Illustrated by Victoria Roberts
A BANDED HOMING PIGEON whose outfit was the U.S. Signal Corps, and whose serial number was 137,968, had often observed a charming dovecote while flying a mission or returning from one. He decided to settle in the dovecote when all the wars were ended and all the guns were cold, but as time went on he realized that he was in the service for the duration of his life. So he decided to go AWOL, or, as he called it, WOLO (We Only Live Once) and spend the rest of his days among the cute female turtledoves, mourning doves, ground doves, and others he had caught sight of on his official trips. The ladies took to him at once and made him more than welcome. There was a great flutter and flurry as they tried to guess who he was, and there was so much conjecture and speculation that he didn’t have a chance to identify himself.
“He’s Larkinvar,” said Melba Mourning, “or Admiral Bird.”
“Nuts and popcorn,” said her mate skeptically. “He’s wearing one handcuff. Clearly, he has broken away from the law.”
The other males fell in with this theory. “He’s a fugitive from a chain gang,” said one.
“He killed Cock Robin,” cried another.
“He shot the albatross,” screamed a third.
But the ladies paid no attention to these dark accusations and went on with their own wishing and wondering.
“He’s a war bird,” piped up Lorna Turtle. “I love him for the dangers he has known.”
“He’s Lindbird,” tweeted Greta Ground. “He’s the great flyer that discovered France.”
During all this fuss and feathers, Number 137,968 was not able to get in a word.
“Why doesn’t he say something?” asked a suspicious male fantail.
“All is not gold that is silent, you know. He is plainly a fake.”
“He’s a passenger pigeon,” shouted George Mourning.
“Passenger pigeons are extinct,” his mate reminded him.
“You’re not extinct unless something was the matter,” said George darkly.
“If he’s not a passenger, he’s a fellow passenger, and that’s worse,” cried a common young street pigeon. “I say unfeather and tar him!” And, in spite of the tears and pleadings of the lady doves, the males unfeathered and tarred the newcomer and pushed him out of the dovecote, and watched him flutter to the ground like a shoe.
Number 137,968 had to walk all the way back to his Signal Corps unit, which took him forty-three days. Nobody believed his story of where he had been and what had happened. “He’s been living in sin,” said the wife of Captain Pigeon. “He got stiff and fell in a tar wagon,” decided Major Pigeon. “He got the worst of it in a street fight with common sparrows,” cried the wife of Colonel Pigeon. And so Number 137,968 was court-martialed and discharged from the service on a total of nineteen or twenty different counts involving hypothetical misconduct in ten or fifteen places, unnamed and unknown.
MORAL: There comes an end of toil and fun, but human guesswork’s never done.
