Three birds of very favourable
repute in these regions
met together one evening--a
Thrush, a Lark, and a Nightingale.
And all for what purpose, think you?
It was a queer one--to hold a solemn
conference about a DEWDROP!
Yes, it must be allowed it was an
original thought which brought these
three feathered friends thus into council;
and a pretty talk to be sure they had
about it.
They selected, as an appropriate time
for preliminaries, the close of a bright
day in early summer; just when things
in outer nature were looking their best.
The snowdrop and crocus had long ago
hid their faces to make way for more
ambitious rivals. That always pleasant
season was a great way past, when you
see the drowsy plants (after being
tucked up--it may have been for weeks--in
a white snowy coverlet), first
roused from their sound winter sleep,
yawning and stretching themselves, and
rubbing their little eyes, and looking;
wonderingly about them, saying--"What!
is it now time to wake up
and dress?" The tree foliage was
approaching, if it had not already
reached, perfection; all the mosses,
too, looked so green and fresh; and
how prettily the various ferns were
uncoiling themselves among the rocks
and shady nooks by the stream;
while on this particular occasion
the very Sun seemed to have coaxed
his setting beams into the production
of most gorgeous colouring. Belts of
golden cloud were streaking the western
sky; such long trails of them, that it
was impossible to say whether the great
ball of fire, which gave them their
glory, had actually gone down behind
the horizon, or was just about to do so.
At all events, it was unmistakably
_sundown_: though the scene was far
removed from northern latitudes, it
might be designated by the familiar
Scotch "gloamin'." The groves, and
dells, and hedgerows, which had kept
up a goodly concert the livelong day,
were now silent. Their winged tenants
had, one after another, slunk to their
nests, with very tired throats. They
had left, apparently, all, or nearly all
the music to the aforesaid brook in the
dell. A stone's-throw higher up the
valley, this latter, fed by recent rains,
rattled in gleeful style over a bed of
white and grey pebbles--the tiny
limpid waves chasing one another as
if they were playing at hide-and-seek
amid the sedges, king-cups, and rushes.
But it had now reached a quieter spot
where, however, it still kept up a gentle,
soothing evensong, a lullaby peculiar
to itself, as if it wanted to hush the
little birds asleep in their varied leafy
cradles. The very cattle, that had
been seen lying lazily out of the heat
under the beech-trees, had ceased their
lowings. In fact, Nature had rung
her curfew bell, and the sentry stars
were coming out, one by one, to keep
their night-watch.
* * * * *
Let me first, however, say a word
about this Dewdrop, which had awakened
so much curiosity as to gather
three representative members of the
bird-world together.
It was a great puzzle, this Dewdrop
was. It was a puzzle where it came
from; what it had come about; and a
still greater puzzle, what it was made
of. It was evidently a visitor from
some unknown land. Very quietly,
too, it had travelled to its adopted
country. These birds, in succession
(with the curiosity birds generally have),
had endeavoured by stealth to track its
dainty fairy footsteps, and learn its
past history. But it was to no
purpose. However, there it was; not
perhaps making its appearance every
night, but almost every night. And,
then, it invariably managed to perch
itself so daintily on the tip of a rose-leaf.
All three birds agreed that it had
substantiated its claim in this, to be
decidedly a lover of the beautiful.
The leaf, moreover, which it made its
resting-place, was not only pretty in
itself, of a subdued delicate green, but
it hung right over a full-blown rose,
with a mass of pink leaves. The
Dewdrop quite seemed as if it had said
to its own little personality regarding
this round coral ball (or cup, if you
prefer to call it so)--"Well, I shall
have a good look at you at all events,
from my cozy couch, the last thing
at night, and the first thing in the
morning."
[Illustration]
I somehow really believe the rose
must have heard this complimentary
speech, or at all events, by some
instinctive way, have correctly surmised
what the Dewdrop was thinking about;
for, in the last fading, glimmering
light, it covered up its face so coyly
with both hands, and blushed a deeper
and deeper crimson.
* * * * *
But to return to the birds. It was
just outside a copsy retreat that these
three winged acquaintances met. The
Thrush, with his brown plumage and
yellow spotted neck, being the biggest,
and, if anything, the more talkative of
the three, began the conversation.
The consultation was a long and
animated one, too long indeed to
report in full, besides there being a
considerable amount of superfluous talk,
what in bird-language is called chattering;
but I can give the close of it.
"Well," said the Thrush, summing
up the discussion, "I must now be off
to bed--at all events after providing
something suitable in the way of
supper for my wife and family, and
seeing them made tolerably comfortable
for the night. And so too must you,"
he added, with a quizzical look to the
Lark, whose left eye was beginning to
droop, as he stood, with one leg up, in
the significant fashion our woodland
friends indulge in when they indicate
that they are tired. "We shall leave
to you, Bird of the night"--were his last
words, as he addressed the Nightingale--"we
shall leave to you the first
interview with this little sparkling
thing from fairyland, or whatever other
land it has quitted. We shall defer
_our_ visit till to-morrow."
