A few,
like the chickadees, quivered their wings, opened their little
mouths, fluttered down tiny but aggressive against the disaster.
Others hopped here and there restlessly, uttering plaintive, low-
toned cheeps. The shyest contented themselves by a discreet,
silent, and distant sympathy. Three or four freebooting Jays,
attracted not so much by the supposed calls for help as by
curiosity, fluttered among the tops of the trees, uttering their
harsh notes.
Finally, the girl ended her performance in a musical laugh.
"Run away, Brighteyes," she called. "It's all right; nobody's
damaged."
She waved her hand. As though at a signal, the host she had evoked
melted back into the shadows of the forest. Only the chickadee,
impudent as ever, retreated scolding rather ostentatiously, and the
jays, splendid in their ornate blue, screamed opinions at each other
from the tops of trees.
"How would you like to be a bird?" she inquired.
"Hadn't thought," replied Orde.
"Don't you ever indulge in vain and idle speculations?" she
inquired. "Never mind, don't answer. It's too much to expect of a
man."
She set herself in idle motion down the slope, swinging the hat at
the end of its veil, pausing to look or listen, humming a little
melody between her closed lips, throwing her head back to breathe
deep the warm air, revelling in the woods sounds and woods odours
and woods life with entire self-abandonment.
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