THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

PRESENTED BY

PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND
MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID

The Story of Scraggles

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.

Ail rights reserved
Published October, 1906

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

K-G/L67*

INTRODUCTION

7i A'OST of our Indians have a tra-
JL VJL dition 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.

vi Introduction

But in these latter days prophets among
the white race have risen up to awaken
again within man the desire for brother-
hood with the humbler creations of God.
Thoreau, John Burroughs, John Muir,
Ernest Thompson Seton, W. y. 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 Scrag-
gles " from her viewpoint, with the con-
fident 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
Scraggiest words are mine, the statements

Introduction vii

of fact are literally true. / 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 A<ve.

Pasadena^ California

Feb. 23, 1906

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. How I CAME TO LIVE IN A HOUSE . i

II. MY FIRST WEEK IN-DOORS .... 1 1

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 Our 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 Tessor" . . .Frontispiece
" I saw happy little birds outside " . . Page 1 2
" 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

2 The Story of Scraggles

"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
could n'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 with-
out 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

How I Came to Live in a House 3

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 for-
ward. 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 what-
ever on the under part of my body, and
where the feathers did grow they were

4 The Story of Scraggles

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

How I Came to Live in a House 5

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 no-
where 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

6 The Story of Scraggles

me, until, all at once, I heard quick foot-
steps 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 him-
self. I did n't understand then what he
was saying, but I know I was des-
perately 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

How I Came to Live in a House 7

know him, I should n'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 some-
thing 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 immedi-
ately I lost sight of her.

What was I to do? For a moment
or two my little heart stood still I was

8 The Story of Scragg/es

so dreadfully afraid that I could n'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 sur-
rounded 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

How I Came to Live in a House 9

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

io The Story of Scr aggies

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, mon-
strous, 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 every-
thing was shut up. The air was warm

12 The Story of Scr aggies

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 did n't know that I
could n'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 sun-
shine that shone in upon me was very
comforting. When other birds flew

saw happy little birds outside." Pag* 12.

My First Week In-doors 1 3

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.

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 l — came

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

since.

14 The Story of Scr aggies

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 did n'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 had n't one
— as my mother did, he caught me
when I was n'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

My First Week In-doors 15

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 did n'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.

We had several days of this, and I
soon found that when he fed me I need

1 6 The Story of Scr aggies

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
could n'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 after-
wards 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

My First Week In-doors 17

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

1 8 The Story of Scr aggies

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, when-
ever 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,

My First Week In-doors 19

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 after-
wards became my playhouse and my
hiding-place. My! what fun I had in
it sometimes, and how glad I was to

20 The Story of Scr aggies

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 did n'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

My First Week In-doors 21

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 need n't have
been afraid. For, just as I was working
myself up into a good deal of excite-
ment, 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 '11 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

22 The Story of Scraggles

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, in-
stead 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

A I, 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

24 The Story of Scragg/es

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 need n'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 exist-
ence." 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

My Second Week in the House 25

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 mous-
taches 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

26 The Story of Scr aggies

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 coura-
geously 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 did n't under-
stand I was a little, tiny bird, and had
to get used to him by degrees. When
he moved quietly and gently I did n't
get scared ; but I suppose it takes a big

My Second Week in the House 27

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 care-
fully and tenderly as if I were his own
baby, all the time telling me in man
talk that I need n't be afraid of him, and
that he would n't hurt me for the world.

One day I had quite an exciting expe-
rience. 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 does n't get away." Now I
had never thought of such a thing un-
til 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

28 The Story of Scr aggies

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,!
think it 's quite time you went in again."

My Second Week in the House 29

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
could n'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

My First Sand Bath 31

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 diction-
aries 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 pronun-
ciations ; 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

32 The Story of Scr aggies

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." Was n'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 some-

My First Sand Bath 33

thing 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 com-
fortable after all that sand.

Then Fessor came and said : " Now
you wait, Scraggles, and I '11 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
3

34 The Story of Scr aggies

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

36 The Story of Scr aggies

for a few pinion nuts, after which I
wanted Fessor to play with me. Some-
times he was so busy with his "paper
scratching " that he would n'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 did n'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

On the Fessor's Desk 37

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 did n'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 smear-
ing 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

38 The Story of Scr aggies

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 spar-
row could be. I pecked at the pen
through his ringers, 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 did n't like his spending so

On the Fessors Desk 39

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 pro-
tect 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

40 The Story of Scr aggies

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-

" The cutest hiding-place in the world." Page 40.

On the Fessor's Desk 41

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 could n'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.

And I didn't let him know where I

42 The Story of Scr aggies

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 could n't find you ! " But I would n'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?"

