THE WHITE PIGEON.
THE little town of Somerville, in Ireland, has, within these few years,assumed the neat and cheerful appearance of an English village. Mr.Somerville, to whom this town belongs, wished to inspire his tenantrywith a taste for order and domestic happiness, and took every means inhis power to encourage industrious, well behaved people to settle in hisneighbourhood. When he had finished building a row of good slated housesin his town, he declared that he would let them to the best tenants hecould find, and proposals were publicly sent to him from all parts of thecountry.
By the best tenants, Mr. Somerville did not, however, mean the bestbidders; and many, who had offered an extravagant price for the houses,were surprised to find their proposals rejected. Amongst these was Mr.Cox, an alehouse keeper, who did not bear a very good character.
“Please your honour, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville, “I expected, sinceI bid as fair and fairer for it than any other, that you would have letme the house next the apothecary’s. Was not it fifteen guineas Imentioned in my proposal? and did not your honour give it against me forthirteen?”
“My honour did just so,” replied Mr. Somerville, calmly.
“And please your honour, but I don’t know what it is I or mine have doneto offend you. I’m sure there is not a gentleman in all Ireland I’d gofurther to sarve. Would not I go to Cork to-morrow for the least wordfrom your honour?”
“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Cox, but I have no business at Cork atpresent,” answered Mr. Somerville, drily.
“It is all I wish,” exclaimed Mr. Cox, “that I could find out and lightupon the man that has belied me to your honour.”
“No man has belied you, Mr. Cox, but your nose belies you much, if you donot love drinking a little, and your black eye and cut chin belie youmuch if you do not love quarrelling a little.”
“Quarrel! I quarrel, please your honour! I defy any man, or set of men,ten mile round, to prove such a thing, and I am ready to fight him thatdares to say the like of me. I’d fight him here in your honour’spresence, if he’d only come out this minute, and meet me like a man.”
Here Mr. Cox put himself into a boxing attitude, but observing that Mr.Somerville looked at his threatening gesture with a smile, and thatseveral people, who had gathered round him as he stood in the street,laughed at the proof he gave of his peaceable disposition, he changed hisattitude, and went on to vindicate himself against the charge ofdrinking.
“And as to drink, please your honour, there’s no truth in it. Not a dropof whisky, good or bad, have I touched these six months, except what Itook with Jemmy M’Doole the night I had the misfortune to meet yourhonour coming home from the fair of Ballynagrish.”
To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned away to look atthe bow window of a handsome new inn, which the glazier was at thisinstant glazing. “Please your honour, that new inn is not let, I hear,as yet,” resumed Mr. Cox; “if your honour recollects, you promised tomake me a compliment of it last Seraphtide was twelvemonth.”
“Impossible!” cried Mr. Somerville, “for I had no thoughts of building aninn at that time.”
“Oh, I beg your honour’s pardon but if you’d be just pleased torecollect, it was coming through the gap in the bog meadows, _forenent_Thady O’Connor, you made me the promise—I’ll leave it to him, so I will.”
“But I will not leave it to him, I assure you,” cried Mr. Somerville; “Inever made any such promise. I never thought of letting this inn toyou.”
“Then your honour won’t let me have it?”
“No, you have told me a dozen falsehoods. I do not wish to have you fora tenant.”
“Well, God bless your honour; I’ve no more to say, but God bless yourhonour,” said Mr. Cox; and he walked away, muttering to himself, as heslouched his hat over his face, “I hope I’ll live to be revenged on him!”
Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to look at the newinn, which he expected to see perfectly finished; but he was met by thecarpenter, who, with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of glassin the large bow-window had been broken during the night.
“Ha! perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows, in revenge for my refusing tolet him my house,” said Mr. Somerville; and many of the neighbours, whoknew the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was likeone of his tricks. A boy of about twelve years old, however, steppedforward and said, “I don’t like Mr. Cox, I’m sure; for once he beat mewhen he was drunk; but, for all that, no one should be accusedwrongfully. He could not be the person that broke these windows lastnight, for he was six miles off. He slept at his cousin’s last night,and he has not returned home yet. So I think he knows nothing of thematter.”
Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, andobserving that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house doorwas opened, he asked him whether he would like to go in and see the newhouse. “Yes, sir,” said the boy, “I should like to go up those stairs,and to see what I should come to.”
“Up with you, then!” said Mr. Somerville; and the boy ran up the stairs.He went from room to room with great expressions of admiration anddelight. At length, as he was examining one of the garrets, he wasstartled by a fluttering noise over his head; and looking up, he saw awhite pigeon, who, frightened at his appearance, began to fly round andround the room, till it found its way out of the door, and flew into thestaircase.
The carpenter was speaking to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place ofthe stairs; but, the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off inthe midst of a speech about _the nose_ of the stairs, and exclaimed,“There he is, please your honour! There’s he that has done all thedamage to our bow-window—that’s the very same wicked white pigeon thatbroke the church windows last Sunday was se’nnight; but he’s down for itnow; we have him safe, and I’ll chop his head off, as he deserves, thisminute.”
“Stay! O stay! don’t chop his head off: he does not deserve it,” criedthe boy, who came running out of the garret with the greatesteagerness—“_I_ broke your window, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville. “Ibroke your window with this ball; but I did not know that I had done it,till this moment, I assure you, or I should have told you before. Don’tchop his head off,” added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the whitepigeon in his hands.
“No,” said Mr. Somerville, “the pigeon’s head shall not be chopped off,nor yours either, my good boy, for breaking a window. I am persuaded byyour open, honest countenance, that you are speaking the truth; but prayexplain this matter to us; for you have not made it quite clear. Howhappened it that you could break my windows without knowing it? and howcame you to find it out at last?”
“Sir,” said the boy, “if you’ll come up here, I’ll show you all I know,and how I came to know it.”
Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed to a pane ofglass that was broken in a small window that looked out upon a piece ofwaste ground behind the house. Upon this piece of waste ground thechildren of the village often used to play. “We were playing there atball yesterday evening,” continued the boy, addressing himself to Mr.Somerville, “and one of the lads challenged me to hit a mark in the wall,which I did; but he said I did not hit it, and bade me give him up myball as the forfeit. This I would not do; and when he began to wrestlewith me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. He ranto look for it in the street, but could not find it, which I was veryglad of; but I was very sorry just now to find it myself lying upon thisheap of shavings, sir, under this broken window; for, as soon as I saw itlying there, I knew I must have been the person that broke the window;and through this window came the white pigeon. Here’s one of his whitefeathers sticking in the gap.”
“Yes,” said the carpenter, “and in the bow-window room below there’splenty of his feathers to be seen; for I’ve just been down to look. Itwas the pigeon broke _them_ windows, sure enough.”
“But he could not have got in
had I not broke this little window,” saidthe boy, eagerly; “and I am able to earn sixpence a day, and I’ll pay forall the mischief, and welcome. The white pigeon belongs to a poorneighbour, a friend of ours, who is very fond of him, and I would nothave him killed for twice as much money.”
“Take the pigeon, my honest, generous lad,” said Mr. Somerville, “andcarry him back to your neighbour. I forgive him all the mischief he hasdone me, tell your friend, for your sake. As to the rest, we can havethe windows mended; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn foryourself.”
“That’s what he never did yet,” said the carpenter. “Many’s the sixpencehe earns, but not a halfpenny goes into his own pocket: it goes everyfarthing to his poor father and mother. Happy for them to have such ason!”
“More happy for him to have such a father and mother,” exclaimed the boy.“Their good days they took all the best care of me that was to be had forlove or money, and would, if I would let them, go on paying for myschooling now, falling as they be in the world; but I must learn to mindthe shop now. Good morning to you, sir; and thank you kindly,” said heto Mr. Somerville.
“And where does this boy live, and who are his father and mother? Theycannot live in town,” said Mr. Somerville, “or I should have heard ofthem.”
