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Updated: June 9, 2025
Patsy whistled a mellow but mocking blackbird's note which very nearly brought the Duke of Kent, and half-a-dozen of his compeers, upon them. However, they passed on, in spite of royal instructions to "stop and search some of these little she-vixens are signalling us!"
The gem, though roughly polished, was uncut, but its dimensions were those of a small blackbird's egg, it was of the purest pigeon-blood colour, without a flaw, and worn almost round, apparently by the action of water. Now, as it chanced, Leonard knew something of gems, although unhappily he was less acquainted with the peculiarities of the ruby than with those of most other stones.
He waved his hat and turned away; but the music seemed to die out of the blackbird's song, and in all the summer landscape his eye saw nothing but the little figure at the gate. "Bless and save us! here's a flock of people coming; my hair is in a toss, and Nan's without her shoe; run! fly, girls! or the Philistines will be upon us!" cried Di, tumbling off her perch in sudden alarm.
Go slow! I'm off. I've only a minute for the boat." Saton laid down the receiver on the instrument. "If it must be," he said, turning to Rachael, "I will go down to Blackbird's Nest to-morrow." Lois came walking down the green path that led to the wood, her head a little tilted back to watch the delicate tracery of the green leaves against the sky, her thoughts apparently far away.
And then, seeing him stand before her with so much obvious disrelish to the task, she was suddenly overcome with laughter. Julia's laugh was a thing to ravish lovers; she rolled her mirthful descant with the freedom and the melody of a blackbird's song upon the river, and repeated by the echoes of the farther bank. It seemed a thing in its own place and a sound native to the open air.
Lois, too, hesitated. "I beg your pardon, sir," the newcomer said, "but can you tell me whereabouts in this neighborhood I can find a house called Blackbird's Nest? A Mr. Bertrand Saton lives there, I believe." Rochester hesitated for a few seconds. He looked at the woman, summing her up with swift comprehension. Lois, by his side, stared at her in surprise.
Blackbird was just about to begin his breakfast. But he paused when he saw Grandfather Mole. "Hello!" he cried. "What brings you to the surface?" Grandfather Mole knew Mr. Blackbird's voice at once. "I'm glad you're here!" he exclaimed. "I want you to tell Farmer Green the news. For I know he'll be delighted to hear it." Then Mr. Blackbird did an ungentlemanly thing.
A certain womanly naturalness seemed to soften her. And the music of the flute came quick, rather brilliant like a call-note, or like a long quick message, half command. To her it was like a pure male voice as a blackbird's when he calls: a pure male voice, not only calling, but telling her something, telling her something, and soothing her soul to sleep.
In this little prairie home we see a man holding on his knee a little girl, who is telling him of her play as he smooths her fair curls or strokes her tiny velvet hands; or perhaps she is singing him one of her baby songs, or asking him strange questions of the great wide world that is so new to her; or perhaps he binds the wild flowers she has brought into a little nosegay for her new gingham dress, or but we see it all, and so, too, does the soldier, and so does Nellie, and they hear the blackbird's twitter and the quail's shrill call and the cricket's faint echo, and all about them is the sweet, subtle, holy fragrance of memory.
At this moment a whistle of peculiar volume, mellowness, and flexibility was heard. The whistler was trilling 'Come lasses and lads' in tones as delightful as a blackbird's. 'Is this him? said the old woman, turning upon her daughter. Bertha blushed, and turned away. The mother laughed.
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