It was a wild and gusty day early in April; a wet wind from the south-east drove the waves into a little bay, where the sea had long ago forced an opening in the great chalk rampart of the coast. The downs rose steeply above this opening, their short sweet grass freshened by rain and wind; down below in the hollow a little stream, clear as every chalk-stream is, trickled through the long grass, still brown with the sun of last summer, and nestled here and there under a fringe of dwarf willows or alders. As it reached the shore, which was a huge bank of rounded flints from the white cliff, the brook spread itself out for a little space on a stony bed, and played with a few green weeds that had fastened themselves upon the larger pebbles, then crept quietly into the flinty bank, and vanished utterly before it lost itself finally in the sea-waves.

Early in the morning of that April day you might have seen a tiny bird fly in from the sea, and settle, more dead than alive, upon the top of the bank. Here the strong wind, coming now from behind it, blew up its feathers and made it so uncomfortable that in a minute or two it fluttered down the stones to the wider bit of stream beyond; and then again, seeing still better shelter a little further on, it struggled along the brook till it reached the first little group of fringing willows, and there, close to the water, in a little hollow under the bank, where the willow-roots were thick and close, and where a turn in the brook gave respite from the gusts and rain, it felt itself safe and tolerably warm, began to preen its feathers, and at last put its head under its little brown wing and slept.

It was a willow-warbler; olive-brown on head, back, and tail, but with just a tinge of yellow too; whitish-gray on throat and breast, and with a faint light stripe over the bright hazel eyes. It was very small, not more than five inches from point of beak to end of tail; but it had that night crossed the sea from France, and in the last few days it had made a journey of some thousand miles from the north of Africa where it had passed the winter. It had not travelled alone; it had left the coast of Normandy with a company of tired friends; but in the night the wind rose howling in the south-east and scattered the weary but hopeful little band. Many a time in that trying night it would have sunk upon the waves if the thought had not ruled its soul of the cool moist and of varied sunshine and showers, where it had first learned to fly, where the next summer it had learnt to use its voice and to woo a mate, and had brought up its young without disaster. Driven northward by the burning heat of the south, which had dried up the streams, and killed the juicy insects it loved, it had made its way steadily with its comrades to the green moist land of its birth, and its heart was full of ardent hope for another long summer of love and song and happiness.

After a while the clouds passed and the sun came out; then the little bird woke up, and realized that it had eaten nothing since it left the coast of France. In a moment it was stealing up the willow, searching every twig for insects, and finding very few, for the pelting rain had washed the boughs clean; it made its way slowly up the brook, and presently coming to a bit of treeless marsh land, whence the stream was fed, it took a longer flight across a ploughed field, and stopped at a likely-looking spot—a small round pond, closely shut in by willows and hazels. Hardly had it alighted on one of these, when it recognized the faint voice of a bird of its own kind, and returned the single cheep by another like it. In a moment the two birds were together, and recognized each other as having been in company all the way from Africa, until the storm separated them at sea.

“I’m very glad to see you,” said our friend; “but where are the others, and how did you come here?”

Just then it saw an insect on a twig hard by, and went off in an instant to seize it; then another and another; and in its hunger forgot all about the answer to its question.

“Well, you had better catch your fill of insects, and then I can answer your questions,” said the other. “I have been here ever since the sun came out, and though I thought I could hardly have eaten anything after the loss of poor Pipi, I managed to make a good meal as soon as I got my feathers in order.”

“The loss of poor Pipi! What do you mean? Is he only lost or is he dead?”

“Dead as a thrush’s snail!” was the answer of the other bird, who seemed a little put out by his long journey. “I’m very sorry of course, but it was all his own fault. You know how Pipi was always ready for any game; always for prying and poking his beak into anything strange, just like any vulgar sparrow.”

“Don’t talk like that, please,” said our friend whose name was Flip. “Pipi was my particular friend and if you insult him you insult me.”

“Well, don’t get angry,” said the other, “but wait till I tell you how that foolish Pipi came by his end. We started, as you know, at nightfall; Pipi was near me. He was as lively as ever, and was making fun of old Blossom because he had only half his tail feathers—you remember that sunny garden by the Mediterranean, where the cat got hold of Blossom and we thought his last hour had come?—Blossom couldn’t fly quite straight, and Pipi, that mischievous Pipi, said he wondered what sort of a tale Blossom would have to tell when he got to land!”

