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    The Story of Scraggles

    [Illustration: Scraggles and “The ’Fessor.” FRONTISPIECE.]




    The Story of Scraggles

    By George Wharton James


    Author of

    “In and Around the Grand Canyon,”
    “In and Out of the Old Missions of California,”
    “The Wonders of the Colorado Desert,” etc.


    _Illustrated from Drawings by Sears Gallagher and from Photographs_


    Boston
    Little, Brown, and Company
    1906


    _Copyright_, _1906_,
    BY EDITH E. FARNSWORTH.


    _All rights reserved_


    Published October, 1906


    THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




_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 God. Thoreau, 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
anticipation 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_





_CONTENTS_


    CHAPTER                                                  PAGE
       I. HOW I CAME TO LIVE IN A HOUSE                         1
      II. MY FIRST WEEK IN-DOORS                               11
     III. MY SECOND WEEK IN THE HOUSE                          23
      IV. MY FIRST SAND BATH                                   30
       V. ON THE FESSOR’S DESK AND MY HIDING-PLACE             35
      VI. PREENING MY FEATHERS                                 43
     VII. GOING OUT OF DOORS                                   48
    VIII. ON FESSOR’S BED                                      56
      IX. GOING FOR A WALK                                     62
       X. UNCLE HERBERT’S VISIT                                66
      XI. MY ILLNESS                                           70
     XII. SCRAGGLES’ LAST DAY                                  76
    XIII. HOW THE STORY OF SCRAGGLES CAME TO BE WRITTEN        81




_ILLUSTRATIONS_


    Scraggles and “The ’Fessor”                           _Frontispiece_
    “I saw happy little birds outside”                        _Page_  12
    “The cutest hiding-place in the world”                            40
    “At first I thought it was another little bird”                   43
    “I used to roost on it a great deal”                              55
    “I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else than right in his hand”      71




The Story of Scraggles




_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 shell 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, nobody 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 nobody.”

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 glass. I tried again and again,
but always bumped my bill hard against the glass 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.

[Illustration: “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,”
and it has a tiny white nut in it that I have heard Fessor say is “the
sweetest nut in existence.” Now I don’t know what “in existence”
means, but I do know that the little white nut he gave me was the most
delicious morsel I had ever tasted in my life. And how do you think
he gave it to me? I think he must have been a mother-bird once, for
he did as near like what my own mother used to do as he could. He
chewed up the nut until it was all soft and sweet and warm, and then
gave me a piece of it. It was _so_ good! oh, so good! and when I
cheeped for some more, he put his lips down to me with a large piece
of nut all ready for me to eat. Well, at first I didn’t know just what
to do. He had such a long black beard, and his moustaches almost
covered his lips, that I felt “kind o’ scared,” yet when I looked up
into his large dark eyes, they beamed upon me so kindly and gently
that I thought I would risk it; so I made a quick dash at the nut, got
a bill full, and then drew back.

Fessor laughed at me and said: “You poor, scared little thing!” And
he said it so gently that I felt comforted; and so, when he came near
to me again with his lips full of nut, I went quite courageously up
and pecked away several times.

From that day on I never seemed to be really afraid of him. Sometimes
the old fear came back for a little while, and I scampered and hid
behind the desk; and at other times, when he tried to pick me up, I
would instinctively run from him; and if he followed me too quickly, I
would spring from the desk and go fluttering to the floor. But, you
see, that was because he didn’t understand I was a little, tiny bird,
and had to get used to him by degrees. When he moved quietly and
gently I didn’t get scared; but I suppose it takes a big man a long
time to learn to move easily and gently as a bird does.

Every night he put me to bed in the Indian basket, wrapping me up as
carefully and tenderly as if I were his own baby, all the time telling
me in man talk that I needn’t be afraid of him, and that he wouldn’t
hurt me for the world.

One day I had quite an exciting experience. I heard Fessor say to
Edith: “I’m sure this little birdie ought to have some fresh, out-door
air. I’m going to take her out. Come with me and see that she doesn’t
get away.” Now I had never thought of such a thing until he suggested
it. Of course, I had been uncomfortable in the house, and I wished
often that I had had a loving father and mother with a home nest of my
own to which I could go, but, since they had so heartlessly deserted
me, I had not thought of trying to get away from my kind human
friends.

Yet it was wonderfully strange how I felt as soon as I got
out-of-doors. A new-old something seemed to come into me, and I’m
quite sure that if my wings had been strong enough, I should have
flown away regardless of what Fessor had thought or said. I did hop
and flutter and try to run into the tall grass, and I tried--oh! how I
tried--to fly. But it was all in vain. They were very kind to me, yet
would not allow me to run into the grass and hide, as I wanted. I
scratched around on the ground a little, and then Fessor snapped his
thumb and finger--a thing he often did--and said: “Now, little
Scraggles, I think it’s quite time you went in again.”

That was the first time he took me out, but by no means the last. Soon
we began to go out every day. He would take me on to the lawn and sit
on the steps and watch me as I looked at the grass and the flowers and
the wonderful birds flying in the trees. I couldn’t help watching them
and trying to imitate them. It was no use, though, for my poor wing
would not let me fly.




