He groped his way up the ladder, hoping to find them, but though the
straw, the cotton batting, the blue veil, the water-dish were all in
place--there were no pigeons!
Philip came back to bed, cold and wet in body, but his heart colder
still with fear, and his face wetter with tears. Under cover of the
night a boy of ten can cry all he wants to.
His mother, who heard him going out and who understood, called softly
to him to come to her room, and then sympathized. She said they were
safe enough, never fear, with some flock of pigeons; they had got
lonesome, that was all; they would come back when they got hungry, and
the rain would not hurt them, and be sure to wipe his feet!
The next day they were found across the street with Jerry Andrews'
pigeons, as unconcerned as you please. Philip parted with his Lost Heir
game--about the only thing he had left--to get Jerry to help him to
catch them when they were roosting. He shut them up for a few days and
worked harder than ever, if that were possible, to try to please them.
The Pigeon Book would have been neglected only for his mother, who said
it was only right to put in the bad as well as the good. That was the
way with all stories. Philip made this entry:
_They went away and staid and had to be brot back by force I guess they
were lonesome. I don't know why they don't like me--I like them_!
When his mother read that she said, "Poor little fellow," and made
pancakes for tea.
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