"He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak; 'tis charity to shew."
It was a lovely afternoon, milder than November often vouchsafes, and
perfectly clear. The sun was pretty low, and its slanting beams lighted
the smooth lake and threw long shadows across the lawn and over the
garden, through the winding paths of which I was now sauntering. The
last two days having been marked by no improvement in Mr. Rutledge, he
had, of course, not been out of his room, and I had been left pretty
much to myself, and had improved the time in perfecting my knowledge of
the out-door attractions of the place, and from stable to garden, I now
knew it thoroughly. Delightful days those were, saving the occurrence of
a little loneliness and ennui that would creep over me as evening
approached; delightful days, when, without a thought of care for present
or future, I wandered unchecked over the loveliest spot I had as yet
seen. A long avenue led from the house to the gate; the lawn on the
right sloped down to the lake, a lovely sheet of water surrounded on
three sides by woods; and around as far as the eye could reach,
stretched wide fields, rich with cultivation, and woodlands where one
could almost fancy the axe had never resounded. Further, however, than
the gate, and the lake, and the boundaries of the lawn, I had never
dared to venture. Dared, though, is not exactly the term; for if I had
even thought of the word in that connection, I should probably have gone
miles in an opposite direction, to prove that, as to that, I _dared_ go
anywhere. But I had a sort of chivalrous respect for what I was certain
would be the wishes of my protector, now _hors de combat_, and
determined, therefore, to stay within the grounds.
Which were ample enough to satisfy any reasonable young person,
certainly, and picturesque enough, and well kept enough for the most
fastidious. That particular afternoon, as the declining sun lighted up
the dark massive house, and the fine old trees, nearly bare though they
were, and the winding paths of the garden and broad fields beyond,
Rutledge seemed to me the realization of all I had ever dreamed or read,
of beauty and of stateliness. I walked slowly down the garden; the faint
smell of some lingering grapes on the arbor overhead perfumed the air;
the dead leaves rustled under my feet, alone breaking the stillness
peculiar to an autumn afternoon, unprofaned by the many murmurs of
insect-life, or the animating song of summer bird. You might listen for
hours, and a nut dropping off the tree among the dry leaves, or the
tinkling of a cow-bell, acres off across the fields, or the letting down
a pair of bars somewhere about the farm, would be all the sounds that
would break the serene silence.
But just when I was speculating on this, I heard another and a very
distinct sound, and looking whence it proceeded, discovered it to be the
shutting of the hall door, and presently some one descended the steps
and walked leisurely toward the garden. "Hurrah!" I exclaimed aloud,
"it's Mr. Rutledge!" And I ran down the path, followed closely by a
little terrier, who had introduced himself to my notice at the barn, and
not being unfavorably received, had attended my movements ever since. It
was not till I was within a few yards of Mr. Rutledge, that the
recollection of that unlucky "hero" business brought me to a sudden
stand-still, and took all the cordiality out of my greeting. He had seen
me coming, and was waiting for me, evidently, however, somewhat at a
loss to account for my sudden shyness, putting it down, it is probable,
though, to the score of childishness and folly along with the rest of
my shortcomings and absurdities.
"I see," he said, extending his hand, "that you've been getting better
as industriously as I have been getting worse. You begin to look quite
like the little girl I brought away from St. Catharine's."
"I am as well as possible, sir. How is your arm?"
"It isn't _my_ arm! it is Doctor Sartain's. I don't take any of the
responsibility of it. I do not think, however, it could possibly be much
worse, as far as I can be supposed to judge."
He spoke lightly, but I perceived in a moment that he was looking very
much paler than when I had last seen him.
"Ought you to be out, sir, if you still suffer from it?"
"I suppose not," he answered, as we walked slowly down the path; "but to
tell you the truth, I was tired of the house, and _coûte qui coûte_,
determined to get a breath of fresh air."
I couldn't help remembering a certain scene in the library not many days
ago, and giving him rather a wicked look, made him remember it too.
"I had nobody, however, you see, to make me stay in and by showing a
little firmness at the risk of putting me in a bad temper, keep me from
doing an imprudent thing."
"I should have supposed, sir, that Mrs. Roberts would have been in her
element on such an occasion. I thought she always adopted the opposition
ticket."
"By the way," he said, laughing, "how do you and Mrs. Roberts get on?