_Chapter IV_

_My First Sand Bath_


From now on we went out every day when it was fine, and we grew to
understand each other more and more. When Fessor came into the den I
used to chirp and tell him how glad I was to see him. Then he would
snap his fingers and I would run towards him, and when he put his hand
down to the floor, I would jump in, and he would lift me up to the
desk. Then, if he had a few minutes to spare, he would chew up pinion
nuts for me and let me eat them from his lips; or, if he felt hurried,
he would give me three or four and let me eat them myself. I soon
grew to enjoy being on his desk. It was so nice to hear him talk! And
I think it must have been because he had two or three dictionaries
always at hand that I soon grew to understand lots of words. You see,
I used to hop about on the dictionaries hour after hour, and eat from
them, and often when Fessor opened the pages and pointed with his
finger at certain words, he would read them aloud, as he said, to get
the different pronunciations; so that, as I looked where he pointed, I
soon knew the words pretty well myself.

You see, I was different from other birds. If I had been out of doors
all the time with my own father and mother and other birds, I should
have known nothing of men and women talk. I should have learned the
things that out-door birds learn,--all about the clouds and winds, and
bugs and flies and worms and insects, and how to get my own meals. But
as it was, I had nothing to do with getting my own food, and so I
naturally took to human knowledge in order to occupy my mind and my
time.

One day Fessor said to Edith: “I’m going to give Scraggles a sand
pile. She ought to have something to take a bath in.” Wasn’t that
funny? I didn’t know what he meant. A sand pile, and a bath! But I was
soon to learn. In an hour or so he came in with a large box-cover full
of sand. He spread out several newspapers on the floor, and then put
the sand box on top of them. Well, as soon as I saw the glistening
stuff in the sand, I thought it must be something good to eat, and I
went and pecked at it so hard that the sand filled up my bill, and got
into my eyes and nose so that I was nearly choked. I pecked at it
again and got another dose, and I danced and shook my head real hard
in order to get the tickling stuff out of my nose and bill. Fessor and
Edith stood by looking on, and how they laughed! They laughed, and
laughed, and laughed again, for I had to scratch my head all over with
my foot to make it feel comfortable after all that sand.

Then Fessor came and said: “Now you wait, Scraggles, and I’ll show you
how to take a sand bath.” And he took a handful of the sand and
sprinkled it all over me, and as it trickled through my feathers onto
my skin, how good it felt! He did this several times, and then all at
once I thought I would scratch a place for myself in the sand and then
throw the sand with my feet all over my body under my wings. And that
was delightful. It was a new sensation, and a good and pleasant one. I
felt so fresh and bright afterwards that every day, directly Fessor
came into the room after lunch, I was ready for a bath. He nearly
always sprinkled the sand over me, and he must have enjoyed it almost
as much as I did, for sometimes he stayed with me at the sand pile a
full half-hour.




_Chapter V_

_On the Fessor’s Desk and My Hiding-Place_


Fessor used to spend an awful lot of time at his desk. The time he
wasted there was more than I could ever tell, for he would be hours at
a time doing nothing but moving that pen across the paper, making
those nasty little dark scratches that in time I learned were called
writing. When he came into his den and sat down at the desk I would
come to his feet and call, and he would lower his hand for me to jump
into, and then he would lift me up on the desk. I generally hunted
first for a few pinion nuts, after which I wanted Fessor to play with
me. Sometimes he was so busy with his “paper scratching” that he
wouldn’t reply when I chirped to him. Then I got right on his paper,
and hopped along between the hand that held his blotter and the hand
with which he wrote, and there, right under his very nose, and
generally on the spot where he wanted to write, would stand and ask
him why he didn’t play with me. Sometimes he gently pushed me aside or
lifted me out of his way, but generally he smiled at me--and I did
love to see him smile--and would let me perch on his fingers or go
through some antic or other, such as carrying me around the room on
the top of his head, or holding me in his hand and swinging me to and
fro as if I were in a nest on a bough swinging hard in a storm. Those
were great times.

But sometimes that bothering old pen annoyed me, and I would seize it
in my bill as Fessor made it scratch on the paper. As I held on he
went on writing, and that used to jerk my head up and down, and, of
course, it dragged me right across the paper. But I didn’t intend to
let go; I wanted him to stop and talk to me, so back and forth we’d
go, he trying to write with me holding onto the pen, and I determined
not to let go, my head bobbing up and down to the movements of his
writing and my feet slipping over the paper and smearing the ink,
until I got too tired to hold on and had to let go.

Now and again he was determined not to let me touch that pen, and then
we had a time. He made a barricade of his left hand to protect his
writing hand, and tried to keep me away like that, but I showed him
how spunky a baby sparrow could be. I pecked at the pen through his
fingers, and watched for the least opening, and the moment he gave me
a chance, I darted in and seized the pen. Then he tried to shake me
off, generally laughing at me, and calling me a queer little birdie
all the time, and he even lifted me up while I held on to the pen with
my beak, and in that way tried to discourage me from fighting it. But
I don’t think he ever knew how I disliked that wretched little stick.
Why should it be in Fessor’s hands all the time? I wanted him to take
me in his hands and go out for a walk with me, and I didn’t like his
spending so much time pushing that pen back and forth.

