The inn had its ancient customs.
Each young bird, leaving his cradle, climbed his own stairway till
he came out upon a balcony and got a first timid look at field and
sky. There he might try his wings and keep in the world he knew by
using bill and claw on the lower tiers.
At dawn the great hall of the maple rang with music, for every
lodger paid his score with song. Therein it was ever cool, and
clean, and shady, though the sun were hot. Its every nook and
cranny was often swept and dusted by the wind. Its branches
leading up and outward to the green wall were as innumerable
stairways. Each separate home was out on rocking beams, with its
own flicker of sky light overhead. For a time at dusk there was a
continual flutter of weary wings at the lower entrance, a good
night twitter, and a sound of tiny feet climbing the stairways in
that gloomy hall. At last, there was a moment of gossip and then
silence on every floor. There seemed to be a night-watch in the
lower hall, and if any green young bird were late and noisy going
up to his home, he got a shaking and probably lost a few feathers
from the nape of his neck. Long before daybreak those hungry,
half-clad little people of the nests began to worry and crowd their
mothers.
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