Archie felt all the desolation of an unavailing pity.
"No, it can't be dead, Blessington," he said. "It'll get all right, won't it?" and his lip quivered.
"No, dear, it's quite dead," said Blessington; "but if you like we'll bury it. There'll be just time before tea. Shall I run upstairs and get a box to bury it in?"
Without doubt this was a consoling and attractive proposal, and while Blessington went to get a suitable coffin, Archie held the "small slain body" in reverent hands. It was warm and soft and still; by now the bright eyes had grown quite dull, and the blood on the speckled breast was beginning to coagulate, and once again, even with the novel prospect of a bird-funeral in front of him, Archie's heart melted in pity.
"Why did Cyrus kill it, Jeannie?" he said. "The thrush hadn't done any harm."
"Cats do kill birds," said Jeannie. "Same as birds kill worms, or you and William kill worms when you go out fishing."
"Yes, but worms aren't birds," said Archie. "Worms aren't nice; they don't fly and sing. It's an awful shame."
Blessington returned with a suitable cardboard box which had held chocolates, and into this fragrant coffin the little limp body was inserted. This certainly distracted Archie from his new-found emotion.
"Oh, that will be nice for it," he said. "It will smell the chocolate."
"It can't; it's dead," said hopeless Jeannie.
But Blessington understood better.
"Yes, dear, the chocolate will be nice for it," she said, "and then we'll cover it up with leaves and put the lid on."
"Oh, and may it have a cris—a crisantepum?" said Archie. "May I pick one?"
"Yes, just one."
Archie laid this above the bird's head, and the lid was put on.
"Oh, and let's have a procession to the tool-shed to get a trowel," said
Jeannie.
"Yes!" squealed Archie, now thoroughly immersed in the fascinating ritual. "And I'll carry the coffin and go first, and you and Blessington shall walk behind and sing."
"Well, we must be quick," said Blessington.
"No, not quick," said Jeannie. "It's a funeral. What shall we sing?"
"Oh, anything. 'The Walrus and the Carpenter.' That's sad, because the oysters were dead."
So, to the moving strains, the procession headed across the lawn, and found a trowel in the tool-shed, and excavated a grave underneath the laurestinus. The coffin was once more opened to see that the thrush was quite comfortable, and then deposited in its sepulchre, and the earth filled in above it. But Archie felt that the ceremony was still incomplete.
"Ought we to say a prayer, Jeannie?" he said.
"No, it's only a thrush."
Archie considered a moment.
"I don't care," he said. "I shall all the same."
He took off his sailor cap and knelt down, closing his eyes.
"God bless the poor thrush," he said. "Good-night, thrush. I can't think of anything more. Amen. Say Amen, Jeannie."
"Amen," said Jeannie.
"And do get up from that damp earth, dear," said Blessington. "And let's see who can run the fastest back to the house."
Blessington ran the least fast, and Archie tripped over a croquet-hoop, and so Jeannie won, and very nearly began telling her mother about it all before Archie arrived. But, though breathless, he shrilly chipped in.
"And then I picked a crisantepum, and we had a procession across the lawn, and made a lovely grave by the tool-house, and I said prayers, though Jeannie told me you didn't have prayers for thrushes. Mummy, when I grow up, may I be a clergyman?"
"Why, dear?"
"Don't they have lots of funerals?"
"Pooh; that's the undertaker," said Jeannie. "Besides, I did say Amen,
Archie."
"I know. But mummy, why did Cyrus kill the thrush? Why did he want to hurt it and kill it? That was the part I didn't like, and I expect the thrush hated it. Wasn't it cruel of him? But if he kills another, may we have another funeral?"
He stood still a moment, cudgelling his small brain in order to grasp exactly what he felt.
"The poor thrush!" he said. "I wish Cyrus hadn't killed it. But, if it's got to be dead, I like funerals."
* * * * *
