"Who told the little bird?"
"God told the little bird, dearie—away down South where the oranges and roses grow in the winter, and there isn't any snow. And the little bird flew up here to Ourtown to build his nest and sing in our maple-tree."
Your eyes were so wide now that you had no voice at all. You just sat there on the hassock while Aunt Jane played.
Away down South ... away down South, singing in an orange-tree, you saw the little bird ... but now he stopped to listen with his head on one side, and his bright eye shining, while the warm wind rustled in the leaves ... God was telling him ... So the little bird spread his wings and flew ... away up in the blue sky, above the trees, above the steeples, over the hills and running brooks ... miles and miles and miles ... till he came to Our Yard, in the sun.
"And here he is now," you ended aloud your little story, for you had found your voice again.
"Who is here, dearie?" asked Aunt Jane, still playing.
"Why, the little bird," you said.
The sparrow flew away. The sun came through the window to where you sat on the hassock, by the piano. It warmed your knees and told you—what it told the buds, what God told the little bird in the orange-tree. Like the little bird you could stay no longer. You ran out-of-doors into the soft, sweet wind and the morning.
Aunt Jane gave the keys a last caress. Grandmother turned in her chair by the sitting-room window.
"What were you playing, Janey?"