With their beauty evermore.
CHAPTER XVI.
A STORY FOR THE CHILDREN.
In the outskirts of a large city, a little way out in the cool and pleasant country, there stands a little one-story house, which was once painted a light yellow, but which time and storm have turned to a dull, brown color. A little plot of ground attached, shaded by one noble oak tree, seemed turned into a perfect fairy bower of red and gold and green and purple, when summer suns shone down upon its beds of blooming four-o’clocks, correopsis, and larkspurs, in their setting of dainty foliage. All day long, the birds warbled or twittered to each other in the tree-top, where a nest of young robins was safely hidden from the prying eyes of too curious school-boys. Such stores of wonderful seeds, buds, and flowers did these birds know of at a no-distant place; such cherries and berries, which they could enjoy to their hearts’ content, after carefully providing for their half-famished young!
But of all the delightful spots these joyful birds had visited, not one seemed so suitable for their home as the plumy tops of this old oak tree, which cast its genial shade over the little old brown house, and here a nest was built,—five little, spotted eggs were carefully covered up by the mother-bird, which by-and-bye burst open and disclosed five little hungry bills, wide apart, gasping for food.
What a happy summer was this! Father Robin bustling about, looking very important, bringing a dainty worm or toothsome berry to feed his children upon, or perching upon the topmost bough of the tree, and filling the air with the music of his joyful songs; while the dainty, careful mother, prudent Mrs. Jenny, anxiously watched her little ones, lest some harm should come to them, or talked to them in her quaint bird-fashion, with now and then a little chirp of encouragement, when one would attempt to try its wings for a tiny flight amid the leaves.
But I have something to tell you about the inmates of the little old brown house, which contained two tiny rooms, a kitchen and a bed-room. The floors of these rooms were always white and shining; pretty pink curtains hung at the windows, a few chairs, a table and a little stove were in the outer room; while the inner apartment contained a neat, white bed, a stand, and one chair.
But two persons lived in this little home,—a pale, delicate woman, who was stitching her life away by constant sewing (for she made cheap clothing for a firm in the big city),—and a little girl about six years old. This little girl had bright blue eyes, and brown, curling hair; her name was Fannie, and she lived here alone with her dear mamma. Fannie’s papa had been in the spirit world for three years, and her mamma was obliged to do the sewing in order to earn bread and shelter for herself and little one.
Little Fannie used to help her dear mamma by threading needles, sewing tags on the work,—tags are tickets with the number of the garment written on them,—and picking up the litter on the floor.
Fannie Davis was a very happy little girl; she had but few toys, and these were old, nearly worn-out playthings, which had seen better days; but she loved to play in the little garden, and watch the flowers, pulling out old weeds and picking the flower-seeds as they ripened. She would listen to the birds for hours, and talk to them in her childish way. They were her companions, for she had no playmates, and it was a happy summer for this little girl when the robins built their nest in the old tree.
But, alas, a terrible storm of wind and rain came one night, and brought disaster to the birdies’ home. The nest became detached from its fastenings and fell, catching upon a lower branch of the tree. The old birds were not harmed, but two of their young ones were killed, and another was lying on the ground with a broken wing. In this condition little Fannie found them in the morning, when the storm had disappeared and the sun was shining bright. Poor little thing, how she cried as she buried the two tiny birds in the garden, and placed a handful of her choicest flowers upon their grave. The little wounded bird she carried into the house, her mother tied up its broken wing with a cotton string, and fed it with bread-crumbs. Fannie made a little, soft nest for the bird from some pieces of old linen, and kept it until it was strong and well, when she let it go again out into the bright world to find its parents, its two brother birdies, and its nest repaired and straightened in the old tree.