If You Touch Them They Vanish Page 4

  IV

  For many days it appeared as if the Poor Boy's entire efforts weredirected into an attempt to sleep off his troubles. Experience was likea drug of which he could not rid himself; he waked, tried to read, triedto walk, tried to enjoy looking out over the valley, and soon gave itup, and threw himself on his bed, or on the big lounge in theliving-room. And these days, of course, so the pendulum swings, werefollowed by days and nights in which he could not sleep at all.

  But old Martha was not worried, though she pretended to be. It wasnatural that having slept too much he should now sleep too little. Sheprescribed exercise and usefulness. One day she made him wash all thedishes, and prune all the rose-vines, and tie them in readiness forstraw jackets when winter should set in, and she made him split wood inthe cellar, and after dinner she made him go to the piano and play Irishmusic for her until the sweat stood out on his forehead. Then sheordered him under a cold shower, and when he was in bed she pulled up achair, and told him the longest and dullest story she knew--"The Bansheeof Kilmanogg." And behold he slept, and was wakened by birds in the ivywho were talking over their plans for going south for the winter.

  The Poor Boy opened his rested eyes and listened to the birds. Therewere some who intended to travel by the seaboard air-line, others by themidland air-line; for the most part they were going to Florida and theGulf States for the cold months; but a certain robin and his wife,tempted by the memory of crumbs and suet which a wise and wonderful oldlady always put out for them, had determined to winter at Aiken in theholly-tree that stood by the old lady's window. There were comparisonsof resorts and disputes about them.

  In the party were young birds who had never been south at all. And acertain old bachelor bird amused himself very heartily at the expense ofthese. He did not dwell upon the beauty of the journey that was beforethem, but upon its inconveniences, its dangers, and its horrors.

  "The midland route would be all right," he said, "if it weren't for thefarmers' boys with their long guns and the--ever see a cat, Bub?"

  "No," twittered Bub nervously. "Don't expect to. _I'm_ for theseaboard."

  "That would be sense," said the old bachelor, "if it weren't for theStatue of Liberty."

  "The what?"

  "It's a big light--you never know just what it is, because when you flyinto it to see, it breaks your neck and all the other worthless bones inyour body."

  "I'm not agoing to fly into any light."

  "You _think_ you won't," said the bachelor ominously. "But first yourbrains will scatter figuratively, and then--literally. Too bad!--toobad!"

  All the young birds shuddered.

  "Those big snakes in the South are rather nasty things, too," continuedthe bachelor bird. "I'm used to them, of course, and I've proved dozensof times that there's no such thing as hypnotism; but the effect of asnake's eye on very young and inexperienced birds is inconceivable, andnot to be reconciled to the Darwinian theory or Mendel's law. Whatbetween snakes, hawks, and women's hats, the life of a bird--"

  "Isn't what it used to be."

  The bachelor turned upon his interrupter and scowled.

  "On the contrary," he said, "it's _exactly_ what it used to be. Andthat's the--ahem--of it! Pardon me, ladies."

  "When do you start?" he was asked.

  "Not for a week," he answered pompously. "I have several little odds andends to look into first--" And right in the midst of his speech the callof the South hit him in the middle, you may say. It always does hit abird like that, and it is contagious like girls fainting in a factory.

  The cynical bachelor flew suddenly to the tipmost top of a tree, andpoured forth the whole of his heart and soul in a song of the South."I've got to go--I've got to go," he sang:

  "For it's there that I must be, Where the flower of the pomegranate blazes In the top of the pomegranate tree.

  "And as for the dangers of travel, I'd laugh--if I hadn't to sing. For a gale is a silly old zephyr And a bird is a wonderful thing, A wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful thing."

  Two more verses he sang at the top of his lungs, broke off short with ashrill cry of joy, and took wing.

  Then the south-sickness spread, and even the young birds flew to thetops of trees, and defied gales, snakes, the Statue of Liberty, the boywith the gun, and the female (you wouldn't call her a woman) with theuntrimmed hat. And away they flew, in ones and twos, until there wereonly a few left. One of these hopped on the window-sill in full view,and told the Poor Boy to get up.

  "Don't be setting such an example of sloth," she said, and squeaked ather own temerity and flew away.

  The Poor Boy leaped from bed, and flung his pajamas afar, and rushed forcold water.

  The shower fell heavily with wondrous iciness, and the Poor Boy sangaloud and praised God, who had once more returned him the gift of seeingand hearing. At breakfast he told Martha, and with the utmost gravityrepeated to her everything that the birds had said--for _him_.