Good times began again. White and pink, the orchards blossomed like
bridal bouquets. It snowed butterflies’ wings and flower stamens in the
tall grass; lilacs hung in clusters over the walls; like a good priest
saying mass, the earth donned a golden cope, and all Nature trembled and
loved.
Then was the time for our pretty bird to abandon himself to endless idle
wanderings and loiterings, hopping hither and thither, always on one
leg, barely lighting and then off again, shaking the leaves with an
incessant flutter of wings, twittering and chirping, flirting with the
daisies, ruffling the hawthorn, hooting the holly. At peep of dawn he
never failed, when the harebells rang their morning summons, to come
down to attend the good God’s church whither the flies and sparrows
assemble, still half asleep and blundering against the pillars; next the
beetles get under way along the roads, teased and tormented by the
butterflies and ladybirds; then the linnet leaves her bough and flies
off to where the bells tinkle, but of a sudden darts back again, finding
she has left something behind, lost something—more often than not her
head—for the poor lady generally wears it wrong side before! Thither fly
the chaffinches too, and the grave-faced oriole, the pretty bullfinch,
and the chattering cock-sparrow. Then the cockchafers come, too, too
often, alas! trailing after them the thread of captivity clinging to
them—the burly cockchafers that, with the bumble-bee, are the bass
voices of the underwoods. Plain and woodland are all alive, for there is
never a creature at this fair hour of daybreak, while the skies are
brightening, but is eager to come and make its orison to God in His
temple.
So the little goldfinch followed their example; he preened his feathers,
looking at himself admiringly in a dewdrop the while. Then, his toilet
done, like all the rest of the world, he bustled off to his business and
his pleasures.
V
Goldfinches’ hearts are made much the same as men’s; the spring awakes
both to thoughts of love.
Our hero had remarked in his neighbourhood a sweet little hen-goldfinch.
She lived with her parents in the tall branches of an apple-tree; more
than once, coming home at evening, he had admired the fascinating smile
of her beak at the window, embowered in foliage, where she sat watching
for his going-by.
Was it his fancy? Was it really and truly a modest blush, or only the
rosy reflection cast by the setting sun? Yes, sure—he had seen her
redden. It needed no more to decide him to ask her hand in marriage.
One morning he made his bravest toilet, scented himself with lavender
and thyme, polished up his little claws, and in this gallant array he
set out, with a shining face but an anxious heart, to see the parents.
They received him politely, but could not make up their minds, and
begged him to come again.
He came again and again, and the more he saw of his little sweetheart,
the deeper he fell in love. She was as pretty as seven in her little
brown mantle with yellow facings, and her dainty head in its red hood
was poised on her neck with an incomparable grace. Saucy and alert, she
was as slight and slim as a flower waving in the breeze, as bright as a
sunbeam piercing through the leaves, as agile as the wind. Dewdrops
seemed to sparkle in the depths of her little round pupils. She was a
vision of the spring-tide made into a bird!
True, our hero was no less brave to see. Gallant and gay, he cocked his
beak boldly and carried the colours of his race with becoming pride.
At last the wedding-day was fixed; but the bride’s trousseau was still
to seek. No doubt birds are able to start housekeeping at small cost,
neither needing tables and chairs nor pots and pans; still, there must
be some little fitting-out to be done.
And so thought the bride’s parents, who were prudent people, and loved
their daughter.
A fine to-do there was, to be sure, on the bough where the old couple
had their home; a stir that never ceased all day long kept the green
hangings of the house shaking, and the doors banging; everlasting
comings and goings turned the stairways upside down. Pale and
eager-eyed, the little hen-goldfinch awaited the happy hour when she
could fly away with her mate.