You weren't very much charmed with her at first sight, were you?"
"I do not adore her yet, sir, but I don't think she's quite as dreadful
as I did."
"You thought, poor child," he continued in the same tone, "that you were
in a dreary prison. Absurd as it was, I could not help feeling
dreadfully sorry for you; and ought to feel so yet, I suppose, only
I've had no time lately to feel sorry for anybody but myself."
"Indeed, sir, I think you are the fittest subject," I said a little
nettled. "I am as contented as possible, and shouldn't mind staying here
a year."
"You like Rutledge, then?"
"Yes," I returned, "but I hardly dare say so, after the way in which
Mrs. Roberts snapped me up about it the other night."
"How was that," he asked, with some curiosity.
I related the peculiar manner in which she had received my admiration of
it, and ended by asking him if he could imagine what was the cause of
it.
"Oh," he said, carelessly, "you must not mind what she says, and make
all excuses for her. She has had a great deal of trouble, and is
naturally of a nervous and irritable disposition, and living here alone
has increased all her peculiarities in a very great degree."
"In a very uncomfortable degree," I said; and Mr. Rutledge was
continuing, when his further remarks were cut short by the desertion of
two of the party, to wit, the terrier and myself. Now I had no intention
of being rude, but looking down at that moment, I discovered that Tigre
had possessed himself of one of my gloves, and was gnawing and shaking
it with unspeakable _goût_. I made a motion to take it from him, whereon
the rascal darted away down the path, then paused an instant, and before
I could reach him, was away again toward the barn. I could not surrender
so, and forgetting everything but the chase, tore after him at the top
of my speed. To see the way in which that little object "streaked"
along, looking back at me out of the corners of his eyes! Four legs
naturally get over the ground faster than two, and Tigre had the start
of me besides, but I had graduated in running at St. Catharine's, and
was not to be beaten by such an antagonist as this. It was a steeple
chase of no unexciting character.
"We staid not for brake, and we stopped not for stone."
A ditch intervened, but proved no obstacle, and on we tore, till we
reached the low fence that separated the grounds from the outbuildings.
Tigre shot under it--I took it at a flying-leap. He was making for the
barn, and once there, he would baffle me; some favorite hole or
inaccessible cranny would shelter him from my pursuit, and hide forever
from human gaze my ill-fated glove. This goading thought sustained my
flagging energy in the same proportion that the nearness of the goal
reanimated that of Tigre. On, on, with desperate resolve! Stephen leaned
on his spade to witness the issue of the race, Michael paused, the
currycomb in his suspended hand, to see the result; and both
involuntarily ejaculated, "Pretty well done!" as on the very threshold
of the barn, I sprang upon my opponent and wrested the glove from his
determined teeth! And in a frantic romp, we rolled together over and
over on the hay, Tigre's active paws and nose in my very face, his
excitement carrying him beyond all bounds of decorum, and mine, alas!
making me as forgetful of all proprieties; till an approaching footstep
recalled me to my senses.
Throwing down Tigre, I sprang up, and hastily shaking the hay from my
dress, and pushing back my disordered hair, prepared myself for the
lecture I knew I deserved, and "cut and dried" a very impertinent
rejoinder. I might have saved myself the trouble; Mr. Rutledge did not
take any more notice of me than if I had been Tigre's four-legged and
shaggy compatriot. Passing through the barn, he called up one of the
men, and gave him orders about the storing of some grain; sent for
another upon the question of supplies; talked with Stephen about the
state of the grape-vines; with Michael about the condition of the colts;
inspected the poultry-yard; pronounced upon the cattle; equally a
connoisseur, and thoroughly at home on every point.
During this time, I leaned thoughtfully against the barn door, and
reviewed my own conduct, and that of Mr. Rutledge. Of course, I had been
unladylike and all that--I knew it as well as anybody; but then, I was
old enough to do as I liked, and who had a right to reprove me? Well,
nobody _had_ reproved me. But then, I knew just as well what he thought
of me; I knew he considered me rude, disrespectful, childish; and it
would have been ten times less hateful of him to have been angry and
done with it, than to have taken no notice of me in any way, just as if
he had at once dropped me out of his esteem, consideration and
recollection altogether. Angry, humbled, but rebellious, I lingered a
long while near him, with a hope that he would say something that I
could resent, but no such chance was afforded me. Mr. Rutledge's whole
mind was given to his business; and sullenly enough, I called to Tigre
and turned toward the house. It was unlucky that I did not know how to
whistle--I longed to whistle a tune, and put my hands in my pockets with
a jaunty and defiant air as I passed Mr. Rutledge on my way to the
house. As it was, I was obliged to content myself with the significant
attitude alone, that was meant to convey tones of don't-care sauciness
and indifference.