One day, after we had had a pretty hard fight with the pen, I made a
very strange discovery. When Fessor had gone away I saw that the
writing on some of the sheets of paper was about me, and I’m going to
let you read it. Here is what he wrote:

    “Just now I put her on the sash that she might enjoy the
    sunshine, but the moment I began to write she flew down upon my
    desk and seized the pen with eager fury. To protect my pen as I
    write I have barricaded my writing hand with my left hand and
    the little creature is making desperate and frantic efforts to
    get inside. Every crevice she attacks, and tries to worm her way
    in, struggling with invincible determination and occasionally
    pecking at me, and seizing the end of my finger in her bill and
    pulling and tugging at it ferociously. Just before I reached
    this last word she learned how she might outwit me. She sprang
    upon my writing wrist over the barricade, seized the pen, and
    held on. Again I put her out. Again she sprang over. This time
    when I evicted her, she sought to crawl in under my left hand,
    and now stands, with crest upraised in anger, by my right hand,
    apparently thinking over a new plan of campaign.

    “A pencil attracts her somewhat in the same way, but after a few
    onslaughts upon the moving pencil she gives it up; but now the
    battle on the pen has lasted for quite a number of minutes, and
    though defeated at every turn, she comes back again and again.”

One day I got very cross with Fessor for writing so much, and I
determined to hide from him. By this time I knew the “den” pretty
well, and I had found, “way back” in the big box in the corner, where
the piles of big envelopes and loose papers were, the cutest
hiding-place in the world. It was a kind of tiny house formed by
the piles of papers and I could just crawl into it through a narrow
place, and then I had room to move around easily, and I knew no one
could find me. So I slipped off from the desk on this particular day
and dodged into the box and hid myself. Fessor didn’t see where I
went, and pretty soon he began to wonder where I was, for he looked
all around and went and peeked behind the desk and on the book stand
and other places where I often “played hide,” but of course he
couldn’t find me. I stood as still all the time as a bird knows how,
and never let on that I knew he was seeking for me; and so, after a
while, he gave up the search.

[Illustration: “The cutest hiding-place in the world.” _Page_ 40.]

And I didn’t let him know where I had my hiding-place. He thought it
was in that box, but he never did know. So it was great fun once in a
while to slip away and hide, and then when I was hungry suddenly pop
out (without his seeing me), run to his feet, chirp and call, and say:
“Here’s Scraggles, as hungry as a hunter.” Then he would reach his
hand down, lift me up to the desk, and pretend to scold me: “Where
have you been, you naughty little bird? I’ve been hunting everywhere
for you, and couldn’t find you!” But I wouldn’t let on. I’d just peek
at him, first out of one eye and then out of the other, as much as to
ask: “Don’t you wish you knew?”

[Illustration: “At first I thought it was another little bird.” _Page_
43.]




_Chapter VI_

_Preening my Feathers_


I don’t know what it was that made Fessor laugh so when I tried to
“spruce up” and make myself look as pretty as possible. Of course, I
know full well that I was not a pretty bird. Perhaps I ought to tell
you just exactly how I did look. Now you needn’t laugh and think I
don’t know, for I do. I’ve seen myself in the mirror lots of times.
Fessor and Edith used to take me and stand me before the glass, and
while at first I thought it was another little bird, and I tried to
talk to and play with it, I soon learned it was only a picture of
myself. So, as I looked at myself quite often, I’ll tell you just how
I did appear when I was three months old. My baby bill was gone and I
looked more like a full-grown bird, but my feathers were still as
scraggedy and raggedy as ever. My body and tail were a mousey-brown,
with the wing feathers white and tipped with brown. My neck and breast
were partially covered with soft, beautiful down of mouse color, and
my head feathers were brown, with just one half-white feather in the
centre which looked like a tiny crest. I was the smallest little bird
ever seen, I guess,--I mean a sparrow,--and no more like the big,
healthy, pert, and bouncing street sparrows than a delicate terrier is
like a big bull-dog.

I was going to tell you about the way Fessor laughed when I tried to
spruce up and preen my feathers. But I have found on his desk
something he wrote, and I shall let you read it for yourselves. He
doesn’t tell, though, how he used to sit there and laugh and laugh and
laugh, until sometimes I almost thought he’d laugh his head off. And
why he should laugh to see a tiny little bird like me make myself look
nice, I don’t know. He used to spend time enough himself some days in
making himself look neat. He’d put on his dress-suit and his pretty
tie, and see that his boots were so finely polished, and all that kind
of thing, so why should he laugh so at me?

This is what he wrote:

    “Some days she will come and preen her feathers by my side as I
    write. It is her joy to sit on the very sheet upon which I am
    engaged, and for five or ten minutes such performances! With
    first one foot, then the other, she scratches her head with
    inconceivable rapidity. Then, getting a little oil from her
    receptacle, she begins to preen; under the left wing, down each
    feather, occasionally darting her bill like lightning upon some
    other feather that appears to her to need attention. Such
    screwing of the neck, twisting of the body, standing on tiptoes
    to get to the feathers on her body, such stretching to reach the
    tips! After it is done to her content, she gives herself several
    little shakes-down all over, quick flutterings and flappings of
    her wings, and settles down for awhile only to begin again and
    go through the whole performance once more if something suggests
    it ought to be done.”

Fessor also thought the way I stretched myself was very funny, though
I could see nothing funny in it; so I will let you read what he wrote
about that:

    “To see her stretch one would think her tiny body was as full of
    sleep as that of a giant. First, one leg goes sprawling out as
    far as she can reach, and, with a spasmodic little kick, she
    brings it back into position, to push out the other. Then each
    wing in succession is stretched out, and sometimes, whether
    purposely or not I do not know, she lets the feathers comb
    through her claw.

