“‘Well,’ shouted Smudge. ‘Why don’t you speak?’
“The Blackbird hid her head and whispered, ‘I love you.’
“‘Silly child,’ said Smudge. ‘Come out and let me see you!’
“He sat up so he could see better and then, Children, he almost fell right out of his valley bed. For the Blackbird was sitting on a branch of a willow tree, and right on each of her black wings was a large ruby of lovely crimson, brighter—oh, very much brighter than the brightest flower you have ever seen.
“‘Loveliness,’ shouted Smudge, using the same name he had used for the golden butterfly bird (men always do), ‘I thought you were black and somber.’
“‘I was,’ said the Blackbird, and her eyes became all teary.
“‘But the sunlight on your wings and the valley of green of your eyes and the rainbow of your neck! Where did they come from, Loveliness?’
“‘I love you,’ said the Blackbird-with-the-crimson-wings. ‘I have loved you for more than a thousand years, more years than there are buttercups on the hill. And so, with thinking of you and longing to have you love me, how could I help but grow the way you wished?’
“‘Loveliness, Loveliness,’ Smudge whispered, in a very gruff, choky whisper. The man-baby fell from a willow tree and bumped his nose on Smudge’s toe and sat up and laughed. Then all the valley grew golden and the sky was glory bright; the meadow larks sang as they sat on the twigs, and the violets and wild pansies and buttercups and golden cups and poppies and brown-eyed-susans and forget-me-nots and daisies danced a lovely, happy dance that frightened away the very grey old owl, and another day was born.”