Part 44 (2/2)

But the Precious Little Ones stood in a row on the ridge-pole and flapped their strong young wings in high derision. They were as big as he was, nearly; for as a matter of fact he was but a Young Stork himself.

Then the air was beaten white with a thousand wings, it was like snow and silver and seafoam, there was a flas.h.i.+ng whirlwind, a hurricane of wild joy and then the Army of the Sky spread wide in due array and streamed Southward.

Full of remembered joy and more joyous hope, finding the high sunlight better than her dreams, she swept away to the far summerland; and her children, mad with the happiness of the First Flight, swept beside her.

”But you are a Mother!” he panted, as he caught up with them.

”Yes!” she cried, joyously, ”but I was a Stork before I was A Mother!

and afterward!--and All the Time!”

And the Storks were Flying.

WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER IV.

A CRYING NEED

”Lovest thou me?” said the Fair Ladye; And the Lover he said, ”Yea!”

”Then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she, ”And climb it every day!”

So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark And wore his clothes away; Till, ”What has this tree to do with thee?”

The Lover at last did say.

It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress. She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably.

Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the p.o.r.ne household.

”Dear,” said Mr. p.o.r.ne, ”might I pet.i.tion to have the steak less cooked?

I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?”

”I'm sorry,” she answered, ”I always forget about the steak from one time to the next.”

”Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.”

”I thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked gentleness. ”I'll get you other things--oftener.”

”It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.”

”And I never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still with repression. ”I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.”

”It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting bother. Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?”

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