    “But the most interesting of her ‘stretchings’ comes when I put
    her on the window-sill and something goes on outside that she
    becomes interested in and wishes to see. She stretches up her
    little legs until it appears as if she were on stilts, and then,
    elongating her neck to more than twice its ordinary length, she
    veritably appears to be a tall bird with a long neck. Her
    excitement at such times is intense. She prances and cranes, and
    looks first out of one eye and then out of the other, hops back
    and forth, dances up and down, and generally shows a tremendous
    interest for so small a body.”




_Chapter VII_

_Going Out of Doors_


Now I must tell you about some of our daily walks. Fessor used to say
to me: “Scraggles, you must go out of doors more, and watch the other
birds and learn to fly. I want you to fly. How can I turn you loose to
be a happy little bird in God’s great free out-of-doors if you don’t
learn to fly? Come along now and see how the other birds do it, and
then try for yourself.”

Then he would snap his fingers for me and I would come and jump into
his hand and he would carry me out of doors where the sparrows and
other birds seemed to be having so good a time. Of course, I watched
them and was very much interested in them. I used to fairly long to
fly as they did, and as they skimmed through the air I would stretch
out my legs and wings and try to imitate them with all my might and
main. Yet it was no use. My bad wing did not get strong, and it would
not hold me up. Then Fessor would put me down on the ground near where
a lot of sparrows would be pecking and chattering away on the road,
and I felt that he wanted me to make friends with them. So I hopped
toward them as fast as I could, and I chirped, and cheeped, and
twittered, but, strange to say, never a one of them paid the slightest
attention to me. They hardly ever looked at me, and never once said:
“How do you do?” As soon as I reached them they flew away and left me
to myself. Wasn’t that cruel? It seemed to me it was, but Fessor was
always there near by, and would comfort me so sweetly by telling me
not to mind; and as he snapped his fingers, I ran back to him, jumped
into his hand, and felt comforted as he made me snuggle up to his
whiskers, which I soon learned were almost as soft and warm as my
mother’s feathers used to be.

Sometimes he would go indoors and tell Mamma that “her efforts were
pitiable,” whatever that may mean, and then they would both be so
gentle and kind and sweet to me, and talk so soothingly that I felt:
“Well, even if I can’t fly, I have dear friends who love me very much
and try to make me happy!” and that made me feel much better.

And still, any one would have known that Fessor was once a boy, a
real, teasing, mean kind of a boy, for now and again he seemed to
delight in teasing me. I must confess I got used to it, and didn’t
mind it very much, but at first it distressed me quite a little, and I
felt hurt when he just stood there and laughed at me.

One day he had taken me out onto the lawn--as he often did--and I was
hopping about, when suddenly he took off his great big, broad-brimmed
sombrero and threw it right over me, so that it fell to the ground a
few feet beyond me. I was _so_ scared! I saw that black thing skimming
over me and thought it was a dreadful something coming to take me and
kill me, perhaps; so, though I felt weak all over, I called up all my
strength and hopped and fluttered right up to Fessor and jumped for
safety upon his foot.

Then he seemed to be ashamed of himself, and said something to Mamma
about its being “too bad to tease a poor little Scraggles like that.”
So you see, I knew he had done it to tease me. But he picked me up and
loved me so sweetly and gave me two pinion nuts which he chewed up for
me, so that I couldn’t help forgiving him.

Oh! and I mustn’t forget to tell you about how he used to dig up slugs
and worms for me. While I would be hopping about on the lawn he would
go to a corner of the lawn and begin to dig. As soon as I saw him
digging I didn’t wait to be called, but just hopped over there as
fast as I could, and watched. Sometimes he saw the worm or slug or egg
sooner than I did, but generally I had seen it and pecked it up before
he knew it was there. It was great fun every day to go out and have a
feast like that. I believe he enjoyed it as much as I did, and of
course it was real good to me, for little birds do like slugs and
worms, provided they are not too big for them to swallow. When Fessor
would turn up a great, big, long worm and I would try to swallow it,
he would laugh at me so funnily. But it was no fun to me, I can assure
you, to try to swallow a worm longer than myself. And so I had to go
to work with my bill and cut him up into smaller pieces, and that
sometimes made me very tired.

Now and again Fessor would take me over to a neighbor’s whom he called
“Friar Tuck.”[2] He would say to me in his funny way: “Now, Miss
Scraggles, I am the bold and daring Robin Hood. You are a maiden who
has fallen into my hands, and you are going to marry me, forsooth.
Come along, and we will hie ourselves away to Friar Tuck and bid the
jolly priest wed us!” Then snap! would go his fingers. I would run
towards him, and he would pick me up, and off we would go.

    [2] Note by the Fessor: My neighbor’s name was Tuck, and I meant
        no disrespect by calling him Friar Tuck.

I don’t think the Tuck family--there were three of them, just as there
were three in our house--cared very much for me, though they used to
say I was a queer little bird. I didn’t hop around there very much.
I generally stayed with Fessor. I felt safer in his hand than anywhere
else.

[Illustration: “I used to roost on it a great deal.” _Page_ 55.]

