The Wood-Pigeons and Mary. Molesworth Mrs.
that met his eyes, as he quietly opened the door, without knocking. He felt very curious about this secret of his little cousin’s – half suspecting she had some trick preparing for him, and not wishing to be taken unawares, as what boy would!
But the moment he caught sight of her, and heard the gentle sounds from where she stood by the window, he “understood” – for he was very quick at understanding – and felt ashamed of the doubts he had had of Mary’s truthfulness.
There they were – the wood-pigeons he had almost thought lived only in her imagination – one on her shoulder, one just perching on her outstretched hand, on the friendliest terms, it was easy to see – cooing in the sweetest way, while Mary murmured some caressing words to them. Nor were they startled away when Michael drew near, stepping softly, it is true, but still not so softly but that the little wood-creatures, well used to notice every tiniest sound in their forest homes, heard him, and even, it seemed to Michael, glanced towards him, quite fearlessly – quite secure in Mary’s protection.
“Well, Mike?” she said with a smile. “They are very tame, you can come quite close,” and then Michael heard again her own little murmur, though he did not know that it meant: “of course he won’t harm you, dear Cooies.”
Michael drew near.
“They are sweet,” he said, “are they your own, Molly? or have you tamed them?”
Mary shook her head.
“They didn’t need taming,” she replied. “They lived in the tree there,” and she nodded towards it. “They have known me ever since I came to live in the Square, and I have watched them, as I told you the other day. The remains of their old nest are still there, but I am sure they are not going to build there any more. They only fly over here to see me, and I give them crumbs and water whenever they come.”
“Oh,” said Michael, “that was what the bit of bun was stuffed into your pocket for.”
Mary smiled.
“But, Mike,” she said gravely, “you know – I am afraid you did not believe me when I told you about the Cooies.”
It was Michael’s turn to redden a little now.
“The – the what-d’ye-call them?” he said, trying to avoid a reply.
“The Cooies. It’s my name for them,” said Mary, “because of the sweet way they coo. But Mike, do tell me – did you believe me?”
“I don’t quite know,” answered her cousin, honestly. “I didn’t think you were making up a regular story – an untruth, I mean, – I knew you wouldn’t do that, but I did think perhaps you’d fancied part of it. You might have seen other birds flying about, that you let yourself imagine were wood-pigeons, and certainly the remains in the tree scarcely look like a nest, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” said Mary. “The wind tore it to pieces that night it blew so.”
“Yes, I understand it all now,” said Michael, “except – it’s quite wonderful how you’ve managed to tame them so. They are like pet doves – I really am afraid I couldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” and as he spoke, he very gently stroked Mr Coo’s opal-coloured feathers.
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