“But he helped on old Blossom, too,” said Flip; “and don’t you remember how we all had to slacken pace halfway across, before the storm came on, in order not to leave the old creature behind? Pipi would have it so!”

“Yes, I do indeed,” said Twinkle; “and it was a mercy that we ever got here alive. I should like to know why we should risk our lives for old Blossom, or why we should obey Pipi—Pipi of all birds.”

“Come,” said Flip, “don’t be so crusty. You have no cause to be angry with Pipi. I remember very well, when we were among those cruel Italians, how Pipi saved your life: I saw it with my own eyes. You were in an olive-tree by a stone wall, and on the top of the wall sat a boy with a bow and arrows, aiming at you; Pipi gave you our alarm-note, and when you took no notice he flew right at you and made you move. The boy shot the arrow, but seeing two birds he luckily missed both.”

“Well,” said Twinkle, “didn’t I say I could hardly eat because of Pipi’s death? Now I am going to tell how it was. You know how even in our first journey we were specially warned about those lighthouses, which we always so much want to go to: I really don’t know how it is, but somehow one does want dreadfully to go and see what that light is. Pipi was always excited about it; he declared he would find out some day what they are, and now he has found out with a vengeance. Poor old Pipi! He and I and one or two more were together the greater part of the way, but it was very hard to stick to one another. We had better have put off our crossing a day or two. The wind changed to the south-east, and that is very disagreeable; it comes behind you, and forces you on whether you will or no, and it gets in among the feathers and ruffles them about, and lays bare your skin, and blows the breath out of your body, and bangs you about this way and that—I can feel it now,” said Twinkle, in an injured tone, as he turned round his head and smoothed his feathers with an air of great feeling and commiseration for himself.

“Now I didn’t ask him to tell about himself,” thought Flip. “Here he is safe and sound anyhow.” But he held his tongue, and Twinkle went on:—

“After we had got half-way across, a sudden blast of wind broke up our company, and for some time I was quite alone in the darkness. Every now and then I could hear the voices of our comrades, and they must have been close to me, for the wind howled so, that it would have been impossible to catch them at any distance. I was high up, as we all had been, but now it began to rain, and I flew lower down, to see if there was any island or object on which I could rest and get shelter; but that was hard work, I can tell you, for the wind seemed to come from below whenever I opened my wings wide, and gave me such a lifting that I was quite giddy.”

“Go on, please,” said Flip, as the other paused again to recall his own discomfort. Flip felt much inclined to make unpleasant remarks, but swallowed them down with a juicy green fly, which he found at that moment. All this time they had been quietly working about the willows, and eating what they found; for willow-warblers are seldom still, and can talk very well as they search for their food.

“Well, don’t be in too great a hurry,” said Twinkle. “Consider what self-denial it is to me to tell you such a story: it’s nearly as bad as going through it all again. When I succeeded in getting lower down, and could see the white foam of the waves, I suddenly saw a light below me, and a little in front, twinkling like a great hawk’s eye, and—”

“The lighthouse!” cried Flip, with a pang, for he felt sure that the worst part of the story was coming.

“No, not the lighthouse,” said Twinkle. “Don’t interrupt. You’re a most unpleasant bird to tell a story to, stopping one just in the most exciting part: it quite spoils the pleasure of story-telling.”

“Why, I thought—” Flip was going to have reminded him that it was such self-denial, but he thought better of it, and swallowed his impatience with another fly.

“And down I went,” continued Twinkle, “to get a rest; for where there is a light, there must be something to perch on. Well, in a minute or two I found myself clinging with all the strength of my poor claws—” (here he looked at them compassionately for a moment, and gave them a peck or two with his bill, to clear away some tiny particles of salt that still adhered to them).

Flip could hardly help making an angry dash at him, and indeed ruffled his feathers indignantly, but the other was too much occupied with himself to see it.

“Clinging with my poor claws,” said Twinkle, slowly and sadly, “to the rigging of a ship, and trying to get my breath. I hadn’t been there very long, when I heard a voice I knew, and who should seize hold of the same rope but Pipi himself!”

