A SONG OF THE ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK
Hark! Hark!
From the elm tree’s topmost spray,
As the sun’s first spark
O’erleaps the dark
He sings to the dawning day.
Over and over and over, the thrilling strain:
Never more clear
On love-tuned ear
Burst forth love’s charmed refrain.
Hark, hark, listen and hear!
The robin’s whistle, the oriole’s note,
Both are drowned
In the golden sound
That pours from the perfect throat.
Sing, spirit of might,
Bird of beauty and tune,—
Sable-winged as a summer’s night,
With the red-rose breast as soft, as bright
As a rose-red dawn in June!
Sing, sing to the rippling light,
Sing to the paling moon!
Sing, sing, sing
Of a joy beyond our ken,
Till the burdens of manhood loose their hold,
And the heart grows young, and the Age of Gold
Rolls back on the souls of men.
—Dora Read Goodale, in Youth’s Companion.
XXVII
FLAG DAY
The Spring Sale of the work of the Kind Hearts’ Club was held the Saturday after Arbour and Bird Day. People who had seen the bird-houses that their friends had bought at Christmas drove over from towns many miles away, while those who had been before came again and seemed perfectly fascinated by the birds’ baths and drinking-troughs made from the hollowed logs.
The money thus being secure, the wayside drinking-fountain for man, beast, and bird was begun at once and before Memorial Day was completed and the water turned on, to Tommy’s great pride.
Nor were the children obliged to spend all their pennies upon the work, for besides the actual money, they had earned something of more value—the confidence and co-operation of their own parents and of the neighbourhood.
At first the work that Gray Lady had begun at Foxes Corners school was thought to be merely a passing fancy or a matter of sentiment only, but day by day many of those who were not only indifferent, but perhaps aggressive, saw that common sense went hand in hand with the common humanity that the Kind Hearts’ Club expressed.
Flag Day, that year falling upon a Friday, was to be the last regular bird lesson for the Foxes Corners school. Now that the planting season had come, and the summer vacation was near, the Friday afternoons were needed for making up back work on the part of those who had been absent and in preparing for examinations.
In some way it seemed to be an understood fact that Rose Wilde would go to Bridgeton to teach in the High School, and it was a subject about which her pupils were very unhappy.
There were to be some patriotic exercises at the school in the morning as usual; then Miss Wilde asked Gray Lady, who had been away for several days, if the children might not have their afternoon talk at Swallow Chimney instead of at the school, as the air in the low room was quite heavy and uncomfortable in the warm June afternoons.
Luncheon was hardly over on that day before Goldilocks began to show unusual signs of hurry. In answer to her mother’s question as to what made her so restless, she replied, “I’m so afraid we may be late. I promised Miss Wilde we would be over by half-past one,” and then stopped and looked confused.
“I do not see how we can be late when the class cannot begin by itself,” said Gray Lady, smiling, for she was well aware that there was something unusual in the air, but exactly what, she had purposely kept herself from guessing.
However, she did not aggravate Goldilocks by any unnecessary delay, and half-past one saw mother and daughter going through the garden toward the gate of Birdland. Goldilocks, for some mysterious reason, kept her eyes upon the ground, while it seemed to her as if her mother stopped an endlessly long time to admire every shrub and to gather a bunch of delicately pencilled pansies of lilac, mauve, and royal purple to fasten in the belt of her soft gray muslin gown.
As the pair came out from the shadow of the overhanging vines of the garden walk, a low murmur and the distinct words “here she comes” made Gray Lady pause and look toward the rustic gate of Birdland. As she did so, the gate opened, and inside she saw the school children drawn up in line on either side of the grass path that formed a natural aisle to the middle of the orchard, where several of the old trees had crumbled away, leaving an open space.
“We must walk right on,” whispered Goldilocks, clutching her mother’s hand and almost pulling her along. So, wishing every one good day right and left as she went, Gray Lady allowed herself to be led, the children closing in and following.
At first the bright light in the open space blinded Gray Lady, and then she saw that a tall flagpole was planted in the centre of the open,—a slender pole, flawless from bottom to top, polished and smooth as glass. On the top was perched a gilded eagle with wings wide-spread; in the halyards on the pole a loosely folded bundle was caught, and the end of the line was in the hands of Jack Todd.
Gray Lady stood quite still looking from one to the other, her breath coming fast. Then Jack jerked the line, and out of the bundle, fold on fold, fell a large flag; slowly it rose to the top of the pole and floated in the breeze, while at the little click of Miss Wilde’s tuning-fork twenty-five fresh young voices broke into song.