“One’s for the money,
Two’s for the show,
Three’s to make ready,
And four’s to go.”
She tossed the crumbs to the bird, and it seemed to thank her with many a chirp. She called this thrush her little poem of the air.
“Oh, bright-winged thrush,” she said, with girlish superstition, “I beg you to tell of him who won my heart so long—so very long—ago. Is he true? Tell me, thrush, tell me, tell.”
The thrush winked his knowing eyes, and, turning his head sideways, seemed to consider the weighty question put to him. Then he chirped,—not in dirge-like tones, but in notes of hope.
“Oh,” said Ethel, “who knows, who knows?”
She sighed as she looked fondly at the bird. “How little, fair thrush of the woods, do you know of the human heart! How little you know of the intrigues of the wicked, wicked world! How little you know of hopes deferred and of the sorrow that kills! Your song is one of hope. You answer me with cheery chirps, but still I believe you not—I believe you not.”