo said again--

"Mary is crying," and though Mrs Coo repeated--

"No!" she knew by the way he held his head on one side and looked at
her, that he was very much in earnest indeed.

I must tell you that when Mrs Coo said `no,' it went off into a soft
sound that was almost like `coo'; indeed most of her talking, and of Mr
Coo's too, sounded like that, which is the reason, I daresay, that many
people would not have understood their conversation.  But it would be
rather tiresome to write "no," or other words, with double o's at the
end, so I will leave it to be fancied, which will do just as well.
There is a great deal of conversation in the world which careless people
don't understand; a great deal which _no one_ can understand properly,
however much they try; but also a great deal that one _can_ get to
understand, if one tries, even without the gift which the dear fairy
bestowed on the very lucky prince in the long ago story.  I forget his
name, but I daresay some of you remember it.  The gift was the power to
understand all that the beasts and birds say.

This very morning the wind has been talking to me a good deal--it was
the south wind, and her stories are always very sweet, though sometimes
sad, yet I understand a good deal of them.

After this second "No," Mr and Mrs Coo sat looking at each other for a
moment or two, without speaking.

Then said Mr Coo--

"It must be something--serious.  For Mary scarcely ever cries."

"True," said Mrs Coo, "true."

But she did not say anything more, only she too held her head on one
side and kept her reddy-brown eyes fixed on Mr Coo.  They seemed to
ask, "What is to be done?" only as she nearly always depended on Mr Coo
for settling what was to be done or if anything was to be done, she did
not need to say the words.

"Mary scarcely ever cries," he repeated.  "There were large drops, quite
large ones on her cheeks."

"As large as raindrops?" asked Mrs Coo.

"Larger--that is to say as large as large raindrops--the kind that come
when it thunders," said Mr Coo.

"Oh dear," sighed Mrs Coo, thinking to herself that Mary's trouble must
be a very bad one indeed if her tears were _so_ large.  She wanted very
much for once, to ask what could be done, but she saw that Mr Coo was
considering very deeply, so she did not interrupt his thoughts.

At last he turned to her.

"I heard something," he said.  "Very little, but enough to help me to
put two and two together."

"To make four," said Mrs Coo quickly.  She felt rather proud of her
arithmetic, though she did not understand what Mr Coo could mean, as
she had never heard the saying before.  "Four _what_, my dear?"

"Four nothing," was the reply--rather a cross one.  "It is an
expression.  You are not as used to human talk as I am, you see," he
went on more amiably, for it is not the way with the Coo family ever to
be cross for more than a moment, and if ever they are, they are sorry
immediately.  "Never mind about the two and two.  What I heard was only
a few words, but it has decided me that I must hear more, for," and here
Mr Coo's tone grew very solemn, "it had to do with _us_!"

Mrs Coo was so startled that she repeated Mr Coo's words, which was
one of the few things that tried his temper.

"It had to do with _us_," she said.  "How could that be?  We have never
done anything that could make Mary cry, especially such very large
tears."

"Yes," said Mr Coo, "we have done one thing.  We have left the Square
Gardens."

"But that was some time ago," said Mrs Coo, "and she did not cry when
very sweetly."

Mr Coo gave what was for him a little cough--a sort of "h'm."

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I have never felt perfectly sure that
she understood my explanation that day.  Still, you are right so far.  I
have seen her several times since then, and though she was putting her
head out of the window as far as she dared, and looking towards our
tree, where the nest is already falling to pieces, she was certainly not
_crying_."

"Perhaps she saw you yourself, and felt sure we had not really left for
good?"

"No," said Mr Coo, "she did not see me the day she put her head so far
out of the window.  I was watching her, for I was a little afraid she
might already be missing us.  But she only looked at the tree and seemed
quite happy."

"Is it since then that the nest has fallen to pieces, do you think, Mr
Coo?" asked Mrs Coo.

She was rather a clever little wood-pigeon after all, though Mr Coo
scarcely thought so.

"Yes," he replied.  "There was a great deal of wind last night and the
night before--I fancy the wind blew it down.  This morning there is
almost nothing to be seen of it."

"Then that was why Mary was crying," exclaimed Mrs Coo.