“Was Pipi very bad and tired too?” asked Flip.

“Not a bit,” was the answer. “I never knew such a bird as Pipi. Of course I pointed out to him that we were in great danger, and that we couldn’t hope to hold out much longer—and what do you think he said? ‘Twinkle,’ he said, ‘think of your first nest last year. Don’t you remember those sunny days in the meadow by the brook, and the excitement as the hatching days drew near?’ Can you imagine such folly as to talk of hatching when we were sitting in a place like that, hardly able to hold on for the wind?”

Flip thought he knew why Pipi had said that, but he did not interrupt this time.

“Well,” continued Twinkle, “he went on like that, and told me to cheer up, and said we couldn’t be far from land, for the ship was only a fishing-smack caught in a storm, and they never venture very far from shore; and at last I got very angry with such nonsense, and told him nothing should make me leave go except the wind. So Pipi declared at last that he was going on, and I had better come too; but I wouldn’t, so he opened his wings, and just as he left the rope, somehow or other I did so too.”

“Why,” said Flip, unable to suppress himself this time. “I thought you said Pipi was the last bird in the world you would obey!”

“I didn’t obey Pipi,” said Twinkle, indignantly. “I went of myself.”

But Flip knew better, for Pipi had a wonderful influence over the other birds, and they all knew that Twinkle in particular could always be led by him.

“Well, there we were again at the mercy of this horrible south-easter. Pipi was a little ahead of me, and kept up his call-note continuously: I kept on answering it as well as I could. We had not been flying long, when suddenly, at no great distance, a light burst out in the darkness. ‘Land and the lighthouse!’ called out Pipi, and on we went at a tremendous speed, for the gale was now almost behind us, roaring furiously. In another moment the light went out as suddenly as it had begun, and then I knew that it was one of those revolving lights that we have sometimes seen in our travels, and I guessed that it was that one on the headland yonder, where we arrived a year ago, that beautiful calm night with the gentle westerly breeze.”

“Oh, dear, dear!” said Flip, “I remember that it puzzled Pipi dreadfully that night, and he declared he would find out all about it some day.”

“Well,” said Twinkle, “his wish has been gratified this year. I was almost too faint and tired to fly any farther, and my pace had slackened, so that Pipi was some way in front, when out came the light again, a great deal bigger than before, and just ahead of us. As I reached it, and was sinking down on the land exhausted, I saw Pipi fly right up to it, and heard a loud tap of his bill against something hard; and then he fell down on the balustrade in front of the light, and there he lay, as dead as a thrush’s snail, as I said before.”

Flip was silent, and put his head under his wing to hide his grief. “Did you go and look at him?” he said at last.

“How can you ask such a question?” answered Twinkle. “I sank to the ground, and got into some long grass under a bit of hedge by the lighthouse. I hadn’t strength left to take wing again; and if I could have done it, I should have been blown against the lighthouse: and what was more, the light had gone out again, and I couldn’t see where it was.”

“But the light came out once more, I suppose?” asked Flip.

“I don’t know,” said the other. “I put my head under my wing and went to sleep under the hedge; which is exactly what you too would have done, if you had been there.”

