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.