But again Mr Coo shook his head, or at least turned it to the other
side, which meant that he did not agree with Mrs Coo.

"_That_ would not explain the words I heard," he said.

"What were they?"

"She was crying," Mr Coo replied, "crying and leaning against the
window, and the window was open, and I heard her say, `He doesn't
believe me, he doesn't believe me.  It's too bad of the Cooies--' she
calls us the Cooies, you know, my dear."

"Yes," said Mrs Coo, nodding her head gently, "I know."

"It's too bad of the Cooies," she said again, Mr Coo went on.  "`I
believe they're not Cooies at all, but very unkind, tricky fairies.'
She said _that_--she really did."

"Dear, dear, it's very sad, very sad indeed," said Mrs Coo, and her
voice was exceedingly low and mournful.  "_Mary_ to think that of us.
Something must be done, Mr Coo, something must be done."

"Of course it must," he agreed.  "I must go back then this very
afternoon and try to see her and find out all about the trouble."

"Shall I come too?" asked Mrs Coo.

"Certainly, if you like," said Mr Coo.

In his heart, he was very pleased to have her company, but he was not
very fond of allowing that he was not quite able to manage everything by
himself.

"Certainly, if you like," he repeated, "but just as you choose."

"Then I think I will come," she said.  "For one thing, Mary will be
pleased to see both of us together, I feel sure, and perhaps it may be
easier to catch her eyes if we are both there.  We can fly about a
little just in front of her window as we used to do, and call out to
each other.  But I hope she will not be crying--at least not such very
large tears.  It would be almost too much for my feelings," and she gave
a deep sigh--a real sigh, though it sounded like a very soft and
melancholy "coo."

So, rather late that afternoon, the two wood-pigeons set off.  It was a
pretty long fly to the square where Mary lived, but they thought it
better not to go earlier, for as it was now autumn and the days were
beginning to get shorter, they knew that the children went out for their
second walk soon after their dinner, so as to come in before it got
chilly.

And very often just about the time they planned to reach the Square
gardens, they had seen Mary at her own window, where she used to stand
looking out, after taking off her hat and jacket, and while waiting to
be called to tea.

Mary loved the window of her room.  It looked out to the back of the
house, for the gardens I am speaking of were not those in the middle of
the square in front, but much prettier ones, stretching along between
one side of Mary's Square, and one side of another Square, whose houses
also looked out on them from the back.  Mary knew every tree and bush
that grew near her house.  She used to watch them all the year round,
and could tell exactly about what time the leaves began to fade and drop
off, and about when the pretty new spring ones first showed, growing a
little greener and brighter every day till the trees had all their
summer clothes on again.  She got to know when the spring was in a lazy
mood, and when the autumn was in too great a hurry to come, so that her
uncle used sometimes to call her his little "weather prophet."  And if
she had been clever at drawing, which I am afraid she was not
particularly, she could have sketched the shapes and branches of her
favourite trees from memory; so well did she know how they looked when
quite bare, and how they looked when in full dress, and how the steady
old evergreen ones, who never vary much, hold themselves.

Her `favouritest' tree was one that kept its leaves longer, and strange
to say, got its new ones earlier, than any of the others.  I cannot tell
you what kind of tree it was.  I am not sure if Mary herself knew its
name.  She called it in her own mind the "fairy tree," but she did not
tell any one this, as she would have been afraid of being laughed at.

But her great reason for liking this tree best of any, you can perhaps
already guess.

It was--or had been--the home of the dear wood-pigeons--the Cooies!

Ah--the "had been" makes a great difference.  It was their home no
longer.

Was that then what Mary was crying about the day Mr Coo saw her and
felt so distressed about her?

No, not exactly that.

She had not quite understood Mr Coo's long speech, in which he told her
they were going to flit for good.  She had only thought he was singing a
"cooie" song to her extra sweetly, because they were going away for a
day or two, as she had known them do before--for a little change, she
supposed, now that the young Cooies were all hatched and fledged and
able to look after themselves--"grown-up and out in the world."  Next
year no doubt there would be eggs in the nest again to hatch and take
care of--eggs and then fledglings