As the terribleness of it all comes up before him, and remembering that God does not look upon sin with the least degree of allowance, his heart bleeds within him, and he would give worlds were they his to give if it were not so.
He got up from his place and circled the house, but no new discoveries were made. He took another look through the door, shook his head and walked slowly away.
“A deserted home!” he said, as he took a last look at the house from the gate. A friendly bird called out one note from a tree above. “The very birds of the air seem to say it—a deserted home,” he said, as he turned to go into the village, with his hat pulled well down over his eyes.
CHAPTER IV
Driven to Endless Toil
In life’s glad morning a mother-bird warbled forth her song of praise. The soft and tender notes that she sang were sweet, and their melody told a story of love. The burden of her song today was home, and she worked as she sang. Day after day she flew about, toiling and building at the nest until it seemed that her weary wings would fail to bear her up. The fatigues and the torrid heat of the day were trying, but they failed to rob her of her song. But one bright day the task was done. Then she lifted her tiny head into the blue above and when the little birdlings came, how the mother-heart beat with rapture! Day after day, with unfailing strength, she made trip after trip on weary wings to feed the birdlings in the nest. Each time she returned and dropped a worm into a hungry mouth, only to be off again in quest of food for another. But when all are fed she takes her place upon the bough above and begins anew her song.
She is singing her song today to the birdlings in the nest. She is telling them that there is much sweetness in life, and that they must have confidence. Aye, she is telling them of that sad day when mother’s wings shall no longer bear her up—the day that each of them shall climb upon the rim of the old home-nest, stretch his little, tender wings, and sail away over life’s sea upon his own resources.
The long summer through, happiness permeates the nest. The mother-bird sang, she fed, she cooed and the birdlings grew stronger. But one sad day, “the snare of the fowler” laid low the mother-bird and destroyed the nest.
Not unlike the birds is too often the truth with human life. The morning of life comes to us blooming with glad expectations of youth. Then, as we grow into young manhood and young womanhood, we see no cloud upon the sky, no worm in the bud of promise, no anticipated barriers to the full enjoyment of human bliss. But, alas! if we could lift the veil that hides the future from our eyes the pleasant dreams of youth would pale away before stern realities. Sooner or later we had best learn that which another has well said, that—“life is earnest. That it is fraught with great peril as well as with grand and noble victories. That life is not an idle promenade through fragrant flower gardens, but it is a stern pilgrimage—a battle and a march.” How sweet it is to have father’s and mother’s strong arms about us to protect and bear us up! But one day the father’s strong arm shall lose its strength, crumble and fall; the home-nest is broken, and we shall go out into life upon our own responsibilities and resources to fight the battles of life alone.
How little the world knows of the adverse conditions under which a large per cent. of the children of our own Appalachian region must struggle in their earlier and tender years. Too often it falls to their lot to be set adrift—like the birdling from a broken nest.
The lot of Gena Filson, the only daughter of Lucky Joe, was a hard one. Lucky Joe Filson had not been much of a father to little Gena. Nevertheless, he had always been kind to her, even tender in his uncouth way. But now her father and mother were both sleeping under the chestnut trees on the hill overlooking Blood Camp, and her friends were few indeed.