|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 41
"At this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a
gleaming sea bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a
wave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much.
With one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage,
spread his wings, and followed him.
"When the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take
the cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed.
"'The canary died last voyage,' he said, sadly. 'The cage was bought on
a Friday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to Mother;
but the old lady says there's no such thing as luck, and she's
Bible-learned, if ever a woman was. "That's very true," says I, "but
if I'd the money for another cage, I wouldn't use this;" and I never
will again. Poor, bird! it was a sweet singer.' And he turned his face
aside.
"'It may have the sense to come back,' said one of the crew. The sailor
scratched his head, and shook it sadly.
"'Noah's bird came back to him, when she found no rest,' he said, 'but
I don't think mine will, Tom.'
"He was right. The thrush returned no more. He did not know how wide
was the difference between his own strength and that of the bird he
followed. The sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power: he
swooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of the
dancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, and
the thrush was left alone. Other birds passed him, and flew about him,
and fished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadily
on. Ships passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon;
whales spouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not a
familiar object broke the expanse of the cold sea. He did not know what
course he was taking. He hoped against hope that he was going home.
Although he was more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he felt
no pain. The intensity of his hope to reach the old wood made
everything seem light; even at the last, when his wings were almost
powerless, he believed that they would bear him home, and was happy.
Already he seemed to rest upon the trees, the waters sounded in his
ears like the rustling of leaves, and the familiar scent of the
pine-tree seemed to him to come upon the breeze.
"In this he was not wrong. A country of pine-woods was near; and land
was in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. Not home,
but yet a land of wondrous summer beauty; of woods, and flowers, and
sun-flecked leaves--of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known--of
larger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies--a land, of balmy
summer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and where
fireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid the
trees. As the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon the
land breeze. A strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own.
"'I smell woods,' he chirped faintly; 'I see the sun. This is home!'
"All round him, the noisy crests of the fresh waves seemed to carol the
song he could no longer sing--'Home, home! fresh water and green woods,
ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and
rustling leaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses,
feathered ferns and flowers. Green leaves! green leaves! Summer!
summer! summer!'
"The slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and then
closed. But even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest on
Mother Earth's kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the cold
waves buried him at sea."
"Oh, then, he _did_ die!" cried the children, who, though they were tired
of stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad ending
no better than other children do (in which, by the bye, we hold them to
be in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for chronicling this
"ower true tale").
"Yes," said the old man, "he died; but it is said that the sweet
dingle which was his home--forsaken by the nightingale--is regarded by
birds as men regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight,
when other thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leaf
than a living bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old,
and, rapt in a happy ecstasy, sings a song more sweet and joyous than
thrush ever sang by day."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|