Mrs. Gerhardt would fasten on one of her little hoods, for in these days Jennie kept Vesta’s wardrobe beautifully replete. Taking her by the hand, Gerhardt would issue forth, satisfied to drag first one foot and then the other in order to accommodate his gait to her toddling steps.
One beautiful May day, when Vesta was four years old, they started on one of their walks. Everywhere nature was budding and bourgeoning; the birds twittering their arrival from the south; the insects making the best of their brief span of life. Sparrows chirped in the road; robins strutted upon the grass; bluebirds built in the eaves of the cottages. Gerhardt took a keen delight in pointing out the wonders of nature to Vesta, and she was quick to respond. Every new sight and sound interested her.
“Ooh!—ooh!” exclaimed Vesta, catching sight of a low, flashing touch of red as a robin lighted upon a twig nearby. Her hand was up, and her eyes were wide open.
“Yes,” said Gerhardt, as happy as if he himself had but newly discovered this marvelous creature. “Robin. Bird. Robin. Say robin.”
“Wobin,” said Vesta.
“Yes, robin,” he answered. “It is going to look for a worm now. We will see if we cannot find its nest. I think I saw a nest in one of these trees.”
He plodded peacefully on, seeking to rediscover an old abandoned nest that he had observed on a former walk. “Here it is,” he said at last, coming to a small and leafless tree, in which a winter-beaten remnant of a home was still clinging. “Here, come now, see,” and he lifted the baby up at arm’s length.
“See,” said Gerhardt, indicating the wisp of dead grasses with his free hand, “nest. That is a bird’s nest. See!”
“Ooh!” repeated Vesta, imitating his pointing finger with one of her own. “Ness—ooh!”
“Yes,” said Gerhardt, putting her down again. “That was a wren’s nest. They have all gone now. They will not come any more.”