One day when Fessor and Edith and I were out on the lawn, Edith said:
“Why don’t you get a bough for Scraggles to roost on?” I don’t know
what Fessor replied, but that afternoon Edith brought a bough with
quite a number of branches on it, and put it down in the den for me. I
used to roost on it a great deal after that, though there were times
when I didn’t feel very well that I got more comfort out of a pair of
Fessor’s shoes. But that is another story.




_Chapter VIII_

_On Fessor’s Bed_


As a rule, Fessor was at work at his desk long, dark hours before I
was ready to get up in the morning. I would hear him come quietly into
the den, so as not to wake Mamma and Edith, and then the clock would
strike twice, or three times, and I soon learned that that meant it
was a long time before I had to get up. But some mornings he would be
quite late, and once or twice he went down to the office (as he called
it when he went away to be gone all day) and never saw me at all until
night. Well, I didn’t like that at all, so one morning when he was
not at the desk when I came from my hiding-place, I went out into the
hall in search of him. Not far from the den door I found another
doorway, and I went through it into the room. It turned out to be
Fessor’s bedroom. He was in bed and fast asleep. That is, I think he
must have been asleep by the noise he made, for he slept out loud
worse than a humming bee I had once heard. I gave a loud, quick chirp.
He didn’t answer, so I called several times, making my voice louder
and louder at each call; until at last, with a stretch and a yawn, he
threw his arm out of the bed and opened his hand for me to jump in.
When he lifted me up on the bed he wanted to know what I meant, such a
raggedy, scraggedy little wretch, by coming and waking him up. I
didn’t tell him, but I just climbed up over his chest onto his chin
and began to peck at his white teeth, and when he tried to catch me I
ran and hid in his neck behind his whiskers. Then he bent his head
over and held me so lovingly tight, that I was sorry when he let me
go. I pecked his neck and he squeezed me between his cheek and his
shoulder, and did it several times.

When I jumped onto his chin again I thought I would pinch his lip, so
I took tight hold. My, how he did jump! And then when I pinched again,
he tried to scare me all into little pieces. What do you think he did?
He opened his mouth and filled himself full of air, and then blew me
just as hard as he could. I was scared for a moment, but when I saw
his dancing, merry, sparkling eyes I knew it was all fun, and I went
for his lips again. But he dodged his head so that I couldn’t get at
them. He said I pinched too hard, but I don’t believe that, do you?
For how could such a tiny little bird hurt so big a man?

Then we had a new game. He stretched out on his back, raised up his
knees, and took me and perched me right on top of them. He said I was
on a high mountain with a valley behind, and a valley before, and a
canyon on each side of me. And then he made an earthquake come. He
moved his knees up and down quickly and made me jump. You know I
couldn’t fly, but I jumped real hard, and I came rolling and tumbling
down the mountain side into Paradise Valley, which was the name he
gave to the valley in front. The next time he did it I tumbled off
backwards, and that was the Valley of Despair, for he couldn’t reach
me, he said, and I had to crawl out myself. What fun it was!

One day when we were playing this game I rolled right off from his
knees, off the bed, onto the floor; and I went with such a bump! Then
he said I had fallen into the Grand Canyon, and he called out to the
Indians to come and catch me and bring me back to him. Of course it
was all fun, for he threw his arm out of the bed, snapped his fingers,
and gave me his hand, and I was soon nestling snug and warm against
his chin and neck. That was such a nice place to be! I used to love to
go and catch him in bed, for then I could peck his nose, and ears,
and lips, and the white hairs in his beard, and whenever I did that he
always snuggled me up close to him and called me his dear, darling
little Scraggles.




_Chapter IX_

_Going for a Walk_


From all this you can see how dear friends we had already become. So
much so, that I was always very lonesome when Fessor had to go away;
and several times after he had left the den, and the door downstairs
had shut to, I would go out into the hall and call for him, and see if
I could find him anywhere. Mamma and Edith were down in the kitchen,
so they never heard me; but one day Fessor found out that I was in the
habit of looking for him, for he went to the bath-room at the end of
the great, long hall in order to refill my saucer with clean water. I
had been there once or twice all alone, so I followed him. I had to
hop and skip and flutter along pretty quickly, for he was such a big
man and had such long legs. He didn’t dream I was so close to him, and
when I gave a little chirp as I stood there by his feet, he jumped up
and pretty nearly trod on me. “What!” he exclaimed. “What are you
doing here? You little, darling rascal!” And then he stooped down and
gave me a hand to pick me up and love me.

Ever after that I followed him every chance I got, and he seemed to
like it. Even when we went out of doors he let me walk after him. I
call it walk, but you know it was not a walk exactly like men and
women walk. I had to hop and flutter my wings, and I really don’t
know just what word you would use to describe how I travelled along.
Fessor said I neither walked, ran, hopped, skipped, jumped, nor flew,
and yet my movement was a mixture of all of these. I guess he knows,
too; for I heard Uncle Herbert say he was a very learned man, and knew
a great deal about many things.

Oh! I haven’t told you yet about Uncle Herbert’s visit. I will tell
you that pretty soon.

People used to see us when we were out walking together, and some of
them laughed, and others smiled in a queer kind of way with tears in
their eyes. But nobody tried to hurt me, for Fessor was there, and he
was so big that I knew I was safe every moment when I was with him.
How I did enjoy those walks! We went out nearly every day, and he
picked out the places where the sun shone, for he said the warm
sunshine was good for birdies as well as for men and women.