So away the two brown-winged companions
sped, I know not exactly where.
But, though both in a great hurry to get
home, they judiciously deemed, as I
have just observed, that they might
do a trifle of purveying business on
the way, by picking up a few seeds; or
if a manageable slug or grub presented
itself, so much the better. I had not
the curiosity to follow them; but I
believe they each contrived to carry
home a dainty supper; the one to the
hole of a big ash-tree, the other to its
nest in the furrow beside some tufts of
golden gorse. It may be interesting,
however, to know, by way of completing
their domestic history, that both had
promising young households--the one
of three, and the other of four--to
support; and the wee downy children
had arrived too at a very ravenous age,
with any capacity for food, which
indeed amounted, at times, on the part
alike of father and mother, to a trial of
temper.
The Nightingale, now left all alone
for the discharge of a somewhat novel
duty, seemed at first to feel his
responsibility: perhaps a feeling allied
to nervousness in the human being.
But he was a knowing little fellow too;
and resolved to proceed in the most
alluring as well as discreet way to his
task. Being fully acquainted with the
position of the rose-leaf, he took wing,
and settled himself on the branch of a
birch close by. Without any possible
warning, he forthwith began (it was the
best way of getting over these nervous
sensations) to pipe one of his very best
and most enchanting songs. He had
somewhat unwarrantably indulged the
expectation that he would get an
immediate response from the Dewdrop.
He had however, in this, to exercise
the virtue of patience.
[Illustration]
"Answer me, pretty Dewdrop," he
said in his most bewitching trill.
But the Dewdrop was silent. It
appeared to pay not the slightest
attention.
Another chirrup and mellifluous
note, and then, coming to a lower and
still nearer spray of the birch-tree,
quite within whispering distance:
"Pretty little noiseless thing," continued
the Nightingale, "what are
you? Where were you born? Have
you any father or mother? or are you
an orphan? My two brother birds
spoke of your brightness and lustre.
My eyes are tolerably good; but I
confess I can see none of these things
about you; you seem rather somehow
to appear sad, though I trust I am
wrong."
"I have reason to be sad," at last
replied the Dewdrop, in the quietest,
mildest, silveriest voice imaginable,
and trembling with an emotion real or
pretended. "You call me a Dewdrop,
but in truth I am not, I am a teardrop;
a teardrop which fell from the sky."
"A teardrop from the sky!" said
the Nightingale, in undisguised astonishment.
"I cannot comprehend you.
Pray tell me what you mean?"
"It is true, despite of your surprise,"
said the other. "The Sky always
weeps at the loss of the Sun; and no
wonder. I tell you again, believe it
or not as you please, I am one of the
tears it shed to-night. You need not,
however, grieve for me. I shall be all
right" (the tiny voice rising to a
falsetto) "when the Sun appears again.
Indeed, I venture to say, you will
hardly know me then. _That_ I am
sure of."
"Ay!" said the Nightingale, with
a sceptical, incredulous chirp.
"Yes! I always get bright, that I
do, when the Sun shows himself. Look
up to those stars, glittering in the sky.
Do you know how they twinkle so?
I am myself neither scholar nor
philosopher, and have no pretensions
either way. But a confidential friend
once told me, and I quite believe him,
that it is because they are either suns
themselves, or else get light from that
beautiful Sun you saw some time ago
tingeing the sky with red and gold.
_My Sun_," continued the dwarf thing of
mystery, raising its tones, with a sort
of conscious pride. (If it had been
aught else but a beaded drop, I would
have described it standing on tip-toe
as it said this.) It had, however, fairly
exhausted itself with a very unwonted
effort in the shape of a speech, and,
without saying another word, turned
on its side on the leafy bed, shut
both eyes, and went to sleep. The
Nightingale was of course too polite,
civil, and considerate to prolong. So
he simply said, "Good night to you,
little Teardrop, or Dewdrop, whatever
you prefer calling yourself. It is time,
and more than time, for me to be on
the wing. I have one or two domestic
anxieties which, in the first place, I
must see to; and, after that, I have an
engagement among these old hawthorns
to serenade till morning."
"Good night, kind bird," replied the
Dewdrop, turning in politeness half
round on its pillow; "thank you for
thinking of me in my loneliness."
And away the songster flew, first to his
home, and then, after some outstanding
duties and civilities, over to his thicket
among the May blossoms. The extreme
beauty of the night seemed to
dispel all care, and to have a decidedly
inspiring effect on his nerves. I cannot
tell whether he had really any such
ambitious thought, but it almost
seemed, from the gush of song, an
attempt was made that every star in
the heavens might at all events hear, if
they could not appreciate his melodies.
[Illustration]