The Story of Scraggles.

by George Wharton James.

_INTRODUCTION_

_Most of our Indians have a tradition that in the days of old animals and man had a common speech. Each was able to understand the other, and thoughts and language were common to all. It was not until man began to regard himself as superior to the animals and think of them as "lower" that this oneness of speech and relationship was lost.

Since then envy, jealousy, anger, on one side, and conceit, pride, and contempt on the other have widened the breach, while_ LOVE _has stood with tearful eyes looking on at the sad and unnatural estrangement._

_But in these latter days prophets among the white race have risen up to awaken again within man the desire for brotherhood with the humbler creations of G.o.d. Th.o.r.eau, John Burroughs, John Muir, Ernest Thompson Seton, W. J. Long, Elizabeth Grinnell, and many others, are showing us our kinship to the birds, buds, bees, blossoms, and beasts.

It is with the two thoughts before me of the common speech and understanding existent between the animals and man, and of the kinship that affection shows us does really exist, that I have written the "Story of Scraggles" from her viewpoint, with the confident antic.i.p.ation that young and old alike will enjoy this truthful record of a sweet and beautiful little life._

_While, of course, the thoughts put into Scraggles' words are mine, the statements of fact are literally true. I have told the story as nearly in accord with the incidents as they actually occurred, as this method of telling the story would permit._

_GEORGE WHARTON JAMES_

_1098 N. Raymond Ave.

Pasadena, California Feb. 23, 1906_

_Chapter I_

_How I Came to Live in a House_

I was only a little baby song-sparrow, and from the moment I came out of my sh.e.l.l everybody knew there was something the matter with me. I don't know what it could have been, for my brother and sister were well and strong. Perhaps I was out of the first egg that was laid, and a severe spell of cold had come and partially frozen me; or a storm had shaken the bough in which our nest was, so that I was partly "addled." Anyhow, no matter what caused it, there was no denying the fact that when I was born I was an ailing little bird, and this made both my father and mother very cross with me. I couldn't help being so weak, and they might have been kinder to me; but when the other eggs were hatched out and my brother and sister were born, n.o.body seemed to care for me any more. Of course, my mother gave me something to eat when I cried for it, but the others were so much stronger than I that they pushed me out of the way, and succeeded many a time in getting my share without mother's knowing anything about it.

I was not active like the others, and when they climbed up to the edge of the nest and stretched out their wings as if they would fly, I felt a dreadful fear come over me. I knew I should fall to the earth if I tried to fly. I don't know why I felt this, but, do as I would, I could not get rid of the horrible feeling. I tried a number of times to overcome that sickly feeling of fear and dread, but every time I clambered to the nest's edge I grew dizzy and had to fall back to prevent my pitching headlong forward. My father and mother both scolded me, and taunted me for my cowardice; they urged me to flap my wings more, and again and again showed me how to do it. But my wings were so weak I am sure something was wrong with one of them. And my feathers! I never saw such wretched feathers. In the first place I had no feathers whatever on the under part of my body, and where the feathers did grow they were raggedy and scraggedy and looked for all the world as if they were moth-eaten. So in bird language my father and mother and the others all called me Scraggles, and they treated me as if they felt I was Scraggles--of no use or beauty, and therefore worth "nothing to n.o.body."

But in spite of this, I was ill-prepared for the awful fate that came to me one day. My brother and sister had already tried their wings pretty well, and had flown quite a distance, and father and mother were pleased with their progress. Then they came to me and urged me to climb up to the edge of the nest. When I did so, my father came behind me, gave me a sudden push, and over I went. Down, down I fell, through the branches of the tree, fluttering my wings as well as I could, but they would not sustain me. One of them worked so queerly that I went sidewise, and as I struck the ground I rolled over and felt quite dizzy and stunned. When I looked around for my father and mother they were nowhere to be seen. I called aloud, but no answer came, and then I felt so desolate and forlorn that I could have cried. But I thought I had better begin to search for them. So I hopped along to where I saw several birds flying around. All at once I found myself among a number of houses where men and women lived, and I knew there was danger from four-legged creatures they kept, called cats, but, as I saw what seemed to me to be my mother down the street, I hurried along as fast as my weak wing and fluttering heart would let me, until, all at once, I heard quick footsteps behind me. Turning, I saw that it was a large, tall man, with black hair and a black beard, and he walked so quickly that I grew afraid and chirped out to my mother to come and help me. But she paid no attention whatever, and my loud cries arrested the attention of the man. He suddenly stopped, looked at me, and then began to talk to himself. I didn't understand then what he was saying, but I know I was desperately scared, for my parents had taught me always to keep out of the way of human beings--especially of the little human beings that they called boys and girls. Girls, they said, were not so bad as boys, but it was safest to keep away from all of them. Had I known this big man as I afterwards grew to know him, I shouldn't have been so scared; but as it was, I tried to get as far away from him as I could. The sidewalk was lined all along with great tall stalks of dandelions and clover, and I tried to push my way through them to where my mother was picking up something to eat on the road. But it was _such_ hard work, and I was so afraid! At last I got through, and then with a cry of joy I hopped as fast as I could to my mother. I felt that surely she would help and protect me, and I was never more surprised and hurt in my life when, without even recognizing me, or saying one single cheep, she flew away so quickly, and so far, that almost immediately I lost sight of her.

