When all this takes place—and it is no more of an event than the daily home-coming of our good neighbor and dear friend Arthur Sterling, Esq., barrister-at-law,—when this home-coming takes place, all the birds at The Nest break forth into a merrier song—get so enthusiastic in their pipings that you'd think, to hear them, that they would split their throats; and still gladder and sweeter and merrier than their song is the voice of our dear neighbor's wife, Mistress May Sterling, who pours forth, in a ceaseless chattering song, a whole day's accumulation of love—yes indeed, a whole lifetime's accumulation; and while the rippling flow goes on their two fond hearts sing louder with joy than any birds would ever dare to think of singing.
How they love the birds! And why not? Since but for a little bird they would not have been together in this sweet little nest, outbilling and outcooing the Java sparrows, dwelling in the land of Love's young dream, in the sunshine of each other's affection, and ready to declare upon oath that there is no night in their lives that isn't radiant with the sheen of the honeymoon.
And now I'll tell you the story of a little bird as Mistress May Sterling told it to me one evening while her Arthur and I smoked our cigars in the moonlight on The Nest's piazza. No: on the whole, Mistress Sterling shall tell the story herself: she tells it much better than I can.
"Why, yes," she says, "I'll tell it: why not? I love to tell it, for, taken altogether, it is the best story I ever heard of.—Kiss me, dear."
Arthur having done as he was bidden, Mrs. Sterling begins at once, and all you and I have to do is to listen:
"When I was young and giddy—ever and ever so long ago, of course: indeed I was quite a girl then, only eighteen—I was, as you may imagine, quite a pet with my father—don't laugh, Arthur: you know I was—and quite a belle too, I can assure you, with lots of young men flinging themselves at my feet and swearing all kinds of oaths about fidelity and everlasting affection, and all the other things that young and enthusiastic—"
"And inexperienced," put in Arthur.
"Don't interrupt me, sir. Where was I? Oh yes!—that young and enthusiastic and inexperienced people are accustomed to swear. And my father, who was very stern and had old-fashioned notions—and has now, for that matter, dear old papa!—said that, whatever befell, he would not on any account give the least encouragement or the slightest permission to any lover till I was past twenty years old. Not that I cared, only it was such fun to hear the men talk, and me looking unutterable things and saying softly, 'You must never say anything to me on this subject again till you have papa's consent: he would be very angry if he knew what you've said already'! You see, I knew papa's will—it is unchangeable as granite: at least I thought it was—and I felt perfectly safe.
"This was, you know—no, you don't know—but it was the year I came out in society. And I used to go to receptions and all sorts of things with papa, and receive his company, and sit at the head of the table, and keep house, just as my mother would have done if she'd been living. I hardly remember mamma: I was not four years old when she died. And society and people's admiration seemed so glorious! I declared I'd never marry, but go on to the end of my days saying 'No' to any man that asked me, and enjoying such a lot of pity for the poor fellows. I deliberately hardened my heart, as many a girl does at that age, and fairly pitied—yes, actually pitied—the girls that were so weak as to fall in love and get married. I think papa used to encourage me in the feeling, for he didn't like to think of losing me out of the house, and he a judge and a Congressman, and having ever so much company, and nobody but dear old-fashioned Aunt Jane to help him receive them if I was to leave him.
"When father was re-elected to Congress we had a glorious reception at our house in the country, and among others that came to it was a Mr. Sterling, the son of my father's college chum, and a promising young sprig of the law, father said. He came to stay a day or two in the house as a visitor before the reception, and was to leave the morning after it took place."