I did not feel at all like going indoors when I reached the house,
though it was growing dark very rapidly; and with Tigre at my heels,
paced for a long while up and down the stone walk before the steps of
the piazza. The sound of Mr. Rutledge's approaching footsteps, far from
checking my walk, quickened it considerably, and calling to Tigre, just
as he reached the terrace, I started at a brisk pace down the avenue.
Mr. Rutledge stopped and called me; I went on, pretending not to hear.
He called again, and this time there was no avoiding it. I turned
sharply round and said:
"Did you speak, sir?"
"It is too late for you to be out; you will take cold."
"I am not afraid, sir, I shall soon be in;" and I turned away.
"But it is too late," repeated Mr. Rutledge, in a voice I could not
mistake. "You must excuse my interference, but I should prefer your
coming in now."
I looked down the avenue, the moon was just rising, though day had not
quite faded in the west; I wondered what would be the result if I dared
rebel; I almost determined I would. But I glanced toward the house; Mr.
Rutledge stood holding the door open for me with a resolute quietness
that made resistance impossible. With a bad enough grace I turned back,
ran up the steps, and passed through the doorway without raising my
eyes, and never stopped till I had gained the second story, and locked
myself into my own room. Most bitter and most extravagant tears I shed
of course, very angry and very implacable resolves I made; and finished
off by a violent fit of contrition and humility under the influence of
which I started to my feet, and remembering that it was long past
tea-time, hastily smoothed my hair, and followed by my little favorite,
ran quickly down the stairs and paused a moment at the library door. All
contrition, I half opened it, and looking in, with a most April-like
face, whereon smiles and tears contended, said humbly:
"May Tigre and I come in, sir?"
Mr. Rutledge sat reading by the fire; tea was on the table. He looked up
a moment, then resumed his book.
"Without doubt; tea is waiting."
I came up to the fire, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece. If he
would only look up, and not be so hopelessly cold and indifferent! My
penitent speeches fled at the sight; I could never tell him how ashamed
and sorry I felt, while he looked so. He did not look any otherwise,
however, all through the uncomfortable meal, that I thought never meant
to end; nor during the uncomfortable hours that succeeded the
uncomfortable meal, that seemed to stretch out, like a clown's leg,
indefinitely and interminably.
I had time to realize and become very well acquainted with the fact,
that I had forfeited the newly-acquired position of companion, and had
sunk to the capricious child again. He had just begun to treat me like a
reasonable creature, and to talk to me for something besides the
kindness of amusing me, and now by my own folly, I had made an end to
all this, and compelled him to see in me nothing but childishness and
self-will.
Mr. Rutledge, after tea, had taken up his book again, and pushed across
the table to me some new reviews that had come that day, saying, perhaps
I might find something amusing in them. That meant I was to amuse
myself. That meant there was to be no talking, no reading aloud, no
dictating of letters.
"It's all Tigre's fault, the little villain!" I ejaculated, mentally,
pushing him angrily down from my lap, as I took up the literature
assigned me. The discarded favorite uttered a low whine, looked
pleadingly up in my angry face, then walked over to his master, and
putting his paws on the arm of his chair, wagged his tail, and looked
imploringly for permission to spring up. But an impatient "Off, sir!"
made him withdraw abashed, and, standing on the rug between us, he gazed
wonderingly from one to the other. If it had not been for the precedent
of "the dog in the manger," and the proverbial comparison of all cross
people to "Hall's dog," I should have been certain that such scenes were
entirely new to Tigre, and that in the bosom of his family bad tempers
were unknown. As it was, he looked very much mystified and considerably
shocked; and at length concluded to lie down where he was, at an equal
distance from both antagonists, to whose movements, however, he lent an
attentive eye and ear. But there was not much to repay his watchfulness;
for beyond an occasional symptom of fatigue on my part, and the
periodical turning of the leaves of Mr. Rutledge's book, dire and
entire quiet reigned.
