# An Angler at Large/Chapter 36

We sat in the big garden-window, she darning my socks or polishing her nails, in either case like a good wife; I reading aloud after my commendable practice. Presently I became aware of insistent competition; a shrill, tiny sound was interrupting me. I cannot bear interruption. I desisted, laid the book down, and sought the origin of this impertinence. After a time I perceived it. On the path hopped a fledgling, fallen, like Lucifer, through pride. It had thought to fly when it was only fit to hop. I can imagine it, goodliest of the brood, lording it in the matter of elbow-room and getting more than its fair share of worm. And this afternoon, sated with such easy triumphs, it had said to the others (the parents being for the moment away), "Now, you scum, just watch me fly like the governor and mater." So here it was, on the path, hopping and proclaiming its wrongs to the garden. For one cannot suppose that its spirit was at all chastened by experience. It was obviously ​in a very bad temper, and if there was one thing it hated and despised it was the air. A more tricky, unsubstantial stuff it had never, in all its days, encountered. Rotten! that was the word for it.
It stretched its scrawny little neck; it seemed to stand on tiptoe in order to be heard the better. Not a doubt but it was seriously concerned about itself, and very angry with its parents. These, from neighbouring bushes, their voices harsh with emotion, shrieked reproof, advice, gloomy prophecy. The young one piped his sauce back at them from the ground-level.
"Oh!" the mother was crying, very probably. "Oh! naughty child. I told you not to, you know I did. How could you be so wilful and headstrong? This will break my heart."
"Bother your heart," the chick seemed to make answer. "I've pretty near broke my neck. What a thud! And it's all your fault, going away and leaving me like that!"
Then the old cock would scream: "Don't you dare to answer your mother so. I won't have it, do you hear? Conceited little fool! I've no patience with you. Look what a trouble you're causing us. You and your half-inch wings!" He spread his own ample pinions and flew gracefully to another bush.
​"That's right"—from the chick. "Show off, do. If you'd talked a little less about the ease of flying, I shouldn't be here. And now, what are you going to do about it? I can't go on like this. It's precious cold and you know my chest isn't strong. And it looks like rain, and I'm starving. Hang it! can't you do something, one of you?"
"Get under a leaf," begged the mother. "And come away from that man and woman. I can't feed you while they're about."
"A pretty mother, you are! Where's your maternal instinct? Frightened of these two people, are you? Well I'm not. They look all right. I'll show you."
He swaggered insolently towards my wife's foot with intimidating cries. She moved it that he might advance.
"There! What did I say? The woman can't face me."
"The cat," shrieked the mother, "the yellow cat'll get you. I always said you'd come to a bad end."
"So did I." This was from the father. I think the memory comforted him.
The mention of the yellow cat set me thinking. Hitherto I had been content to listen to what they were saying, for it was so essentially of the situation. Now it seemed to be getting time to act. This ​yellow cat is an evil beast. Continually when I step into the garden I catch, out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse of its tawny hinderlands vanishing over the wall. It fears me because I throw stones at it, though Heaven knows it need have no fear. I am not dexterous with pebbles. But I always throw them in the yellow cat's direction, because I am a man and have a right to throw stones at cats, and this cat is the only evil thing in Willows. It wakes me, sweating, out of sweet sleep. Its colours clash. And it eats birds. I have every reason to detest it. Moreover I do.
I vowed therefore that the yellow cat should not eat this little braggart that hopped, high-piping, among our feet. Conceit is of youth. It would be poor behaviour to condemn the small misery to the yellow cat, because it had thought too highly of itself. Here was an adventurer, an explorer, a sort of fledgling Lieutenant Shackleton. Conceit is also of enterprise. Without it no one would innovate anything. One has to have a pretty good opinion of oneself before one steps off the beaten track. The very action is a self-confident one. But we do not think Lieutenant Shackleton conceited. We call him a fine fellow and stand him dinner.
I decided to stand the fledgling dinner, ay! and bed and breakfast, till his sprouting wings should ​grow strong enough to carry him away from the yellow cat.
I acquired the fledgling,—his parents cursing me, but they misunderstood my motives—and cast about for a receptacle; a lodging, not a cage. The birdlet's safety demanded something of the sort. My eye met, my reason rejected, several things—A cigarette-box, a glass-fronted cabinet, a string-bag. The creature meanwhile lay, still but palpitating, in my palm, its callow beak resting against a finger, its eyes closed in the extremity of terror. It was utterly dissatisfied with its situation.
I selected my fishing-creel. This was the very thing; large, deep, well ventilated, of dim interior. In it I lodged our guest.
I took dry grass, improvised a cosy nest, induced the fledgling to sit there. I closed the lid. Hospitality demanded that food should be provided.
I bethought me that young birds like worms, that worms are their staple fare. I took my very large clasp-knife and went into the garden where I procured two worms, pink, luscious, entirely suitable for a fledgling.
I introduced the worms into the creel. I found that the fledgling had deserted the nest I had made for it, was striving to break out through the wicker, a manifest impossibility. Mine is a strong creel, fifteen years old. It bears me while I meditate by ​the banks of rivers, and my thoughts alone are no light weight. I restored the fledgling to the nest, added the worms, and went for further food.
I procured a saucer, brown bread, milk. I steeped the crumb of the bread in the milk. I brought sugar, one lump, and therewith sweetened the mess. Sugar is sustaining. The German army performs prodigies of route-marching on sugar alone. I placed the saucerful of bread, milk, and sugar in the nest, after replacing the fledgling in that snug nook. The worms, too, had wandered away. These I placed in the sugar and milk and bread. Then I put the fledgling on the whole and, closing the creel, stole away confident that the bird would do well enough.
Half an hour later I returned.
The fledgling was dead.
This is really a tragedy—one of the innumerable tragedies of good intentions; for I have been told, since, that had I not meddled, the chick would have been cared for by its parents and nursed, out of nest, to a size, strength, and wing-power which should enable it to look after itself. If this be so—which I should like to deny—I am responsible for the death of this young bird. Yet my intentions towards it were of the most kindly. If I sinned it was through ignorance, which is no excuse, hardly a palliation. I assumed a respon​sibility for which I was unfit. That is the truth of the matter.
But, had I washed my hands of the affair, had I left the parent birds and the yellow cat to decide the fate of the fledgling between them, should I feel any happier than I do? I trow not.
I wish the little thing, when it tumbled from its nest, had taken some other road than that which led it by the garden window. This summer how many Wiltshire chicks have essayed a too early flight and perished miserably of cold or at the fangs of predatory beasts? Who shall say? I know there must have been many thousands of them. But the knowledge disturbs me no wit. In the same way I know that thousands of human babies die every year because their ignorant fathers and mothers take insufficient care of them. And I cannot pretend that I suffer acutely because of this. But if a child that I loved were among them——
It is only because the fate of this particular fledgling was forced on my notice that I am distressed. Being distressed, I feel resentment—but against whom, against what? The chick? That were folly. The parent birds? That were worse. They were getting food for the little thing. They cannot possibly be blamed. Myself remains. Yet, knowing nothing of birds, I was on the horns of a ​dilemma. I chose that which seemed the least heartless, and my choice resulted in a slow death for my bantling instead of a quick one. For my ignorance of birds, then, I will accept blame, but not for the chick's death. For that nobody seems to be responsible.