One in particular I now recalled. It was of a woman who came every day
to weep over the mound where her babe was buried. She was worn to a
shadow from her long watching through its illness, and when it was
taken from her, her grief was deep. The bright world was no longer
bright since she was bereft of her darling, and her moans for the lost
loved one were heartrending.
This incident was only yet another instance of the tenderness of
woman's nature, and I could not reconcile it with what my mother had
told me.
"No, no," I repeated as I cuddled my head under my wing, "never can I
believe that woman, tender-hearted woman, who is all love and mercy,
all gentleness and pity, never can I believe she is our enemy." And
resolving to ask my mother to more fully explain her unjust assertion I
fell asleep.
But a source of fresh anxiety arose which for a time caused me to
forget the matter.
The lindens which fringed the wood were now in full leafage, adorned
with their delicate ball-like tassels, and hosts of birds flitted among
them daily. Many of them were of the kind frequently known as indigo
birds, smaller than the ordinary bluebird. In color they were of the
metallic cast of blue which has a sheen distinct from the rich shade
seen on the jay's wings or the brilliance of the bluebird.
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