It was now morning. The
mist still slept drowsily in the
valley; in some places so
dense, that the smoke of the early fires
in the hamlet could scarcely pierce it.
Already our friend the Thrush had completed
both toilet and breakfast, and had
issued forth on his round of daily work
and pleasure; as active and busy as
the thrush family always are. When
he first rose from bed, he was not
exactly in the very best of humours;
for he had, what was always a cross to
him when it occurred (though that was
rarely), a disturbed night. Shall I tell
you how his rest came thus to be
invaded? Why, the Nightingale, on
his way from the rose-leaf, had, perhaps
somewhat inconsiderately, tapped at
his door, to inform him that all he
could get out of the Dewdrop was
(a very incomprehensible sentiment to
a sleepy bird), that he was a tear wept
by the Sky when it lost the Sun; and
he was bound in all sincerity to add,
that it seemed rather a dull and uninteresting
tear to boot.
"I know better," growled the Thrush.
(I have used the word "growl," because
I can find no better to describe the
reality.) Growling, I am well aware, is a
very uncommon demonstration of feeling
in the case of a warbler. At all
events, if it was not a growl, it was the
nearest approach his beak could make
to one, as he turned on the pillow
which had been thus rudely disturbed.
After, however, dozing for a few more
hours, breakfast over, and his family
seen to, off he sped with all his former
cheerfulness and activity, till he found
himself perched on a branch of the
very tallest elm-tree he could pick out,
and one, too, right above where the
rose and the dewdrop were. Dear
me! how he piped, and chirruped, and
throstled! I thought the Nightingale
had done wonders in that way; but it
was nothing to the Thrush. He doubtless
was under the impression that the
Dewdrop was sound asleep, and needed
no ordinary efforts in the way of
rousing. I am sure if one could have
dived under the yellow feathers, the
little throat must have been purple.
After these musical preliminaries,
our new friend (Songster No. 2) ventured
by-and-by to come nearer. But,
in doing so, he could hardly believe
his eyes, specially after what the
Nightingale had told him.
"A teardrop" indeed! There was
not a bit of the tear about it. Where
had been the Nightingale's eyes? It
was something at all events very
like a bright, unmistakable, beautiful
diamond on which the Thrush looked.
How it glistened and sparkled; and
that too with all the prismatic colours!
The spectator could only (what was an
effort to any member of the Thrush
family) gaze in mute wonder.
"What in all the world can you be,
you lovely, silent sleeper on the rose-leaf,
with your round crystal cheeks?
Dewdrop we thought you were; teardrop
you say you are: I cannot think
you are either. If you are not a
diamond set in rubies--stolen, for
anything I know, from yesterday's
rainbow--you look the thing uncommonly
well."
"I am indeed a diamond," answered
the Dewdrop. "Look at me," said the
little gleaming dot, with the air of an
aristocrat; "do you not say I am fit for
a monarch's crown? And it _is_ a
monarch's crown I am presently to be
set in. Every day I meet the Queen
of the Morning.--Stay," it suddenly exclaimed,
"I see her even now advancing
with her rosy feet, 'sowing the earth
with pearls.' See, for yourself, how the
few stars which still linger in the sky,
and which with their glittering torches
lighted her out of the Eastern Gate,
are paling every minute behind her!
She says, of all the jewels in her tiara
there is not one she is fonder of, or
prouder of, than me. Away, away,
little bird," stammered out the Dewdrop,
with some nervous twitchings
presently to be accounted for; "I must
prepare to meet this Queen Aurora.
But," it added in a kind of afterthought,
"the procession will soon be
over; come back shortly and see me, if
you please." The keen diamond eye
twinkled with a humorous, comical
expression when these last words were
uttered; as much as to say, "I shall
manage to cheat you, old fellow,
wont I?"
The Thrush had some small quantum
of poetry in his nature; but he had a
great deal of shrewd common sense
too, and an immense idea of propriety.
Accordingly, he at once took the hint
as to departure; but with guileless
simplicity cherished the resolution of
renewing the intercourse, in an hour or
two at latest, after the royal cavalcade
had swept by.
This interlude was no peculiar hardship
to our erratic friend, who knew he
could spend the time merrily and
profitably among his numerous kinsfolk
in the groves. To tell the truth, he was
not sorry to get away from the court
pageantry, as all such ceremonial and
pomp of circumstance was an abomination
to him, and had always been
so. It was, therefore, with pleasant
anticipations of an early return that,
by a few fleet bounces, he was lost
from sight in the nearest thicket.
Barely, however, had the specified
period elapsed, when he was back again
upon his twig on the tall elm. He
had certainly not exhausted his strength
or conversational music-powers in that
round of morning visits, for he renewed,
then and there, his merriest
notes, quite in the old style; and after
this prelude, by way of making sure
that the course was clear, he flew with
more than wonted alacrity in the
direction of the rose-leaf.
But, can you imagine? To his
wonder, sorrow, and chagrin, lo! when
he looked for it, the leaf was empty!
Its small householder was gone! Not
a trace of either Dewdrop or Diamond
left! There was no need of asking
any questions; he comprehended in a
moment what the roguish twinkle of the
eye meant an hour before. He had,
in a word, been "sold." It was more
than a mere innocent trick played on
him. His feelings and bird-dignity
had, he felt, been a little compromised
by what, had it occurred at night, would
have been called "a moonlight flitting."
It was more like what the big
creatures in the world around him
were in the habit of describing as an
April errand. It was only too evident
that the Queen of the Morning, in
passing by, had picked up the dew
diamond, and had inserted it in her
crown; and that the little thing had
made no demur to the appropriation.
Well, it must be owned that, anyhow
for once, the Thrush was crestfallen.
He almost never knew any ditties but
joyous ones; but on the present occasion,
with no attempt at concealment, he
went away wailing to the thicket, and
outpoured his wounded vanity in something
very like a dirge. He then
buried his beak in rather sulky fashion
under his wing, and went to sleep.
[Illustration]