'Do not grieve, do not grieve—cheer thee, che-eer thee,' sang the Robin, as he perched beside her.
Or the Thrush tried to advise, saying, 'Don't fret, don't fret; 'tis a pity, 'tis a pity!'
But one bright sunny day a Swallow came flying along. He had just returned from far distant lands, and all the other birds gathered chittering around him, eager to hear the news he had brought. He told them of much he had seen whilst on the wing; also that he was the pioneer, his brothers would soon rejoin him, for Summer was coming; he had heard her heralds in the fields and groves, had marked her flower-decked path in forest and in lane. But what was summer to the heart-broken Wren? There would be no sunshine for her, since he was not there—he who was her all.
'Oh, Swallow,' she timidly asked, 'have you seen my own love?'
Then the eyes of the Swallow became tear-dimmed, as sadly he replied,—
'Little Jenny Wren, I have!'
'Where—oh, where?' she cried in thrilling accents.
He hesitated a few moments, though to her impatience it seemed hours; he wished to spare her further agony if he could—but the truth must be told.
'Tell me, tell me,' she pleaded, impatient at the delay.
'In a prison,' was the reply.