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Updated: June 22, 2025
Flora gladly took the chick, and her countenance brightened as she felt the little heart flutter against her hand. This was much pleasanter than hunting worms. She sat down upon the step and held the birdy very tenderly till Bertie came back. The plank did not hold out against Bertie, and he found several of the worm family at home.
A Meadow Lark on a farther stake, a Bluebird on another, and a Vesper Bird on a stone, each added his appeal to eye and ear, till Sam exclaimed: "Oh, ain't that awful nice?" and Yan was dumb with a sort of saddened joy. Birds hate the wind, and this was one of those birdy days that come only with a dead calm.
That it was hid from her sight forever she had not the least idea, or that she could not re-bury it whenever she choose. So she planted the stick, and went away with a happy heart. When she knew that the birdy could be buried only once, and that she was not to disturb the spot, she mourned her loss afresh.
"Worms don't know everything," returned Flora. "Not quite everything," said Bertie. "What shall we do next?" "Perhaps he is thirsty. Dinah is." "And you are?" "Yes, I are." Water was brought; but the birdy would not drink, although he opened his bill so wide when Flora pushed his head into the porringer that she thought he was drinking. "He is only gasping," said Bertie.
He hung as many as he thought the robin could relish across a stick, and with much difficulty for the worms were constantly dropping off he made his way back to the porch without the loss of a single crawler. But when he got there the birdy would not eat. Was not that a pity? They coaxed in every way. Flora even talked to him with tears in her eyes, but it was of no use.
They were outwardly respectable citizens, well clad and cleanly; but a judge of faces would have read little hope for Birdy Edwards in those hard mouths and remorseless eyes. There was not a man in the room whose hands had not been reddened a dozen times before. They were as hardened to human murder as a butcher to sheep.
There was only a little fiction, a few books of ideas, just enough to give the survivors a tantalizing glimpse of the world of their fathers. But now.... A rifle banged to the south and east, and banged again. Either Murray Hughes or Birdy Edwards: it was one of the two hunting rifles from the helicopter. On the heels of the reports, they heard a voice shouting, "Scowrers!
But she was using her brains, they added. There are two kinds of bolters those who run away for the sheer love of running, and those who from hilltops pick out the country that looks like containing birds, and make for that country of their own sweet will. Arnold's Drake belonged to the latter class. The girl was looking for him in the "birdy" spots.
Cherries, in that tranquil person's garden, that are nearly ripe, and roses of a delicate red, but none so ripe or so red as the lips and cheeks of the serene miller's daughter, who trips across the little wooden foot-bridge over the mill-stream, singing a birdy kind of song as she goes.
Yet it was hard to imagine how I could have started a flirtation and carried it on to its culminatory point in that great public room, with all those eyes on me; dogs, babes, and cats tumbling about my feet; ostriches staring covetously at my buttons with great vacant eyes; and that intolerable paroquet perpetually reciting "How the waters came down at Lodore," in its own shrieky, beaky, birdy, hurdy-gurdy, parrot language.
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