" A little
fly-catcher shot up from the frond below, poised a moment, and dropped
back with closed wings.
"Do you know the birds?" she asked.
"I'm afraid not," he admitted; "I don't really _know_ much about
Nature, but I love it, and I'm going to learn more. I know only the
very common birds, and one other. Did you ever hear the hermit thrush
sing?"
"Never."
"Oh!" he cried in sudden enthusiasm, "then there is another 'suppose'
for us, the best of all."
"I love the dear old house!" she objected doubtfully.
"But the hermit thrush is better. The old country minister took me to
hear him one Sunday afternoon and I shall never forget it."
She glanced at his animated face through half-closed eyes.
"Tell me," she urged softly.
"'Suppose' we were back East," he began, "and in the country, just
about this time of year. We would wait until the afternoon--why! just
about this time, when the sun is getting low. We would push through the
bushes at the edge of the woods where the little tinkling birds sing in
the fence corners, and would enter the deep high woods where the trees
are tall and still.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92