Coo-Coo's Second Husband

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Title:     Coo-Coo's Second Husband
Author: Mary Louisa Molesworth [More Titles by Molesworth]

I told you the sad end of poor Frise-tête, but the history of Coo-Coo is by no means finished yet. She had not escaped without any injury, though at first we thought she was not hurt. But as soon as she recovered a little from her dreadful fright we saw to our great sorrow that one of her wings hung down in a most sad and helpless manner. I turned away shuddering.

"Is it quite broked, Mamma?" asked my little brother Charley. He looked at it with the greatest interest and curiosity. "Horrid little boy, I said to myself! And it does seem sometimes as if boys had very little feeling, though I don't really think so of poor Charley.

"Oh, Mamma," I said, still shutting my eyes, "if she is so badly hurt, it would be better to put her out of her agony at once. Couldn't you give her chloroform or some stuff like what they kill horses with in the streets in Paris?"

"It's not so bad as all that," said Mamma cheerfully. "Sally, you mustn't be silly. Open your eyes--there is nothing dreadful to see."

I had to open my eyes then--Mamma was holding Coo-coo tenderly in her hand. I wondered how she had courage to do it. The poor little thing seemed to know her, and to nestle down confidingly.

"I don't think it hurts her except when she tries to stick it out," said Charley.

"No, I don't think it does," said Mamma, "but I'd like some one who understands little birds, to see her."

"If the gracious lady will excuse me saying so," said the landlord's daughter, who was standing close by full of sympathy, "there is a gentleman near here who makes it his business to bring up little canaries from eggs. He is very clever. We might go to see him, and ask him to look at the poor wing."

"Certainly," said Mamma, "that would be a very good idea. But I don't quite know how to take Coo-coo. I am afraid it is not good for her to hold her so long in my hand, and the cage is completely smashed."

"We have an empty cage--a very small one, that used to hang at the door with our old starling," said the good-natured Anna, and off she ran for it.

We settled Coo-coo as well as we could with some cotton-wool for her to rest upon. But once in the cage, so long as she did not attempt to flutter about, she did not seem very bad, and my spirits rose a little. Still we must have seemed rather a doleful procession making our way along the street, for my face and eyes were swollen with crying, and Charley looked very grave, as we followed Mamma and Anna, Mamma carrying the starling's cage containing poor Coo-coo, as if it was the most wonderful treasure that ever was seen. And all the people came out of the shops and houses to look at us, for already the news had spread of the terrible misfortune that had happened to the little "foreign" lady, and several people whose shops we had sometimes been to nodded their heads, and said, "Poor little Miss," very sympathizingly, as we passed. I couldn't help feeling rather ashamed, and I wished my eyes were not quite so red.

It was such a funny place where the gentleman of the canaries, as Anna called him, lived. We went down a very narrow passage, and, across a little court-yard and down another passage and up a rickety stair and at last found ourselves in a room filled with birds--nothing but birds, and all canaries! There were cages and cages full of them--grown up ones and old ones, and baby ones just hatched. Some were singing brilliantly, so that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, and the man who had come forward to meet us took us into another room, a little kitchen, where there were only one or two cages and no noise.

He was a shoemaker as well as a birdfancier--he had on a leather apron, and he had a half-made boot in his hand when we went in. But plainly, what he considered his real calling in life was canaries--I think indeed he thought the world was made for canaries, and he only looked at us with interest because "we belonged to Coo-coo," as Charley said.

"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well. See--this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with oil--so--two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head, and said, yes, she quite understood.

"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing, but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."

I came forward eagerly.

"Mamma," I said, "would he sell us one? I have two marks." A mark is the same as a shilling.

Mamma asked him the question. He looked round his many cages doubtfully. "I did not want to sell any just now," he said, and I really don't think he did. "But it would be a shame for her to pine to death. Yes--I can let you have one of these young birds for three marks. Choose which you like," and he pointed to a cage containing three or four.

"I have only two marks," I whispered.

"And there is a new cage to get," said Charley. But Mamma was very kind.

"I will help you," she said. "Yes, sir, we will take one of these. You are sure they will be friends?"

"No fear," said the man in his queer, jerky way, "and this young bird will sing like a heavenly angel next spring. Will you take him now, or shall I bring him this evening?"

"We have to get a new cage," said Mamma; "I should be glad if you would bring him."

Then we set off again with Coo-coo in the starling's cage, and we had another procession down the street to the ironmonger's shop, where we chose a beautiful cage. It was awfully kind of Mamma, wasn't it?

And that evening after poor little Frise-tête was buried in the garden under a little rose-bush we made the new cage all ready, and Coo-coo and the new bird, whom we fixed to call "Fritz," as he was a German, took up their quarters in it. They were very good friends--indeed Charley and I thought it rather horrid of Coo-coo to be so quickly consoled.

"I don't believe she has any heart at all," I said. "I don't believe a bit that she would have pined alone."

But the "canary-gentleman," every time he came--and he was really very good, he came every two or three days to see how the wing was and would not take any more money--assured us that if she had not had a companion she would have died.

And certainly I must say that Fritz deserved her to like him. He was so good to her. You could scarcely believe a little bird could have had so much sense. For some days she could only move about stiffly, and it was difficult for her to pick up seeds. And just fancy, Fritz used to bring her seeds in his beak and feed her! It was the prettiest sight possible.

Her wing never got quite well, though it left off hurting her. But she never could stretch it out quite evenly with the other. And about a year ago, after two years of peaceful life with Fritz, she died quite suddenly. She was perfectly well the evening before, and early the next morning she was lying in a little rumpled-up heap in a corner, dead! Poor Coo-coo--they thought she died of old age. I can't help wondering where birds go to when they die--they are so innocent!

Still they are very heartless. That very morning beside his poor little dead wife, Fritz was pecking away at his seeds and singing as if nothing were the matter. So we have not troubled to get a new companion for him, and when he dies I don't much think I shall care to keep any more pet birds. He is very alive at present however. He really sings so very loudly sometimes that we are obliged to cover him up with a dark cloth to pretend it is night.

I hear him carrolling away now as brilliantly as possible!

[The end]
Mary Louisa Molesworth's short story: Coo-Coo's Second Husband

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