Only once did I exchange a word with any of these birds, and that for
but a few short minutes.
The bird did not belong to our family, nor had I ever met any of his
relatives before, but that made but little difference. He was a bird,
and that was enough. We did not wait for any formal introduction; but
as he balanced himself on the edge of my cage he hurriedly told me news
of the woods, and how he wished I might get free and come to live
there. He told of the lovely dragon flies, with purple, burnished
wings that floated in the forest, mingling their drowsy hum with the
chirping of the birds. He told of the great mossy carpet spread under
the trees; how at set of day the owls came out, and the moles rustled
in the fallen leaves, and the frogs raised their evening hymn to the
sinking sun.
I could have listened for hours to the sweet familiar tale my feathered
brother told of life in the happy woodland, but Betty's mother suddenly
hurrying out to the pump to fill her bucket, cut short the story, and
away my bird friend skimmed out of sight without so much as saying
"good-bye." Though I saw him several times after that, he never came
so close again.
"Oh, what heaps and heaps of fireflies!" exclaimed Betty, as she
unhooked my cage to move me into the house that evening.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88