" 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
need n't laugh and think I don't know,
for I do. I 've seen myself in the mir-
ror 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

44 The Story of Scragg/es

it was only a picture of myself. So, as
I looked at myself quite often, I '11 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 scrag-
gedy 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 par-
tially 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

Preening my Feathers 45

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 does n'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

46 The Story of Scraggles

to sit on the very sheet upon which I am en-
gaged, and for five or ten minutes such per-
formances ! With first one foot, then the
other, she scratches her head with inconceiv-
able 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, twist-
ing 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 per-
formance 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:

Preening my Feathers 47

" 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 " stretch-
ings " 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 ap-
pears as if she were on stilts, and then, elongat-
ing 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

Going Out of Doors 49

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 peck-
ing 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

4

50 The Story of Scr aggies

hardly ever looked at me, and never
one said : " How do you do ? " As soon
as I reached them they flew away and
left me to myself. Was n'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 pitia-
ble," 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

Going Out of Doors 5 1

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 teas-
ing me. I must confess I got used to
it, and did n'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 som-
brero 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

52 The Story of 5 cr aggies

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
could n'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 hop-
ping 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 did n't

Going Out of Doors 53

wait to be called, but just hopped over
there as fast as I could, and watched.
Sometimes he saw the worm or sing 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.

54 The Story of Scragg/es

Now and again Fessor would take
me over to a neighbor's whom he called
" Friar Tuck." l 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 ringers. I would
run towards him, and he would pick
me up, and off we would go.

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 did n't hop

1 Note by the Fessor: My neighbor's name was
Tuck, and I meant no disrespect by calling him Friar
Tuck.

" I used to roost on it a great deal." Page 55.

Going Out of Doors 55

around there very much. I generally
stayed with Fessor. I felt safer in his
hand than anywhere else.

One day when Fessor and Edith and
I were out on the lawn, Edith said:
" Why don't you get a bough for Scrag-
gles 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 did n'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 Fessors 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 did n't like that at all, so one

On Fessor's Bed 57

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 hum-
ming 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

58 The Story of Scr aggies

coming and waking him up. I did n'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

On Fessor's Bed 59

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 could n't fly, but I
jumped real hard, and I came rolling
and tumbling down the mountain side
into Paradise Valley, which was the

60 The Story of Scr aggies

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

On Fessor's Bed 61

peck his nose, and ears, and lips, and
the white hairs in his beard, and when-
ever 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 be-
come. 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 down-
stairs 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,

Going for a Walk 6 3

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
did n'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

64 The Story of Scragg/es

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 have n'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

Going for a Walk 65

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 sun-
shine was good for birdies as well as for
men and women.

Chapter X

Uncle Herbert's Visit

ONE day Mamma came upstairs 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

Uncle Herbert's Visit 67

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 did n'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
did n'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.

68 The Story of Scr aggies

With a quick " cheep " I made a desper-
ate 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

Uncle Herbert's Visit 69

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
could n'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,

My Illness 71

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.
When he went to write at the desk I
did so want to be with him ! I could n'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 her-
self, 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

72 The Story of Scr aggies

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 ringers 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 immedi-
ately under my right arm. I coaxed her into
this by putting two of my fingers into it, upon
which she immediately squatted. But some-
thing 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

My Illness 73

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, hand-
ling, 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"

74 The Story of Scraggles

with her on the desk. If I am away, I inva-
riably 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 re-
move 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 under-
stand 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

My Illness 75

walk after him, to give me a little health-
ful 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

Scraggkf 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 fol-
lowed 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,

Scragg/es* Last Day 77

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 dis-
turbed 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

78 The Story of Scr aggies

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 con-
sult 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 pue-

Scr aggies' Last Day 79

rile. 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 dauntless-
ness, 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, plac-
ing 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.

8o The Story of Scr aggies

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 ex-
quisite, — 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 Scraggks came to
be Written

THE book I was writing when
Scraggles came to me was " In
and Out of the Old Missions of Cali-
fornia." 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 finish-
ing one of the last chapters of the book
that Scraggles' life went out. Was it
not singular that, while dealing with

6

82 The Story of Scr aggies

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 Francis-
can order, without whom there would prob-

How the Story Was Written 83

ably 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 flut-
tered along after me. She died just as the
book was receiving its finishing pages. On
account of her ragged and unkempt appear-
ance 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

84 The Story of Scr aggies

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 thou-
sands 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 present-
ments of the little creature.

When our friends saw these photo-
graphs they desired copies of them ; and
when, after the publication of " In and
Out of the Old Missions," strangers be-

How the Story Was Written 85

gan 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 inter-
course with her.

Dear little Scraggles ! I little thought
when I first saw you struggling to get
away from me, as if afraid I might de-
vour you, that we should so soon be-
come 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,

86 The Story of Scraggles

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 to-
gether ; 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 theo-
logians say of there being a heaven for
birds, or birds entering the heaven of

How the Story Was Written 87

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 Brown-
ing, that

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

88 The Story of Scraggles

So in the life of the future, with un-
derstanding 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 Frances-
can Missions. With one hundred forty-two illustra-
tions, including full-page plates, from photographs.
8vo. Cloth. $3.OO 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.OO net.

' 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, $2.5O

npHE volume, crowded with pictures of the marvels and
JL 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. Deco-
rated cloth. $2.OO net

"TNTERESTING 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) i, 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