Flip said no more; but he formed a strong opinion about Twinkle, and felt that he did not care for his company any longer. Watching his opportunity, while the other was at work on a fly, he flitted quietly into the thick of the alders on the other side of the round pond, and taking a perch right down in the roots by the water, began to give vent to his own sorrow by uttering a sad cheep every minute or two. Poor Pipi, the kindest and the cleverest of them all! always helping some one, and always in good humour! never without some little fun of his own, even in the most awkward moments! How could they possibly get back again to Africa, when the summer was over, without Pipi? How indeed would Flip have the heart to sing to his wife during the nesting-time, unless Pipi’s voice was heard from the next tree? Pipi was always singing, and his voice was the best of all: for while the others were always finding their voices go up with a turn at the end of their strain, like those commonplace chaffinches, Pipi almost always brought down his in a perfect cadence, which is the great accomplishment of a willow-warbler. And when the young were fledged, no young father of a brood was so careful or so beloved as Pipi. He did not leave all the work to his wife, as some did; Mrs. Pipi had been hard-worked ever since they built their nest at the foot of the big elm-tree, and now she was sent off every day in the early morning to eat her fill of insects in a neighbouring garden, with a special warning to beware of the old gray cat, who was always creeping about between the pea-rows. Then Pipi used to take the young ones under his own charge, and put off his own breakfast till he had fed them well, popping the food into their gaping beaks as fast as if his wife had been there to help him. What fun he used to make of them! Flip remembered how he was once sitting on a bough, singing to his own wife, who had not yet hatched all her eggs, when he saw Pipi trying to entice his young ones out of the nest. They all came out at last, except Dot the youngest, who sat at the door of the nest, and looked through the buttercup stems into the wide world with fearful and restless eyes. Pipi tried all he could to make her come out; he perched on the bough above her and sang his best, so that her little black eyes twinkled, for she knew that music well; but still she hesitated. Then he picked up a little green caterpillar and put it down just in front of her; her bill opened wide at the sight of such a juicy morsel, but still she did not come. Just then a snail came slowly by, with its shell on its back.

“Dot,” said Pipi, “do you see that creature with his nest on his back? Shall I tell you why he must always carry it? When he was a nestling, he wouldn’t come out of his nest like the others; so at last the nest stuck to him, and he carries it to this day, and always will. So take care the same thing doesn’t happen to you, Dot—I rather think I see your back beginning to stick to that bit of moss; and if you don’t make haste—” But before he could finish the sentence, the horror-stricken Dot was out of the nest; and in another minute she was on a twig beside him.

Recollections like these passed through poor Flip’s clouded mind, as he lurked in the stems of the alder-root. But after a while, as the wind went down, he bestirred himself, and flying up to the top of the alder, began to look about him. There was the sea, and there the little gap, with the stream, where he had landed: and there, right above it, on a headland, was the lighthouse. It would not take long to get there, and he felt that he must go and find out if anything was to be seen of poor Pipi. A flight would do him good, and there were plenty of hedges to rest on. So after a number of quick low flights from hedge to hedge and tree to tree, he came to the front of the lighthouse, and sank rather tired into the long grass where Twinkle had landed in the night. Peeping out after a while, he flew about a little, searching for poor Pipi’s body: but nothing was to be seen of it. Then, taking courage, he flew up on to the platform in front of the light, on which Twinkle had described Pipi’s falling, but neither here was there a trace to be seen of Pipi.

Just as he was going to fly off he heard a voice inside the lantern-room, and listened, for birds can understand all languages.

“Well, Peter,” said the voice, “what did you get in last night’s gale? The warblers ought to be coming now; we have had the chiffchaffs and the wheatears, and a few redstarts; who are the next earliest this year?”

Flip peeped in at a corner of the window; it was dangerous, but he might see or hear something of Pipi. The man who had spoken was a tall, hale, and hearty looking old gentleman, with a face glowing with its own good-nature as well as with the blustering of the gale. He was answered by the lighthouse-man, who wore an oilskin hat, and was short and weather-beaten.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” he said, as he put his hand into a deep pocket of his overcoat, “I’ve a thing or two for you this time; sure to get something in a gale like that, though for the matter of that a calm night suits ’em better. We’ll have more to-night again, I’ll answer for it. Here they be: some of ’em knocked agen the window and fell on the platform (Flip felt his ears tingling and his brain swimming); some on ‘em were blowed right away and we couldn’t find ’em. Wrens we calls ’em here, though they ben’t just like our jenny wrens, all the same,” said he, as he pulled out a number of little birds and laid them on the table.

Flip shuddered; he recognized his kindred, but their eyes were closed, their heads hung down, and their feathers lay loose and heavy: there was no telling one from another, especially at his distance from the table. Still, he had no doubt in his mind that Pipi was among them.

“Willow-wrens, if you like,” said the Professor; “willow-warblers, I like to call them; Phylloscopus trochilus is the scientific name, and you will find all about them in that book of mine I gave you, at page 432. A redstart too, I see, poor fellow; so much the worse for somebody’s garden or field this next May or June. But now, where’s the diary; let us have them all down—wind, what was it, south-east by south?”