_Chapter X_

_Uncle Herbert’s Visit_


One day Mamma came up-stairs to the den and said her brother Herbert
was coming. Fessor and Edith were both glad, and as Edith called him
Uncle Herbert, I always thought of him in the same way. We were all
quite excited when he came. Such huggings and kissings and shaking of
hands. I could see it from the top of the stairs, and hear what was
going on. By and by Edith said to Fessor that he must show Scraggles
to Uncle Herbert. So Fessor brought me down in his hand. I don’t think
Uncle Herbert cared much for me at first, for he said I was the
wretchedest-looking little bald-bellied bird he had ever seen in his
life. That made me feel quite bad.

But the next day when they were at dinner Edith lifted me onto the
table--a thing that was very seldom allowed, for Mamma didn’t think it
was proper for me to run around on the dining-table, either at meal or
any other time--and began to play with me. We had lots of fun, and
then she lifted me up and wanted to make me perch on the edge of a
drinking-glass partially full of water. She did it so quickly that I
didn’t have time to get firm hold, and the glass was slippery, too,
and what do you think happened? I fell right into that glass, and was
half scared to death when my feet touched the cold water. With a
quick “cheep” I made a desperate spring, and almost as soon as I was
in I was out again. How Edith and Uncle Herbert laughed! Then he said
I was a cute little bird.

Well, that night Uncle Herbert and Fessor and Edith and Mamma all went
into the room where the piano was, and what a time they had! They sang
all together while Fessor played, and then Uncle Herbert sat down and
sang some funny songs about darkies and coons and “The Year of
Jubilo.” It was too funny for anything. I didn’t know how to laugh as
Mamma did, but it did me lots of good to see her. She laughed and
laughed until she cried. And I danced and danced to see her so happy,
that I grew quite excited and didn’t want to go to bed at all that
night. But Fessor made me go. He took me and put me on the bough which
I used for my perch, and when I jumped off and began to cheep and call
he came in and put me back again; until at last I grew sleepy and
dropped off to sleep. But I was very tired next morning. I guess I had
laughed and danced too much, and stayed up too late the night before,
which is not good for people as well as little birds.




_Chapter XI_

_My Illness_


Soon after Uncle Herbert’s visit I was taken quite ill. You see I
never was very strong, and every little thing, such as a change in the
weather, affected me. Yet when I think about it, it was almost worth
while to be sick to feel the tender love Fessor gave me at that time.
As soon as he found I couldn’t eat, he went and bought some stuff in a
bottle called “bird-food,” and placed it in a saucer on the floor for
me. But somehow I could not make up my mind to eat any of it until he
came and carried me to the saucer, and there, holding me in his
hand, he mixed up some of the food with water and fed it to me. He was
so anxious that I should eat that I couldn’t refuse him.

[Illustration: “I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else than right in his
hand.” _Page_ 71.]

When he went to write at the desk I did so want to be with him! I
couldn’t bear to be anywhere else than right in his hand. Here is a
little piece I found on the desk one day which tells just how he used
to care for me:

    “She is now asleep in my left hand, though it is early
    afternoon. Crawling in between my fingers, she comfortably
    arranged herself, perched on one of my bent fingers, (the others
    covering her), and then, putting her head under her right wing,
    she quietly dropped off to sleep. Many nights when I am in the
    study at her bedtime, she has refused to perch on the branches
    of the bough. She comes to my feet and pleads to be lifted up.
    As I put down my hand she jumps into it, and as I lift her up
    and place her in my left hand she nestles down into it as if it
    were a nest, curves her head under her wing, and goes to sleep.
    If my fingers are not comfortable to her, she picks at
    them--sometimes very vigorously--until I put them as she
    desires.

    “The other evening I determined I would not let her go to sleep
    in my hand, so I made her a cosy nest in the drawer immediately
    under my right arm. I coaxed her into this by putting two of my
    fingers into it, upon which she immediately squatted. But
    something was lacking in the new roosting place or nest. Two
    fingers were not enough, and for nearly half an hour my daughter
    and I watched her as she pecked at my fingers and thumb above,
    seeking to pull them down under her so that she would have a
    ‘full hand’ to nest on. At length she decided to take the two
    fingers, so long as with finger and thumb I rubbed her head.
    Soon her little head swung under her wing, and as soon as she
    was asleep I withdrew the two under fingers. But this awakened
    her, and I had to stroke her more before she settled down again.
    Then, as I wrapped the cloth around and over her, she awakened
    enough to peep out and learn from me that she was all right,
    when we left her for the night. She evidently remained contented
    until morning.”

I also found another little scrap on Fessor’s desk which tells better
than I can about how I acted when I was ill. Here it is:

    “During the last week she has shown a desire for closeness to
    me, for petting, handling, caressing, that I never saw in
    anything alive before. It is pathetic in the extreme. Every
    moment almost she desires to be near me. There is no seeking
    concealment, or privacy, or darkness. If I will not take her up
    in my hand, she nestles on my foot, and for several days I have
    kept my shoes off to give her the pleasure of feeling the warmth
    of my foot when I could not spare the time to ‘fuss’ with her
    on the desk. If I am away, I invariably find her on my return,
    if she is not eating, roosting on the edge of a pair of extra
    shoes of mine that always stand in the study.

