“All the birds were there, Father,” she droned forth feebly from her sweltering mink-fur nest.
“All the birds were there
With yellow feathers instead of hair,
And bumblebees—and bumblebees—
And bumblebees—and bumblebees—”
Frenziedly she began to burrow the back of her head into her father’s shoulder. “And bumblebees—and bumblebees—”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake—‘buzzed in the trees!’” interpolated the Senior Surgeon.
Rigidly from head to foot the little body in his arms stiffened suddenly. As one who saw the supreme achievement of a life-time swept away by some one careless joggle of an infinitesimal part, the Little Girl stared up agonizingly into her father’s face.
“Oh, I don’t think ‘buzzed’ was the word!” she began convulsively. “Oh, I don’t think—”
Startlingly through the twilight the Senior Surgeon felt the White Linen Nurse’s rose-red lips come smack against his ear.