He frowned and came out of his dream. “What is Homer to you, child?” he said impatiently.
“Nothing, Father; but I often think of those things. I love the birds,” she added quietly. “They are so merry and move so swift, so swift. They are kind, too.”
“Kind! What do you mean?”
“They come to me when I go to the window—oh, just a few moments at the window, Father, to breathe the air. Then I call them their own calls and they fly down out of the air, very timid at first. I put out my hand and hold it still and talk to them. Finally, one of them is sure to flutter near and sit on my finger with its little sharp claws. They watch me with clever quick turnings of the head and chirp to make me laugh.”
She leaned forward—very child in this childish pleasure. “Father, tell me what Homer says about the birds.”
“I am in no mood for Homer’s lines.” And indeed he was not. But presently he began to say them—
“As the many tribes of feathered birds,
Wild geese and long-necked swans
On the Asian mead by Kystrios stream
Fly hither and thither joying in their plumage