At last, at half past nine, I sprang up, determined to put an end to
such an evening; and with a firm resolution not to say more than the one
necessary word, "good night," I looked furtively toward my companion. He
had closed the book, and leaning his face on his hand sat looking into
the fire. Just so he had looked the other night when I had felt so sorry
for him; and perhaps I felt the least bit sorry now. To my good night,
he replied, carelessly, "Good night;" then, looking up at the clock,
said:
"It is early yet."
"But I am very tired," and I moved toward the door. "I forgot to ask
you, sir," I said, turning back, "whether you had any letters you would
like to have answered?"
"No, thank you; none of any importance. You need not stay."
Contrition, pity, good resolutions, etc., all rushed over me; making
three steps back into the room, and swallowing down the rebellious pride
and temper, I came out with--
"If I am a child, sir, I am old enough to know when I have done wrong,
and not too old to be willing to acknowledge it. I am very well aware
that I have been rude and disrespectful to you, and I hope you will have
the goodness to excuse it."
He looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air, as if he had not quite
expected the sudden humiliation; though I am not sure that my attitude
implied so much of humiliation as it did of determined conscientiousness.
After a moment's quiet scrutiny, which I bore unflinchingly, he said:
"I am not quite sure that I understand to what you allude, nor how I
come to be entitled to pass judgment on your conduct. Pray explain."
The blood mounted to my temples as I answered:
"I acknowledged my faults to you, because they were committed against
you; because to you I owed respect, attention, and courtesy, which I
failed to show. I owed this to you as my elder, my host, and the person
who, in a manner, had charge of me."
"You seem to have analyzed your duty pretty thoroughly, I must
acknowledge! You have stricter views of duty than most persons of your
age."
"I don't resent the sarcasm, sir; I know it is well merited."
"I did not intend it sarcastically. I say again you have shown a habit
of mind, that, if persevered in, will lead you to a high standard of
excellence."
"My failures in duty, since I came here, sir, have been too conspicuous
to let me understand you literally."
"You judge yourself severely; I cannot recall any very flagrant
offences."
"They would not," I said, as steadily as I could, "be likely to make the
same impression on you as on me; with me they were matters of
conscience; with you they were, I hope, only occasion of momentary
surprise, or better, of indifference and inattention."
"On the contrary," said Mr. Rutledge, "I have watched you attentively
since you came here, and have taken quite a strong interest in all you
have said and done."
"You are kind," I exclaimed, nettled more at the tone than the words.
"Then I shall have to be doubly careful while I have the honor to be
under your eye."
He went on, as if he had not heard me: "It has appeared to me that you
are in most respects"----
"I must beg," I exclaimed, with an impatient gesture, "that you will
defer your summary till I am in a better frame of mind to bear it. Just
now, it wouldn't be as profitable as you, no doubt, desire to make it."
"I should be sorry," he replied, "to spoil the humility you have taken
such pains to get in order for the occasion, and will not say a word to
interfere with it."
"Do you know humility when you see it, sir?" I could not help saying
under my breath.
"I learned a good deal about it when I was young," he answered, "and
thought, till I came to years of discretion, that I knew all that could
be taught in regard to it. But I have since discovered that there is
more spurious coin bearing that stamp than almost any other; false
pride, wounded vanity, morbid self-love, all get themselves up under the
title of humility, and pass current very readily."
I bowed. "Wounded vanity fits me, I think. May I retire, sir, if you
have nothing further to say?"
"But I have," he exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone. "I have a great
deal more to say." And, taking my hand, he drew me down into the chair
beside him, and looking at me with a mixture of kindness and mirth, he
said:
"So you are beginning to feel ashamed of yourself, are you? You are such
an absurd child, it is impossible to be angry with you, or tired of you,
for you are never two minutes alike. Upon my word you're quite a study!"
He did not let go my hand, and though I turned my face away, I could not
escape his eyes.
"The uncertain glory of an April day," he exclaimed. "Why, a minute ago
you were angry, then you were pleased, now you are frightened, and I
suppose you will wind up with a burst of tears. How is one to take you?"
For this style of lecture I had not any retort ready, so I only hung my
head, and was silent.