What was I to do? For a moment or two my little heart stood still. I was so dreadfully afraid that I couldn't breathe. Then, before I had recovered, the great tall man, whom I had quite forgotten, came toward me with his quick, decisive strides. I tried to get away from him, and fairly screamed out in my terror; yet it was no use. He was too quick, and I was too weak and helpless, and in less than a minute he had "cornered me" against the trunk of a tree, and I found myself all at once in his strong hand, the fingers of which felt so powerful as they completely surrounded me.

I was too afraid to cry out, and I could only lie still and listen to my heart beat. It went so quick and so hard that I thought I should die; but somehow I was compelled to see that he didn't hurt me or pinch me, and his voice was all the time talking so softly and gently to me, though it sounded deep and strong like the voice of a storm that once nearly shook me out of our nest. He was carrying me away rapidly, and said something about his wife and "little girlie," who would surely help him take care of me until I could fly.

Soon we went inside a house. I had never been in such a dark place before, and I was made afraid again, as badly as ever, by two persons, dressed differently from the tall, bearded man, but whose voices were softer and more like a bird's than his. I heard him tell about seeing me try to reach my mother, and then how she had flown away and deserted me, and he had caught me and brought me home, lest, said he, "some cat should catch the poor little thing and gobble it up."

That is just how I came to be in a house, and the beginning of my life with human beings,--three of them--a man and two women.

_Chapter II_

_My First Week In-doors_

My first week in-doors was very painful and distressing to me. Though my father and mother had never been kind, still they were my father and mother. But now I was all the time with strangers,--great, monstrous, tall human beings, and I was such a tiny little bird! How could I feel at home with them? It scared me just to see them.

Still, scared or not, what was I to do? I had to stay there, for, unlike my home in the nest in the tree, here everything was shut up.

The air was warm and close, and it made me feel queer most of the time. It was not fresh and bracing like the out-door air I had been used to. I was shut in,--that was all there was to it; but it took me a long time to learn to make the best of it. For the tall man, now and again, would catch me and put me up onto the window-sill, and I didn't know that I couldn't go through the gla.s.s. I tried again and again, but always b.u.mped my bill hard against the gla.s.s and never got any further. I saw happy little birds outside. They seemed to be strong and well; and how I longed to be with them! I found great pleasure, however, in walking back and forth on the edge of the window sash, and the warm sunshine that shone in upon me was very comforting. When other birds flew near by I used to get very excited, and stretch my legs and neck so hard to see them and get to them, that the "man of the house" would laugh very heartily at me. And then he would call to "Mamma" and "Edith," and together they would stand and look and laugh at me, while I stretched and chirped and twittered to the birds outside.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I saw happy little birds outside." _Page_ 12.]

Of course, I had not been in the house long before I was a very hungry little bird. I don't think you know how very hungry so tiny a bird can get. I was desperately hungry. How I was going to be fed I did not know. But I chirped, and cheeped, and called out as loudly as I could, and soon the "Fessor"--as the women called the man[1]--came into the room with a saucer in his hand. In the saucer was some white-looking substance that he called bread and milk. But I didn't know what to do with it. So to let him know how hungry I was I chirped more, and then opened my mouth wide, and wider still, as baby birds do, hoping that he would find some way of getting the food into me.

And he did! Instead of putting it into my throat with his bill--he hadn't one--as my mother did, he caught me when I wasn't expecting it, and taking some of the white stuff in his fingers, held it close to me. When I opened my bill to cheep, he pushed it in, and my! how strange it tasted. But it was good. It was sweet, and warm, and nice.

So I swallowed it and opened my mouth for more, and he gave me another piece. Then he called to Edith, and she and Mamma came and watched me until, as they said, I was "stuffed as full as an egg." Two or three times that day he fed me in the same fashion, and I began then to get over my fear of him. He didn't seem to want to hurt me, and he was very, very gentle with me; and I even began, once or twice, to snuggle down in his hand, for it was so large and warm and comfortable. Then that awful fear came, and I sprang out of his reach and ran to the end of his desk, and when he reached out after me, I wildly leaped off the desk, fell to the floor, and then ran as fast as I could behind the desk in order to be safe.

[1] This was the name given me by a dear little child trying to say Professor, and the name has stuck ever since.

