The Dickinson press., 1897-05-01

. INV ~ lac ~ Sou ShoAA oSS
them fly"
But birdlings do not grow in a day.
and the child watched from the great
wheel-chair with patience born Of suf-
ssering. and a life Of pain-watched un-
til five round eggs lay in the nest,
tinted with heavens own blue.
At last-oh, the joy of 1.-THE blue
shells broke, and five strange. soft
things, with great eyes and yellow
bills, nestled under the mother-wings
nestled and cuddled until the wings
would hardly cover them, and the nest
seemed all too small. The br0w1
mothers heart was bursting with Joy
SO, for that matter, was the faith
er's-but she kept her love to herself
and it warmed the birdlings, while his
ran over in one continual song from
the top of the tree. The little girl
looked like a guardian spirit from
above.
MY birds, my birds!" she whisper
ed. over her clasped hands; my very,
very own!"
The color that had come with the
robins slowly faded from cheek and
eye-as the birdlings in the nest grew
stronger, the one in the old house
grew weaker, and still the days went
by. The father-robin sobered down
with five wide mouths to feed, the
mother had to stretch her wings a lit
tie further every night to keep the
nestlings in. The apple buds had long
since swelled into blossoms, the bios
SONS had flown of on the wind In
scented showers. leaving the small,
green balls that were to be apples in
the far-off fall, and the leaves had
turned to a darker hue. The little girl
rested OH pillows now, in the Wheel
chair; her mother lifted her when she
looked down into the nest.
Mamma, how long will it be before
the robins fly?" she asked.
The mother laid her head by the one
on the pillow, and the child caught
only the whisper that was not meant
FOR her: "oh. my love, my love"
At last the wheel-chair stood alone
by the window. The little girl lay
very still within the curtained bed.
Il must not miss it." she whispered,
morning and night. "You will watch.
mamma, dear, will you not, and wake
me--when-the birdlings-fy?"
The answer was always the same: 81
am watching, I am watching! Lie
still for a while and restw
The times for resting grew longer
and the times for waking short.
The sun, sending his last shafts OF
light through the leaves one late af-
ternoon, touched the eyes so often
closed, and they opened at his kiss.
"Is it sunset?" she asked. Take me
up, mamma. l have not said good
night to the robins in SO very long,
Tenderly the mother lifted her, while
the sweet breath of the meadow came
up on the breeze. and the leaves were
quivering in the golden light. The
r%ed-breasted robin was winging his
way home; the brown mother was
grooming q slumber song to her nest,
The child stretched out her hands. the
radiance clarifying face and hair,
Goodnight, goodnight, my birdlfngs,
Mamma, see how the sun goes down!
Twill be so NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS.
think they will not stay" The head
dropped YEARLY on the pillow thai
night. "You will wake me-so early
mamma, dear"
The stars shone and paled, the gray
light stole slowly back again, and the
faint, faint blue to the sky. And in
the early morning One, long-awaited
came, and two went out into the sun.
rise, into the hush Of the sweet young
day-leaving a void in the old white
house that nothing on earth could fill
The n who vas left stood very still,
at the window, and looked through
the apple boughs with eyes that saw
them not. There was no need nov
that love should hide the pain. AZ
she turned away her glance fell on the
ROBINS nest. Lo! it was empty-only
a broken shell lay where five birding.
NSosASu OCAcdlu lu0 llUL1lcI
wings. Then the. tears came to eye:
that had not wept, and a great thanks.
giving to an aching heart-for hel
darling. who had Weakened early
and for the robins, who had waited t.
fly with her.
Charles Monnier of Detroit. has
written 1858 words on a postal card
beating all previous records by 1000
words. To the naked eye the letters
look like little dots. but show distinct
.ty under a glass.
Riley's Ambition.
James Whitcomb Riley is quoted az
saying that as q youth the height of
his ambition wa to wear q stovepipe
hat and play . jewsharp.
a Mourning Color.
Vry.--li 11I3 yVyl.