"One moment you are a woman, intelligent and sensible, the next a
pettish child. One day you show a sympathy, a tact, a depth of feeling,
that go to one's very heart; the next, capricious, silly, and childish,
you destroy it all. Sometimes you amuse yourself with Tigre, sometimes
with me. And," he continued, after a pause, "sometimes you talk too
much, and sometimes, as at present, for instance, too little. Well?" he
went on, interrogatively, having elicited no reply. "Well? Have you
nothing to say for yourself? Then go!" he exclaimed, throwing my hand
from him. "I am tired of you; you've been one thing too long; you've
been silent exactly two minutes."
I got up very quickly, and retreated toward the door.
"What?" said Mr. Rutledge, rising and standing by the fire. "You are
going? Why, we have but just made up."
"I am not quite positive that we have," I answered, lighting my candle.
"It's rather a one-sided make-up, it strikes me."
"How so? You surely haven't any complaint to make of me, after all my
unexampled goodness to you?"
"Of course not!" I exclaimed; "nothing to say about your treating me
like a baby, and expecting me to behave like a woman, making me talk to
make you laugh, and putting my French and my temper to the hardest tests
you could think of; and then, after I've vexed you by a little
inattention, pushing me aside, as if I weren't capable of understanding
a reproof, and turning your back on me for a whole evening. _I_ have
nothing to complain of, of course! Good night, sir."
"Stay a moment! You take away my breath with all that catalogue. _I_
tease you! _I_ laugh at you! Impossible!"
"So I said, sir; and now, if you please, good night."
"Ah! I see I must get you away to your aunt; I shall spoil you if I keep
you here much longer. You are getting very saucy; Miss Crowen wouldn't
own you."
"I am afraid you are right there," I said, with a little sigh; "I don't
think I am improving very much."
"Well, then," he said, seriously, "suppose we determine to do better for
the future, and instead of trifling and teasing, be good sensible
friends. Will that suit you?"
"I think it would be about as one-sided a friendship as the
reconciliation was."
"Why? Are you not willing to be my friend?"
"Of course I am; but friendship implies equality, and all that sort of
thing, and the power to help each other. Now, you know the absurdity of
my being your friend, as well as I know it, and you are laughing at me."
"Do I look as if I were laughing at you?" And indeed he did not.
"Well, but," I continued, "you know perfectly well I like you, and would
do anything in the world to serve you, but that cannot make up for my
inability to do it, you see."
"You can do a great deal to help me," he answered. "There are a hundred
ways in which you can prove yourself my friend."
I laughed incredulously.
"You doubt it?" he said. "Listen, little girl. I have not many friends.
I do not choose to believe in many people. I choose to believe in you;
therefore you can do me a kindness by keeping alive in my heart a little
faith in human nature. I have many cares to harass me in the present;
much that is sad to remember of the past. By your youth and cheerfulness
you can brighten the one; by your gentleness and sympathy you can soothe
the recollections of the other. Youth is gone from me forever, but you
can be the link between it and me, and keep it in sight a little longer.
You can show me what I once was, earnest, hopeful, and trusting, and so
keep me from forgetting what I should be. Above all, you can be honest,
and never deceive me; and faithful, and never withdraw from your
allegiance. This is what you can do for me: now, what can I do for you?"
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come, so he helped me to them.
"You find it difficult to enumerate my duties? Something like this,
perhaps, is what you will require of me. I must be careful not to wound
the sensitiveness of one naturally much more susceptible to unkindness
than myself. I must bear patiently with childish faults, and not forget
the indulgence due to youth. I must be just and unflattering, and when
my maturer judgment suggests amendment, it is my duty, is it not, to
point it out? For having been over the same ground that you are to
travel, I can give you many hints that will make your path an easier
one, if you will but receive them. And finally, I am to have your
interest always at heart, and to observe the same faith and truthfulness
toward you that I expect you to maintain toward me. Will you subscribe
to that? Is it what you would require of me?"
"Yes, that is fair, I think."
"Well, then, give me your hand upon it, and remember the compact is
sealed; we are friends henceforth! Stay, what shall we have as a
reminder of this promise? Some pledge, some security is necessary, for
we might forget, in the lapse of years, you know."