    “When she nestles beside my hand and folds her head under her
    wing, she loves to have me take the upper part of her head
    between my finger and thumb and gently rub and caress it, and
    she makes no effort to remove it, but goes on apparently
    sleeping as before.”

I wanted to hear his voice and feel the warmth of his hands and those
delicious little hugs he gave me when he squeezed me just enough to
tell me how much he loved me. And he seemed to understand it all so
well,--just how sick a little bird felt. When he took me out of doors
he kept me from the cold with his large, loving hands, and yet let the
sun shine on me. Twice he made me walk after him, to give me a little
healthful exercise; but he would not let me go too far lest I should
get too tired.

But I did not get well; and I did _so_ want to be well and strong. I
was as happy with my human friends as I could be, and I wanted to live
with them a long time. When I heard them say I was a very sick bird it
used to put a great fear in my heart that I was going to die, and then
I would snuggle up close to Fessor’s hand that he might know I wanted
to live.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here Scraggles’ story as written by herself comes to an end. The
Fessor now tells the pathetic remainder of the interesting tale.




_Chapter XII_

_Scraggles’ Last Day_


It was Thursday, August 3, 1905. We (that is, Scraggles and I) had had
a good day together. We went out and I dug worms for her, and she
seemed happy and improving in health and appearance. During the day
she followed me out to the bath-room and all around several times, and
when I went to lie down and read she came and insisted upon my holding
her, or allowing her to sit on my hand. When I moved to turn the page
she jumped upon my sleeve and hopped up to my shoulder and neck, where
she stayed for half an hour or more. This was a new trick, learned
only a few days before, and several times she hopped up from my desk,
when I put her off the paper as I wrote, and perched quite contentedly
on my shoulder or squatted on the back of my neck.

Several times during the day she had begged to be taken up and had
fussed around my pencils, and once or twice had fought my pen as I
wrote. Placing her on my lap, she snuggled down there contentedly
until some movement disturbed her. Once, and the only time I knew her
to do it, she tried to fly up from my lap to the desk. When she failed
she looked up with such a queer expression that I could not help
putting down my hand for her, into which she immediately hopped.

We had had a good two hours together after lunch, when I put her
down, and soon she was hopping about the room. After feeding herself
she came and perched in her usual place on my foot, but I must have
forgotten her for a moment. My brain was much occupied with an
important chapter of my book, and jumping up hastily I stepped to the
book-case to the left of my desk to consult some volume, and almost as
soon as I did so looked around to see where Scraggles was. I looked
towards her sand bath and the food saucers, then to her little tree,
but she was not to be seen. Then, as I often did, I tilted back my
chair to see if she was at my feet, and to my intense distress I saw
her there dead, on the bear skin I used as a rug.

There are some griefs that seem puerile. I suppose mine will over
this poor, scraggedy, helpless little bird, yet I felt at that moment
as I have felt often since, that there are many men I could far better
spare than her,--many men with whom two months’ daily association
would teach me less than did this little, raggedy, ailing
song-sparrow. Her cheerfulness, her courage, her dauntlessness, her
self-reliance, her perfect trust and confidence, her evident
affection, were all lessons to remain in memory. After she had once
given her trust, it never failed. I could handle my books, moving them
to and fro over her, placing them anywhere near her, and there was not
the slightest evidence of fear; and if anything did alarm her and she
could get into my hand and feel its firmness around her, all tremors
ceased. With her tiny head protruding from the clenched hand, her
bright eyes looking now this way, now that, she watched intently, but
without fear, confident in the protecting power of her big friend. And
I felt the trust, the confidence reposed in me, the affection, and it
drew from me a response totally at variance with the size of the tiny
creature.

We buried her where she and I had gone daily, I to dig, she to eat
whatever I found that she liked. My daughter lined the little grave
appropriately with the beautiful white blossoms known as
bird-cages,--lace-like, delicate, and exquisite,--and as we crumbled
the earth over her tiny feathered little body, need I be ashamed to
confess that tears fell, even as they do now as I write?




_Chapter XIII_

_How the Story of Scraggles came to be Written_


The book I was writing when Scraggles came to me was “In and Out of
the Old Missions of California.” These interesting buildings were
founded by Saint Francis of Assisi, whose love for the birds and lower
animals has already become almost a proverb. It was just as I was
finishing one of the last chapters of the book that Scraggles’ life
went out. Was it not singular that, while dealing with a subject so
intimately associated with this great lover of birds, one of these
tiny, helpless, feathered sisters should claim my protecting love?
There are those who will see in this more than the mere outward
facts,--and I shall not be concerned or disturbed if they do.

The writing of the book was so bound up with the short life of
Scraggles that, like an inspiration, I felt I must dedicate it to her.
In two minutes after the thought came into my mind I had penned the
following dedication, which was published and now appears in my book
exactly as I wrote it:

    TO SCRAGGLES

     MY PET SPARROW AND COMPANION

     Saint Francis, the founder of the Franciscan order, without
     whom there would probably have been no missions in California,
     regarded the birds as his “little brothers and sisters.” Just
     as I began the actual writing of this book I picked up in the
     streets a tiny song sparrow, wounded, unable to fly, and that
     undoubtedly had been thrust out of its nest. In a short time we
     became close friends and inseparable companions. Hour after
     hour she sat on my foot, or, better still, perched, with head
     under her wing, on my left hand, while I wrote with the other.
     Nothing I did, such as the movement of books, turning of
     leaves, etc., made her afraid. When I left the room she hopped
     and fluttered along after me. She died just as the book was
     receiving its finishing pages. On account of her ragged and
     unkempt appearance I called her Scraggles; and to her, a tiny
     morsel of animation, but who had a keen appreciation and
     reciprocation of a large affection, I dedicate this book.

