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Be good boys, now, and don't touch any of Mr. Bland's things." He was hurrying to the door when Chippie interrupted him. "Where have you got a pain, papa?" He tapped himself on the heart. "Here, Chippie, here; and I hope you may never have anything so awful." As he went down the steps he found himself saying: "Will this crucifixion never end? Have I deserved it?
"Papa, our other papa has a funny nose." "Papa, are you our real papa, or is papa Lacon?" In general it was Chippie who put these questions or made the remarks. Tom seemed to understand already that the situation was delicate, and had moments of puzzled gravity.
Tom was nearly eight, and Chippie on the way to six. They entered the library together, dressed alike in blouses and knickerbockers, their caps in their hands. They approached slowly to where he had taken up a position he tried to make nonchalant, standing on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him. He felt curiously culpable before them, like a convict being visited by his friends in jail.
I wanted to stay with the children at Towers " It was a safe subject. "How were the children when you left?" "Tom was all right; but Chippie has been having the same old trouble with his tonsils. They'll have to be cut again." "I thought so the last time I saw him. And he's growing too fast for his strength, poor little chap.
Unlike the familiar chippie, he does not usually find a perch in plain sight, from which to rehearse his song, but keeps himself well hidden in the bushes or trees, darting into a hiding place as soon as he thinks himself discovered. The shy little imp prefers to put a screen of foliage or twigs between himself and the observer.
They have either seen falsely or else vaguely. Not so the farm youth who wrote me one winter day that he had seen a single pair of strange birds, which he describes as follows: "They were about the size of the 'chippie, the tops of their heads were red, and the breast of the male was of the same color, while that of the female was much lighter; their rumps were also faintly tinged with red.
Those of the Bunch who had families didn't run into any serious last minute objections from them about their going into space. Blasting out was getting to be an accepted destiny. There was a moment of trouble with Two-and-Two Baines about a kid of eight years named Chippie Potter, who had begun to hang around Hendricks' just the way Frank Nelsen had done, long ago.
From the rude platform of dry twigs and other coarse material of the cuckoo, to the pendent, closely woven pouch of the oriole, the difference in the degree of skill displayed is analogous to the difference between the simple lisp of the cedar-bird, or the little tin whistle of the "chippie," and the golden notes of the wood thrush, or the hilarious song of the bobolink.
Should the ICONOCLAST publish such a thing it would be promptly denounced from ten thousand pulpits as a pander to pruriency; yet against the iniquity of the Daily Chippie Chaser, alias the Houston Post, not one preacher has raised his voice in protest! Why? Because the dirty rag does not attack their religious dogma does not strike at their bread and butter!
"I gotta sick wife, bo. Couldn't you slip me one in a 'mergency?" "What's the idea chicken broth? You better go in the park and catch her a chippie." "On the level, friend, one of them little yellow things would cheer her up. She's great one for pets." "Can't you see they're half-dead now? What you wanna cheer her up with a corpse? If I had my way, I'd wring the whole display's neck, anyhow."
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