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"The young ones are just old enough now to eat the nuts and berries," replied Uncle John; "see how they are feasting!" "Where do they live, uncle; in a hole?" asked George. "Oh, George! where are your eyes!" cried his brother; "look up there; don't you see the little mud and twig cabins at the very top of the tree! those are their nests!"
It was a still cold night of deep winter, a very faint crescent of a new moon was low in the sky, and a thin snowfall, slightly crisped with frost, covered the ground. Nina opened her window and looked out. All was still and quiet without not a twig moved.
He also possesses a large collection of coloured sketches of the plants of Japan, made by a Japanese lady, which are the most masterly things I have ever seen. Every stem, twig, and leaf is produced by single touches of the brush, the character and perspective of very complicated plants being admirably given, and the articulations of stem and leaves shown in a most scientific manner.
The stone floor, the bare, whitewashed walls, the peat smoldering on the hearth, sending out long, fitful streaks that dance among the rafters overhead, and the mother and son sitting there watching the coal silent. The woman takes a small twig from a bundle of sticks, reaches over, lights it, applies it to her pipe, takes a few whiffs and passes the light to her son.
None are checked, reproved, abridged of privileges by her love of system; for she knows that order was made for the family, and not the family for order. Quietly she takes on herself what all others refuse or overlook. What the unwary disarrange she silently rectifies. Everybody in her sphere breathes easy, feels free; and the driest twig begins in her sunshine to put out buds and blossoms.
At length Mochuda questioned him putting him under obedience to tell the truth as to the cause of his decline. The monk thereupon showed him his sides which were torn by a twig tied fast around them. Mochuda asked him who had done that barbarous and intolerable thing to him.
The heads of all save three were averted, and they were Luke Claridge, his only living daughter, called Faith, and his dead daughter's son David, who kept his eyes fixed on the window where the twig flicked against the pane.
Near the far shore was a bare spot on the ice cut by one of the sleigh-runners. Up in the woods, opposite, was the Moss Trail. Sunlight fell on the hills above him. He halted, looking up at the tree-tops. Twig, branch, and trunk glowed with the fire of diamonds through a lacy necking of hoar frost. Every tree had put on a jacket of ice and become as a fountain of prismatic hues.
Out of the nerveless fingers of Pierre the revolver slipped and crushed a dead twig on the ground, and a pair of lifeless eyes stared up to Dick Wilbur. "In the name of God, Pierre, what has happened to you?" "Dick, why didn't you fire?" "Fire? Murder you?" "You shoot straight I know it would have been over quickly." "What is it, boy?
You've been devilish useful to me; and what's more I haven't done with you yet. Do you twig, old boy? 'You mean that a confidential agent in England, unsuspected, may be needed? 'Shouldn't wonder if I do. 'Can't be managed under double the money, my good sir, observed Scawthorne, with unmistakable seriousness. 'Worth your while, I promise you. Have another glass. Fair commission.
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