One morning a dove had come into our henhouse. My first thought was to chase it away, for it was a strange bird that did not belong there. Its sparkling, violet feathers looked so weirdly out of place among the chickens.
Why did you come here, little stranger? Was your own door closed against you? Surely you must have a beautiful abode somewhere. Did anyone hurt you? Have you lost faith in your own illustrious tribe? Has anyone proved treacherous to you since you came to this nook to hide yourself?
What eyes you have! They are so clear and keen. It is not for me to say whether it is foolishness or confidence that shines forth from them, for those expressions are so much alike. But confidence will lead to misfortune in the henyard. A hen cannot see her home from a distance of many miles, as you can; but she can see that the sparkling gold in your feathers would not grow on her back. And this is dangerous, my little dove. Why did you come here?
Yes, why did you descend here? What strong, large wings you have! No one, not a single one, will be able to follow you when you soar up to the region where you belong.
I have watched you these days. I have noticed how you have been pecked and chased. At night you are roosting alone on the lowest perch. Dear me, are you still unable to see that you don't belong here? Why do you want to stay in this narrow enclosure? Why are you sitting here all alone among these busy cacklers, who cannot understand you? Have you not seen that all their doings and ambitions are chained to the flat ground? They are nothing but earth-birds. What do you want here? Your sparkling brothers and sisters are sailing on broad, shining wings far up in the sunlight today; through the vast vault of heaven they are floating on their light feathers, sky-high above the rooves, church spires and henpens.
Maybe you are laboring under some secret pain which no one can see? But here you will find no rest; no wound will heal at this place. Here nothing lost will be recovered, nothing torn will be mended.
Are you so credulous that you can feel at home here? Not that I would rob you of your confiding faith in the chickens. But if I could speak to you in your own tongue, I would tear the veil from your beautiful eyes.
I would tell you that these big, white, fat Wyandottes are gentle, good-natured birds, but they are so prone to trample upon what is fine and ethereal.
And you are surely fine and ethereal. Oh, how they will trample you down!
I would also tell you that these small, brown, busy Leghorns are choice birds. They lay their eggs regularly, but they cannot stand the rainbow glow of your hues. Their beaks are hard and sharp. And I would tell you that at this place the struggle for existence is the supreme and only law. Every grain that you get will cost you a sore back, and every drink of water a scream.
Why did you come here?
You are a little dream, a beautiful poem, that's what you are. There is sunshine about you, you can coo love-ditties, and you have the gift of soaring up to the purer aerial realms, of rising to the very empyrean.
The fowl that you are congregating with are very practical. I know how it came about that they have wings but cannot fly. I wish to tell you why they are so fat, and why they enjoy the favor of the children of men.
For they were fond of the flat ground and the worms therein, and the grubs and the piles of garbage. Then they grew fat and forgot to fly, and their wings became useless. Have you noticed how they flap their worthless wings in vain and scream when terror strikes them? They want to fly but they cannot. Strong legs were given to them by their digging in the slop, but their wings became a sore shame.
They eat and get fat for the butcher's knife, their pride is to lay eggs at the rate of twenty cents a dozen.
What do you want here? Never will you be like one of them, never will you understand them. You will be a persecuted bird all your days. Say, why do you tarry here?
Are you carrying a secret which no one can see? If so, then it must surely be a painful secret. Something which you keep to yourself and which no one can understand.
It is said that doves can love unto death like men.
Maybe someone deceived you?
So fine, so pure, so white, so ethereal--and still something must ail you, otherwise you would not be at this place; for I saw at once that you did not belong here.
Do you know that it is time for gathering materials for a nest now? The sun is warm, and the snow melts in the fields. Spring is in the air, and you still have your strong, shining wings. Why do you loiter here?
Yesterday you were so silent and did not move. The chickens cackled and let you alone yesterday, for you were so quiet. Are you waiting for something, my beautiful little stranger? Why are you sitting so quietly?
For five days the dove stayed in our henhouse, and even seemed to enjoy itself. I began to thinks that for some unknown reason it would settle down for good. The sixth day it did not come down from its place to take food, and the next morning I found it dead on the floor, its wings stretched out. I made a search and found a deep wound in its breast. Maybe it was from a shot. Or perhaps it was an old wound that would not heal. A few drops of blood had trickled out during the bird's last efforts to use its wings; for every bird's death-struggle is like a desperate effort to fly away.
And I tell you this, for among men you will find such strange incongruities, which cannot easily be explained; but which may be traced to a wound in the breast, one of those deep, secret wounds, which it is so hard to heal.