He went up to an escritoire in a distant corner of the room, and
unlocking it, took from a secret drawer two or three little boxes, and
from these selecting one, replaced the others, turned the key, and came
back to the table. The box contained a bracelet of curious foreign
coins, handsomely mounted--a very unique and elegant ornament. This Mr.
Rutledge proceeded to fit around my wrist, and with my assistance
(having the use of only one hand) clasped.
"Are you willing to wear it always," he said, "_in memoriam_?"
"Yes."
"Well, then good bye to liberty!" and he turned a tiny gold key that I
had not noticed in the clasp, and took it out. I must confess to a
feeling not unlike bondage when the lock was snapped and the key
withdrawn; and involuntarily exclaimed:
"But what if I want to take it off?"
"You must not want to, the thing is irrevocable," he said coolly,
fastening the key upon his watch-chain, "help me with this. I have but
one hand, you know."
"I don't altogether like the idea," I said obeying him nevertheless, and
arranging the little key on his chain.
"You should have thought of that before," he said with a laugh. "It is
too late to retract. You may well look serious," he continued noticing
my expression. "You forgot, when you made it, what a solemn thing a
promise was; but now you'll have something to remind you of its weight,
and of the impossibility of getting rid of it. There's no danger now
that you'll forget you promised to be my friend; you are bound,
irrevocably, solemnly, forever!"
"I thought you weren't to tease," I exclaimed shaking my arm. "It's a
very pretty thing, but I shall hate it if I feel that I must wear it
always, and that I can't take it off when I want to."
"That's exactly what I meant to guard against. If you could take it off
whenever you were tired of it, you would of course soon throw it aside,
and there would be an end of compact, friendship and all. I hope you
know me better than to suppose I would be satisfied with such an
arrangement! _Now_, no matter how many little obstacles in the way of
oceans, mountains, and other imbecile contrivances of Nature for the
separation of friends, intervene, I shall feel as if I had a check upon
your conduct, a guardian of my place in your affections that will make
me quite easy about it. For you know of course, the legends that are
related of such gifts. I hope you are not superstitious, but you
remember the power attributed to them; how such a pledge will surely
take the giver's part, and grow tighter and tighter till the pain is
unendurable should the wearer, in her inmost heart, harbor a thought of
treachery or faithlessness."
"I suppose, sir, having my arm amputated in case I changed my mind,
would free me from the obligation of wearing it, would it not?"
Mr. Rutledge shook his head gravely.
"I am not of the opinion that it would; but I hope we shall not have to
proceed to any such extreme measures."
"Oh, it's my left arm, I shouldn't mind very much. You manage so well
with one, that I should feel encouraged by your example, if my handcuff
should grow too unbearable."
"Still there are advantages in possessing the use of both, that I would
not advise you to give up unnecessarily. For instance, if you wanted a
cigar from the case on the top of that étagère, which cannot be reached
down without two hands, your temper would be severely tried in having to
ring for Thomas to get it for you, or having to depend upon the
uncertain charity of a most capricious friend who might or might not, be
in the humor to serve you."
"But I shouldn't be likely to want a cigar," I said as standing in a
chair I lifted down the case, and took out one.
"There are matches on the mantelpiece," he said nonchalantly as I handed
it to him. I brought the matches, drew one, and held it for him, as he
lit his cigar.
"Anything more sir?"
"Nothing but the evening paper, which you interrupted me in reading,
half an hour ago."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but you haven't had a paper in your hand since
tea," I said, hunting among the piles of books and papers on the table
for it. "Here it is. Good night."
"Doesn't common kindness suggest your staying to read it for me."
"No sir, it hasn't suggested it as yet," I replied as I took up my long
neglected candle. "It suggests 'good-night,' sir," and the door closed
between us before he could answer.
The moon was making my room so bright, that I soon put out the candle as
superfluous, and wrapping my dressing gown about me, sat in the bay
window for a long, long while, watching the soft shadows on the lawn,
and the silvery smoothness of the lake. Ah! how hateful it would be to
leave this quiet place, and go among strangers again! The idea of city
life had never been altogether attractive, but now seemed most
distasteful. Altogether, my new home in New York did not to-night
attract my errant fancy, neither did the old school life draw it back
regretfully, from a Present so sufficing that I did not ask myself why
it was better than Past or Future; nor why my fancy, usually so eager on
the wing, should lie so contentedly in so calm a nest.