“That’s it, sir,” said the lighthouse-man; and they sat down together at the table, and began to turn the birds over one by one. Flip watched till they came to the last, in the dim expectation of recognizing Pipi; but it was impossible, for the dead eyes showed no traces of their luckless owner’s identity. It was a mournful scene, and Flip was just about to take flight, when he heard Peter’s voice again.

“There be another on ’em down stairs, Professor,” he said; “he were only stunned like, and my missus said as she’d keep un a bit, and see if he’d come to life again.”

Flip’s feathers stood on end with excitement.

“Missus,” called out Peter, putting his head out of the door, “what ha’ you done with that bit of a wren as I give you this marnin’?”

“Putten him in the old canary cage, and given him some crumbs and milk,” said the wife from below; “but he won’t touch neither of ’em, and he’s as bad as can be. Ask the Professor gentleman if he’ll come down and see him.”

Thereupon the Professor and Peter went down stairs, and Flip could hear no more. He felt sick at heart. Even if this was Pipi, it was clear enough he was going to die. If he got nothing better than crumbs and milk, how in the name of all that’s feathered was he going to live? “What stupid creatures these men-folks are!” thought Flip; and perhaps he was not far wrong. But he did not know what a professor meant, and he was not aware that the genial old gentleman from the distant University knew almost as much about the food of willow-warblers as he did himself.

Flip flew round to the back of the lighthouse, and looking in through the window, he saw the Professor sitting by the fire with something in his hand. But his back was turned to the window, and Flip could not see what it was. The woman was looking over the Professor’s shoulder, and a small bird-cage stood on the table, the sight of which made Flip tremble all over. At last the Professor put down on the table the thing he had in his hand: it was a willow-warbler, still alive, for the beak was slowly opening and shutting; but the eyes were closed, and it was evidently dying. Flip could not tell whether or no it were Pipi; the room was now getting dark, and the window was away from the sun. But it was no use waiting any longer; Flip felt sure the bird must die, and even if it did not, it would be put into the cage to pine away for want of air and proper food; and after all, how was he to tell that Pipi was not among the dead birds up stairs? So he flew away with an aching heart, feeling that there was nothing left to do, but to try and forget all about it. “And yet,” thought poor Flip, as he reached the little pond once more, “I can try and remember what poor Pipi used to do, and how good-natured and cheerful he was; and so far as there ever can be another Pipi, I will be he.”

The willow-warblers do not all take flight together to their inland haunts after their arrival from the sea, but work their way gradually through woods and hedges, refreshing and strengthening themselves as they go. The party to which Flip and Twinkle belonged had not far to go to get to the meadow by the brook, of which Pipi had reminded Twinkle on the fishing-smack—the meadow where they themselves had reared their brood last year, and close to another, not less delicious, where they themselves had been born. In two or three days they had reached it, and soon began to exercise their voices, so as to be ready for the arrival of the hen birds, who always come a few days later. This year the weather continued cold and stormy, with strong April showers, and the hens did not come for a day or two later than usual. What excitement there was when they arrived at last, straggling in by twos and threes along the bushes that grew by the brook’s edge, so as to keep sheltered from the wind! Flip went down the willows to meet them, and asked each one whether she had come by the lighthouse, or seen anything of Pipi; but the hens were either too tired or too excited to pay much attention to him.

“That is not the way to welcome us,” they said; “accidents must happen, and must be forgotten. No, we saw nothing of Pipi. Why don’t you sing, instead of telling us sad tales?” And on they went into the meadow, where the songs of the cock birds were calling them.

One well-known song was missing from the tall elm by the brook-side; and Flip, in spite of his excitement in singing, and his hopes that his courtship might be successful with a certain little brown member of a last year’s brood, could not help thinking now and then, with a heavy heart, of Pipi the best of singers, and of all the happiness they might have had but for that unlucky lighthouse. Twinkle too would sometimes remind him of his sorrow in

his blunt and selfish way, and Flip felt his company still so unpleasant that he moved to a tree further up the brook.