We had several days of this, and I soon found that when he fed me I need not be afraid at all. He never hurt me then. But I never knew when he would hurt. So I thought it best to keep out of his way. He talked very nicely to me, however, I must confess, and I soon learned to like to hear his voice. I felt better when he was in the room, and it was lonesome when he went away, for he shut the door so that I couldn't go anywhere else.

It was not many days before I knew all about that room. It was a queer room, as compared with rooms I afterwards saw. Mamma and Edith called it Fessor's "den," and surely it was a den. There was a desk opposite to one window. On this was a row of books reaching right across, and piles of papers, and pictures, and one thing and another, sometimes on the sides of the desk, and sometimes on the tops of the books. And when the Fessor sat down he would take a little pile of white paper, and a stick with a shining thing at the end that I afterwards learned was a pen, and he would dip it into a bottle full of queer smelling black water and then scratch the wet pen back and forth over the paper, so quickly that it used to make my little head swim to watch him. And the noise! It was simply aggravating beyond words--that is, a tiny bird's words. How I did hate that pen and that scratching noise!

But I'm not going to tell you about that now. I shall have a good deal to tell you about that pen later on.

Well, to go back to the room. By the side of the desk, on the left, was a great tall case full of what the Fessor called books. Every once in a while he would jump up from his seat in a hurry and make one big stride to that case, quickly look over the backs of the books, then seize one, put it on his desk, and begin to turn over the sheets of paper of which it was composed. And his eyes would sparkle and shine sometimes, and at others his brow would wrinkle and his lips pucker up, so that I knew something was going on, whenever he reached for one of those books. The books in front of him he often took out and opened and read from them. Then he would talk to himself and say "Yes!" and "No!" or "I don't think so!" or "I guess he's way off," and then his fingers would grab the pen, dab! it would go into the black water, and over the paper it flew like the dancing shadows that I used to watch sometimes when I was in my nest in the tree.

On one side of the room was a flat thing perched on four legs as high as the desk, called a table. The top of this was covered with more books and papers and photographs. Sometimes Fessor would put me on this table, and I used to go around and explore everything. In one corner of the room was a high pile of boxes, with shelves in them, on which were piled loose papers and more books and things. Such big boxes they were, and so deep, and such piles and piles of things in them! This afterwards became my playhouse and my hiding-place. My!

what fun I had in it sometimes, and how glad I was to have it when I found out what a good hiding-place it was.

There were also some Indian baskets in the room, as well as a closet in which were piles of little boxes and a large leather case in which was a thing Fessor called his camera.

Of course, I didn't find out about all these things at once. I'm just telling you all about them now, so that you will understand, and I shan't have to tell you again.

The first night I went to nest in the house was a strange experience.

Now just look what I've said: "Went to nest." You see a little bird doesn't think of going to bed, as boys and girls do. She goes to her nest. But there was no nest in Fessor's den. He was too big to get into one if there had been one, and when it began to grow dark I wondered what would become of me. To be all alone in that dark, dark room would be terrible; and there was no getting to any other birds owing to that shut window. But I needn't have been afraid. For, just as I was working myself up into a good deal of excitement, Fessor came in, and after giving me some more warm bread and milk,--which made me feel _so_ comfortable and _so_ sleepy,--he said: "And now, little birdie, I'll have to find a bed for you." Then I watched him from the desk, where he had placed me, and he got a large Indian basket, and after putting some soft white rags at the bottom, he caught me--though I tried to hop away--and putting me down amongst the rags, he wrapped me up in one of them, and then covered me up as snug and warm as could be. When he went away it was not long before I fell asleep.

Well! he used to do this every night for quite a long time, so that I soon got used to going to bed in the basket, instead of being in my nest, and slept as well as I had ever done before.

It was very strange that he should have hit upon the same name for me in his human talk as my father and mother had in their bird talk, yet it was so. I believe it was the second day after he brought me home that Mamma said to him: "What shall you call your baby bird?" In a moment Fessor replied: "Oh, I've already called her Scraggles. She is Scraggles, so she must be called Scraggles." So, even in man's speech, I've been Scraggles ever since.

_Chapter III_

_My Second Week in the House_

Ah, that second week! What a good week it was to me! It changed all my life and made a happy little bird out of me. I lost all my fear of Fessor and Mamma and Edith, and from then on we were the dearest and best of friends. Talk about my father and mother, and my loving them!

Even though they _were_ birds, they never showed me the love that this second week taught me was in the hearts of my three human friends. So I want to tell you all about it.

I believe it began that very night Fessor put me in the basket. For, though he was not so gentle as my mother was, somehow I felt that he _felt_ more gentle towards me, and so, though I was still very much afraid of him, I began to get a new feeling in me that seemed to drive some of the fear away.

Then came the pinion nuts. Now, you needn't laugh! It certainly was those pinion nuts that had a great deal to do with it. As you no doubt know, the pinion is a kind of small pine tree that grows "Out West,"