“They are but just come into the town, please your honour,” said thecarpenter. “They lived formerly upon Counsellor O’Donnel’s estate; butthey were ruined, please your honour, by taking a joint lease with a man,who fell afterwards into bad company, ran out all he had, so could notpay the landlord; and these poor people were forced to pay his share andtheir own too, which almost ruined them. They were obliged to give upthe land; and now they have furnished a little shop in this town withwhat goods they could afford to buy with the money they got by the saleof their cattle and stock. They have the good-will of all who know them;and I am sure I hope they will do well. The boy is very ready in theshop, though he said only that he could earn sixpence a day. He writes agood hand, and is quick at casting up accounts, for his age. Besides, heis likely to do well in the world, because he is never in idle company,and I’ve known him since he was two foot high, and never heard of histelling a lie.”
“This is an excellent character of the boy, indeed,” said Mr. Somerville,“and from his behaviour this morning I am inclined to think that hedeserves all your praises.”
Mr. Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this poorfamily, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully determined toassist them if he should find them such as they had been represented.
In the meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O’Neill, went to returnthe white pigeon to its owner. “You have saved its life,” said the womanto whom it belonged, “and I’ll make you a present of it.” Brian thankedher; and he from that day began to grow fond of the pigeon. He alwaystook care to scatter some oats for it in his father’s yard; and thepigeon grew so tame at last that it would hop about the kitchen, and eatoff the same trencher with the dog.
Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse himself withreading some little books which the schoolmaster who formerly taught himarithmetic was so good as to lend him. Amongst these he one evening metwith a little book full of the history of birds and beasts; he lookedimmediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned amongst the birds,and, to his great joy, he found a full description and history of hisfavourite bird.
“So, Brian, I see your schooling has not been thrown away upon you; youlike your book, I see, when you have no master over you to bid you read,”said his father, when he came in and saw Brian reading his book veryattentively.
“Thank you for having me taught to read, father,” said Brian. “Here I’vemade a great discovery: I’ve found out in this book, little as it looks,father, a most curious way of making a fortune; and I hope it will makeyour fortune, father; and if you’ll sit down, I’ll tell it to you.”
Mr. O’Neill, in hopes of pleasing his son rather than in the expectationof having his fortune made, immediately sat down to listen; and his sonexplained to him, that he had found in his book an account of pigeons whocarried notes and letters: “and, father,” continued Brian, “I find mypigeon is of this sort; and I intend to make my pigeon carry messages.Why should not he? If other pigeons have done so before him, I think heis as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as any pigeon in theworld. I shall begin to teach him to-morrow morning; and then, father,you know people often pay a great deal for sending messengers; and no boycan run, no horse can gallop, so fast as a bird can fly; therefore thebird must be the best messenger, and I should be paid the best price.Hey, father?”
“To be sure, to be sure, my boy,” said his father, laughing; “I wish youmay make the best messenger in Ireland of your pigeon; but all I beg, mydear boy, is that you won’t neglect our shop for your pigeon; for I’ve anotion we have a better chance of making a fortune by the shop than bythe white pigeon.”
Brian never neglected the shop; but in his leisure hours he amusedhimself with training his pigeon; and after much patience he at lastsucceeded so well, that one day he went to his father and offered to sendhim word by his pigeon what beef was a pound in the market ofBallynagrish, where he was going.
“The pigeon will be home long before me, father; and he will come in atthe kitchen window, and light upon the dresser; then you must untie thelittle note which I shall have tied under his left wing, and you’ll knowthe price of beef directly.”
The pigeon carried his message well; and Brian was much delighted withhis success. He soon was employed by the neighbours, who were aroused byBrian’s fondness of his swift messenger; and soon the fame of the whitepigeon was spread amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs ofSomerville.
At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes met to drink,and to concert plans of robberies. Their place of meeting was at theale-house of Mr. Cox, the man who, as our readers may remember, wasoffended by Mr. Somerville’s hinting that he was fond of drinking and ofquarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been refused the newinn.
