“You are heartily welcome to what I have,” replied the cottager; “I daresay that you can find it yourself—I need not rise. Snuff the long wick of the candle, and there—don’t put it in the draught—mind you don’t snuff it out—why, how your poor fingers tremble!”
How changed was Polly since the morning’s sun had risen! Her cheeks pale and haggard, her eyes swollen with weeping, her dress hanging damp around her chill form; who would have guessed that she ever could have been the gayest girl in the village.
“You will find the bottle on the shelf; you can reach it with a chair,” continued Mrs. Wingfield, raising herself on one arm to watch the proceedings of the girl. “There, do you not see, just behind that mug! Why, what have you done?” she cried in a tone of impatience, as something came crashing upon the floor.
What had she done indeed. She had thrown down Tom’s mug, and set two little prisoners free. Yes, they were free, free as the air which they now joyously beat with their little wings! Uttering a loud hum of delight, they flew round the cottage, darted to the door, then drew back, afraid of the damp, and at last both settled sociably under the table, to enjoy together a nice crumb of sugar that Tom had dropped on the floor.
AT LIBERTY.
Oh, if liberty be so sweet, so precious to all, who would deprive even an insect of its birthright! Let them spread the free wing, unconfined and happy, and let us find our pleasure rather in seeing them in the position for which Providence formed and designed them, than in keeping them as captives, the slaves to our will, deprived of their life’s dearest blessing!