When I read this to some of my friends they were moved to tears and
wanted to know more about Scraggles. As I told the story, others
desired to hear it. Then in a lecture on “The Radiant Life” I told it
again, and thousands were touched to tears by the simple narrative of
the sweet little bird’s beautiful and trustful life.

Fortunately, my familiarity with the camera had made me desire to make
some photographs of Scraggles some three weeks before her death. My
daughter and I made several, and then a friend came and made two or
three others, so that now we feel really blessed in possessing these
counterfeit presentments of the little creature.

When our friends saw these photographs they desired copies of them;
and when, after the publication of “In and Out of the Old Missions,”
strangers began to write both to my publishers and myself for
“further particulars about Scraggles,” I felt that I ought to give to
others some of the joy and delight and benefit I and mine had in our
intercourse with her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dear little Scraggles! I little thought when I first saw you
struggling to get away from me, as if afraid I might devour you, that
we should so soon become such inseparable friends. It was a sudden
impulse that led me to pick you up and take you home, and though the
loving hearts there welcomed you, they realized better than I did the
trouble you would be. But somehow that did not deter us from making
you one of us, and you soon recognized the relationship. Our
association was short, as men reckon time, but time really has very
little to do with life.

    “We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
    In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
    We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives,
    Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”

So in the short three months you were with me we lived your lifetime
together; and though my life is stretching out into further time, and
your body is buried, you, dear little Scraggles, still live on with
me. I don’t know, and I care less, what the psychologists say about
birds having souls, and I am equally indifferent as to what the
theologians say of there being a heaven for birds, or birds entering
the heaven of human beings. This I do know, that in my own soul, far
more real than the demonstrable propositions of life, such as that two
and two make four, is the certain assurance that my soul and
Scraggles’ will meet when my body and soul are severed.

So sleep, content and serene, dear little Scraggles, in your tiny and
flower-embowered resting-place. You know full well in your tiny, but
love-filled heart that just so soon as I have met all the human loved
ones in the soul-life, I shall seek for you, and seek until I find,
for I shall want you even in heaven. My heaven will be incomplete
without you. I believe absolutely with Browning, that

    “There shall be no lost good,
    What was, shall live as before!”

So in the life of the future, with understanding and love made sweeter
by clearer knowledge, we shall love on; for of all great things that
abide forever “the greatest is love.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_Books by George Wharton James_


In and Out of the Old Missions of California

    =An Historical and Pictorial Account of the Francescan Missions.
    With one hundred forty-two illustrations, including full-page
    plates, from photographs. 8vo. Cloth. $3.00 net.=

The present volume stands as the authority on the old missions of
California. Indispensable as a guide-book, and is filled with most
valuable material.--_San Francisco Argonaut._ The author has devoted
careful study to the matter of architecture, and to the furniture and
decorations of the historic and ancient structures; but, in addition
to this, the work is made interesting by the relative matters that
have a more human interest.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat._


The Wonders of the Colorado Desert

(Southern California)

    =With more than three hundred pen and ink sketches from life by
    Carl Eytel. 8vo. Cloth. $4.00 net.=

Mr. James has given the first adequate description of one of the most
fascinating regions of this country. The wonderful rivers, lofty
mountains, deep canyons, varied life and history of the Colorado
Desert in Southern California are vividly set forth, together with an
account of a recent hazardous journey made down the overflow of the
Colorado River to the mysterious Salton Sea. The pen and ink sketches
by the artist are an important feature of this book.


    LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_
    254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON


_Other Books by George Wharton James_


In and Around the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River in Arizona

    =Illustrated with twenty-three full-page plates and seventy-seven
    pictures in the text. 8vo. Cloth. Price, $2.50=

The volume, crowded with pictures of the marvels and beauties of the
Canyon, is of absorbing interest. Dramatic narratives of hairbreadth
escapes and thrilling adventures, stories of Indians, their legends
and customs, and Mr. James’s own perilous experiences, give
a wonderful personal interest in these pages of graphic
description of the most stupendous natural wonder on the
American Continent.--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._


The Indians of the Painted Desert Region

    =With sixteen full-page pictures and fifty half-page
    illustrations from photographs. Crown 8vo. Decorated cloth.
    $2.00 _net_=

“Interesting as a fairy tale and valuable for its accuracy as well”
(_Literary News_), and “a distinct and extremely interesting
contribution to topographical and ethnological knowledge” (_Buffalo
Commercial_), is this book by Professor James, in which he vividly
describes the Navaho, Hopi, Wallapai, and Havasupai Indians of the
Southwest. “The writer has made an intimate personal acquaintance with
his subject and has grounded himself in the researches of others,”
says the _New York Tribune_.


    LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_
    254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON





End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Scraggles, by George Wharton James