Whilst these men were talking over their scheme, one of them observed,that one of their companions was not arrived. Another said, “No.” “He’ssix miles off,” said another; and a third wished that he could make himhear at that distance. This turned the discourse upon the difficultiesof sending messages secretly and quickly. Cox’s son, a lad of aboutnineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier-pigeon,and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession.Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O’Neill, and tried, atfirst by persuasion and afterwards by threats, to prevail upon him togive up the pigeon. Brian was resolute in his refusal, more especiallywhen the petitioner began to bully him.
“If we can’t have it by fair means, we will by foul,” said Cox; and a fewdays afterwards the pigeon was gone. Brian searched for it invain—inquired from all the neighbours if they had seen it, and applied,but to no purpose, to Cox. He swore that he knew nothing about thematter. But this was false, for it was he who during the night-time hadstolen the white pigeon. He conveyed it to his employers, and theyrejoiced that they had gotten it into their possession, as they thoughtit would serve them for a useful messenger.
Nothing can be more shortsighted than cunning. The very means whichthese people took to secure secrecy were the means of bringing theirplots to light. They endeavoured to teach the pigeon, which they hadstolen, to carry messages for them in a part of the country at somedistance from Somerville; and when they fancied that it had forgotten itsformer habits, and its old master, they thought that they might ventureto employ him nearer home. The pigeon, however, had a better memory thanthey imagined. They loosed him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrishin hopes that he would stop at the house of Cox’s cousin, which was onits road between Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though hehad been purposely fed at this house for a week before this trial, didnot stop there, but
flew on to his old master’s house in Somerville, andpecked at the kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do. Hisfather, fortunately, was within hearing, and poor Brian ran with thegreatest joy to open the window and to let him in.
“O, father, here’s my white pigeon come back of his own accord,”exclaimed Brian; “I must run and show him to my mother.” At this instantthe pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wingsa small and very dirty looking billet. He opened it in his father’spresence. The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were atlength deciphered:—
“Thare are eight of uz sworn; I send yo at botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate ’ouse. Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite—kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever yours,
MURTAGH COX, JUN.”
Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and sonexclaimed, “Let us go and show it to Mr. Somerville.” Before they setout, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that heshould not be seen by anyone but themselves. Mr. Somerville, inconsequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for theapprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house. When theywere all safely lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O’Neill andhis father; and after thanking them for the service they had done him, hecounted out ten bright guineas upon a table, and pushed them towardsBrian, saying, “I suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas wasoffered some weeks ago for the discovery of John Mac Dermod, one of theeight men whom we have just taken up?”
“No, sir,” said Brian; “I did not know it, and I did not bring that noteto you to get ten guineas, but because I thought it was right. I don’twant to be paid for doing it.”
“That’s my own boy,” said his father. “We thank you, sir; but we’ll nottake the money; _I don’t like to take the price of blood_.”
“I know the difference, my good friends,” said Mr. Somerville, “betweenvile informers and courageous, honest men.”
“Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we arehonest.”
“And, what is more,” said Mr. Somerville, “I have a notion that you wouldcontinue to be honest, even if you were rich. Will you, my good lad,”continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment’s pause—“will you trust me withyour pigeon a few days?”
“O, and welcome, sir,” said the boy, with a smile; and he brought thepigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, and nobody saw him.
A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O’Neill’s house, and bidhim and his son follow him. They followed till he stopped opposite tothe bow-window of the new inn. The carpenter had just put up a sign,which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.
“Go up the ladder, will you?” said Mr. Somerville to Brian, “and pullthat sign straight, for it hangs quite crooked. There, now it isstraight. Now pull off the carpet, and let us see the new sign.”
The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted upon thesign, and the name of O’Neill in large letters underneath.
“Take care you do not tumble down and break your neck upon this joyfuloccasion,” said Mr. Somerville, who saw that Brian’s surprise was toogreat for his situation. “Come down from the ladder, and wish yourfather joy of being master of the new inn called the ‘White Pigeon.’ AndI wish him joy of having such a son as you are. Those who bring up theirchildren well, will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor or rich.”