Part 13 (1/2)
”It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the sparrows,” I answered. ”Look at them now,” I exclaimed, as a little crowd of them suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment before, and exploded in objurgation and general unintelligible excitement. After some obscure fluttering of wings and pecking, they all vanished except two, which walked about in a dignified manner, trying apparently to seem quite unconscious each of the other's presence.
”I think it was a political meeting of some sort,” said Connie, laughing merrily.
”Well, they have this advantage over us,” I answered, ”that they get through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater expedition than we get through ours.”
A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating everything.
”What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?” she asked at length.
”Don't say you don't know, now.”
”I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys.
And I think I do know a little about girls--not much though. They puzzle me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, Connie.”
”You can't help doing that, papa,” interrupted Connie, adding with her old roguishness, ”You mustn't pa.s.s yourself off for very knowing for that. By the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried.”
”I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie.”
A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, pa.s.sed over her face, and she said, trying to smile:
”I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at best--a creature you can't understand.”
”On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as mamma. But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there will be.”
Her merriment returned.
”Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you say there isn't so much in me as in mamma.”
”Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about over the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be obliged to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests with. For the rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the air. And then, when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending little shoots of cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They won't stand it. They're off to a warmer climate, and you never know till you find they're not there any more. There, Connie!”
”I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you are not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then I think it is not quite like you to be satirical.”
”I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn't mean any. The swallows are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls were a little steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am innocent of.”
”I don't mind that much, papa. Only I'm steady enough, and no thanks to me for it,” she added with a sigh.
”Connie,” I said, ”it's all for the sake of your wings that you're kept in your nest.”
She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave her soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and better, and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more laid on her couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and busy-ness, in which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me:
”Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?”
”If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense in them--or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke this morning, saying to myself, 'Dante, the poet, must have been a respectable man, for he was permitted by the council of Florence to carry the Nicene Creed and the Multiplication Table in his coat of arms.' Now tell me your dream.”
Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and generally succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and was sure to be recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded in making Connie laugh.
”Mine wasn't a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, and too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the first time yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite still, without breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides and my eyes closed. I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I did I should see nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did not mind it much at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable.
Everything was as silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half under the surface of the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not far from me on one side, and that was a comfort; only there was a thick wall of earth between. But as the time went on, I began to get uncomfortable.