The Image of the Lost Sole

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along theparapets of the old Cathedral; some of them represented angels, otherskings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltationand composure. But one figure, low down on the cold north side of thebuilding, had neither crown, mitre, not nimbus, and its face was hard andbitter and downcast; it must be a demon, declared the fat blue pigeonsthat roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet;but the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiasticalarchitecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested. One autumn day there fluttered on to the Cathedral roof a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinninghedgerows in search of a winter roosting-place. It tried to rest itstired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in thesculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it awayfrom wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off theledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling, they cheeped oneto another, and the wanderer had to move on. Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeonsdid not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much outof the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. Thefigure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other gravendignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle madea snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crepttrustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and thedarkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely birdgrew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit fromtime to time on some rainshoot or other abutment and trill forth itssweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it mayhave been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but thewild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness andunhappiness. Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song ofhis little guest would come up in snatches to the lonely watcher, and atevening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slidout of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird wouldreturn, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that werewaiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only thegreat bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, "Afterjoy . . . sorrow." The folk in the verger's lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting aboutthe Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. "But it is apity," said they, "that all that warbling should be lost and wasted farout of hearing up on the parapet." They were poor, but they understoodthe principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put itin a little wicker cage outside the lodge door. That night the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt, andthe Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhapshis little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone.Perhaps . . . perhaps he had flown elsewhere. But when morning camethere floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the Cathedralworld, a faint heart-aching message from the prisoner in the wicker cagefar below. And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons werestupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows werewashing themselves in the street-puddles, the song of the little birdcame up to the parapets--a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness, acry that could never be answered. The pigeons remarked, betweenmealtimes, that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of theperpendicular. One day no song came up from the little wicker cage. It was the coldestday of the winter, and the pigeons and sparrows on the Cathedral rooflooked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they weredependent on in hard weather. "Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?" inquiredone pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the northparapet. "Only a little dead bird," was the answer. There was a crackling sound in the night on the Cathedral roof and anoise as of falling masonry. The belfry jackdaw said the frost wasaffecting the fabric, and as he had experienced many frosts it must havebeen so. In the morning it was seen that the Figure of the Lost Soul hadtoppled from its cornice and lay now in a broken mass on the dust-heapoutside the verger's lodge. "It is just as well," cooed the fat pigeons, after they had peered at thematter for some minutes; "now we shall have a nice angel put up there.Certainly they will put an angel there." "After joy . . . sorrow," rang out the great bell.

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