SPRING AT THE COTTAGE.
Love and Contentment waved their bright wings now; for the two friends
became so fond of each other they were not contented apart. Narcissa
even grew beautiful again, there was such a peaceful smile upon her
face, and such an earnest, loving look within her eyes.
It was a real pleasure for Violet to comfort and amuse this friend, from
whom she was constantly learning some new thing.
Narcissa painted beautifully, and Violet would bring her the freshest
and loveliest flowers to copy; so there was hardly a blossom or a green
leaf in the neighborhood, from April to November, but you could find it
almost living again in their portfolio.
They would watch the birds too, find out all their names, and their
different notes, and how they fed and taught their young; and Violet
worked in her garden more than ever now, because Narcissa's maid took
care of the cottage, and kept it as neat as even its mistress wished.
She had the lawn before the house enclosed in a border shaped like the
half of a great ring, and this was planted full of snowdrops, which
blossom quite early, you know, and are very delicate and beautiful. It
was like a ring of living pearls; and when these wilted, odors began to
steal towards the cottage door, which tempted Violet to look under
another border thick with green leaves, and there would be more violets
than you could count; so the pearl ring changed to one of emerald and
amethyst.
Meantime the sweetbrier by the doorway would begin to have pale green
buds on its brown stems, and the honeysuckle and bitter-sweet came forth
in fresh green shoots, until there were so many new, tender, fragrant
leaves, and buds, and blossoms that the birds were sure to select it as
the place for their nests.
Narcissa loved to watch them while Violet was busy with her work. A
flock of robins would settle upon the plum tree in the garden, peck at
the gum, and dig insect eggs out from the bark, and then fly away
towards the wood, singing all together; but soon two would steal back to
the plum tree, and chirp and twitter to each other, and look at the
cottage, and then at the wood, and then at the thickest boughs of the
plum.
Presently both would fly together towards the house, one settling on the
sweetbrier, and one on the roof, and then on the chimney, and then hop
along the porch, and then back both would go to have another talk in the
plum tree, and then fly off to find their brothers and sisters in the
wood.
But sure as another morning came, back would come the birds too, looking
with their little bright eyes all about the cottage, and always settling
at last on that one sweetbrier branch.
Then they would begin to bring straws and hair, which they wove together
into a soft little nest, working away as busy and happy as birds could
be, now and then going back to the plum tree, as if from a distance to
admire their tiny home.
Before very long, looking out of the cottage window, you might find the
nest full of little cunning eggs; but you could not see these often, for
the birds kept them almost constantly sheltered with their own warm
breasts, waiting until the little things within should grow strong
enough to break and creep out of their shells.
All this time the father bird would bring the mother food--bring her
ripe cherries, seeds, buds, and worms; and sometimes he would take her
place, letting her fly away for a look at the woods, or a drink from the
sparkling brook.
But some bright morning you would hear the old birds twittering so
joyfully, you might know something had come to pass; and the first time
they flew away, if you looked from the window again, there would be,
instead of the eggs, a little heap of the homeliest things in the world,
with great eyes, and great legs and claws, and long red necks, and
mouths half as large as the bodies, gaping at you--not a feather to be
seen except a little down, like whiskers, about their ears.
Birds grow very fast; you would be surprised to find how soon they began
to fill, and more than fill, the nest, until some morning one after
another would hop out among the sweetbrier stems, and show you their
glossy backs and speckled breasts, while the old birds watched so proud
and happy, and began teaching them to fly and to sing.
One morning towards the last of May, when Violet was in the garden
transplanting her forget-me-nots, and Narcissa, in the porch, sat
watching her, enjoying the cool, fresh air, the new life that budded
forth from every thing, and the freedom and joy of the golden orioles as
they flashed in and out among the elm boughs, and twittered forth their
wild and plaintive melodies, her attention was caught by a stir and
fluttering in the sweetbrier, and then a song from the larch tree
opposite. These sounds came from two yellow birds, a mother and her
little one. The young one would go, "Twe-te-twee," timidly and sweetly,
with such a tired tremble at the end; then forth poured the old bird a
clear, connected strain, half repeated it, and then paused; and the
little sweet voice came again, "Pee-te-wee--pee-te-wee--twee-te-wee."
It was too cunning, and the old bird took up the trembling,
broken strain so clearly, with such ease, "Twitter, witter,
witter--wee-te-twee-te-twee--twitter, witter, witter"--"Wee-te-twee,"
ended the young one, with that same little tremble in the midst, the
same baby sweetness, just such as in a child would make you snatch it up
and kiss it--"twee-te-wee." Narcissa wondered if there could have been
more exquisite music in paradise.