One day, not long after the arrival of the hens, when Flip had made sure of his little spouse, and they were flying after one another from tree to tree round the field, then into another field and another, in loving chase, Flip caught a low song that made him stop instantly and perch. It sounded again from a low willow, and then Flip could see the singer moving about inside the tree, where the leaves were just beginning to appear. In another moment a willow-warbler fluttered out; its flight was feeble, and as it perched again, Flip could see that it held on with some difficulty to the twig, for its right leg was injured. But it was Pipi!

Yes, it was Pipi beyond all doubt; and Flip, glued to his bough by amazement, gave out such a strain of song as he had never in his whole life before been able to produce. Pipi looked up and saw Flip; in an instant they were together, and in such a state of tremor and delight, that poor Mrs. Flip was left quite out in the cold, and became for the first time in her life jealous of a cock bird.

“Never mind me,” said Pipi at last; “look at me, Mrs. Flip, a poor wreck, with a bruised bill, and a game leg, and only half a song: who could be jealous of me? Leave off fluttering round poor Flip, and let me tell him my story, and then you shall have him all to yourself.”

So Mrs. Flip perched quietly on a bough hard by, for she was a sensible bird, or she would not have married Flip; and she had so often heard him talk of Pipi that she felt he must want sadly to hear the story.

Then Pipi told how he had suddenly come upon the light, and then lost all his senses as suddenly; how, when he came to himself, he was in a horrible cage, with nothing fit to eat, even if he could have eaten it; how the Professor had taken him in his hand and stroked him softly, and then had bound up his leg without hurting him a bit; how he had told Peter’s wife to keep Pipi warm, and to get some insects off the trees for him if he got any better. And then how he felt the warmth slowly reviving the life within him, and how he began to flutter a little about the room, and was very nearly caught by the cat, and then put into the cage out of her reach; how Peter brought a great piece of willow-bough, as the Professor had told him, on which Pipi had contrived to find a few insects; and how, as strength returned, a great desire grew within him to get away to the meadow and the brook, and he fluttered so much that his feathers began to fall out, and he could take no more food. And lastly, how Peter’s good wife had taken the cage into the garden and opened the door, and how he had made his way, slowly and wearily, to the old summer home.

“And now you know all about it,” he said, and sang one strain with something like the old force. “Let us go and find old Blossom,” said he, “and see if his tale is equal to mine. And Twinkle too—poor grumpy Twinkle; I shall never be able to hold up my head before him any more, and he will be more unpleasant than ever. But after all,” he went on after a moment, “Twinkle was my only companion that dreadful night, and he is not such a bad bird after all, and is sure to be glad to see me. And let me tell you,” he added, in a serious voice, “that I intend to visit that kind lighthouse-woman again, and the Professor too, if I can find him; for I have found out one thing in the lighthouse, and that is, that though men are often cruel to us birds, they are not all so; and though they must, most of them, know very little about us, there are a few at least who understand our ways.”

Pipi soon regained his strength, his song, and his spirits; he found a wife, and when his young ones were old enough to understand, he told them many stories of his wonderful adventures. And he did not forget to go and see Peter and his wife in the autumn, when the birds were on their way once more to the south. He came into the garden, and from the stunted currant-tree on the wall he looked into the kitchen, and uttered a little low note of greeting. The woman looked up from her washing, saw Pipi, and uttered a cry of delight. “Peter!” she called, “it is the sick bird! Come quick and see!” But Pipi could not stay for Peter, and the cage, still standing on the dresser, made him even now feel a little uncomfortable. His voice, like that of all his comrades, had been almost silent for several weeks; but as a gleam of autumn sunshine shot into the garden, and lit up the hardy little double daisies that still contrived to bloom in that bleak spot, he called up all his strength, and uttered a single strain, the faint echo of his old spring song, before he flew away. It went straight to the good woman’s heart, and she never forgot it.

“Peter,” she said, as the lighthouse-man came into the kitchen, “don’t forget to tell the Professor gentleman that the little bird came back to thank him and us. And, Peter, don’t you ever go for to keep any more birds in cages, when you can have ’em sing to you out o’ doors; for the blessed creatures are worth better than that, and there’s human beings as might take a lesson from ’em.” And those kind eyes of hers were moist as she went on with her washing.