The Story of a Dewdrop | Page 3

an immediate response from
the Dewdrop. He had however, in this, to exercise the virtue of
patience.
[Illustration]
"Answer me, pretty Dewdrop," he said in his most bewitching trill.
But the Dewdrop was silent. It appeared to pay not the slightest
attention.
Another chirrup and mellifluous note, and then, coming to a lower and
still nearer spray of the birch-tree, quite within whispering distance:
"Pretty little noiseless thing," continued the Nightingale, "what are you?

Where were you born? Have you any father or mother? or are you an
orphan? My two brother birds spoke of your brightness and lustre. My
eyes are tolerably good; but I confess I can see none of these things
about you; you seem rather somehow to appear sad, though I trust I am
wrong."
"I have reason to be sad," at last replied the Dewdrop, in the quietest,
mildest, silveriest voice imaginable, and trembling with an emotion real
or pretended. "You call me a Dewdrop, but in truth I am not, I am a
teardrop; a teardrop which fell from the sky."
"A teardrop from the sky!" said the Nightingale, in undisguised
astonishment. "I cannot comprehend you. Pray tell me what you
mean?"
"It is true, despite of your surprise," said the other. "The Sky always
weeps at the loss of the Sun; and no wonder. I tell you again, believe it
or not as you please, I am one of the tears it shed to-night. You need
not, however, grieve for me. I shall be all right" (the tiny voice rising to
a falsetto) "when the Sun appears again. Indeed, I venture to say, you
will hardly know me then. That I am sure of."
"Ay!" said the Nightingale, with a sceptical, incredulous chirp.
"Yes! I always get bright, that I do, when the Sun shows himself. Look
up to those stars, glittering in the sky. Do you know how they twinkle
so? I am myself neither scholar nor philosopher, and have no
pretensions either way. But a confidential friend once told me, and I
quite believe him, that it is because they are either suns themselves, or
else get light from that beautiful Sun you saw some time ago tingeing
the sky with red and gold. My Sun," continued the dwarf thing of
mystery, raising its tones, with a sort of conscious pride. (If it had been
aught else but a beaded drop, I would have described it standing on
tip-toe as it said this.) It had, however, fairly exhausted itself with a
very unwonted effort in the shape of a speech, and, without saying
another word, turned on its side on the leafy bed, shut both eyes, and
went to sleep. The Nightingale was of course too polite, civil, and
considerate to prolong. So he simply said, "Good night to you, little

Teardrop, or Dewdrop, whatever you prefer calling yourself. It is time,
and more than time, for me to be on the wing. I have one or two
domestic anxieties which, in the first place, I must see to; and, after that,
I have an engagement among these old hawthorns to serenade till
morning."
"Good night, kind bird," replied the Dewdrop, turning in politeness half
round on its pillow; "thank you for thinking of me in my loneliness."
And away the songster flew, first to his home, and then, after some
outstanding duties and civilities, over to his thicket among the May
blossoms. The extreme beauty of the night seemed to dispel all care,
and to have a decidedly inspiring effect on his nerves. I cannot tell
whether he had really any such ambitious thought, but it almost seemed,
from the gush of song, an attempt was made that every star in the
heavens might at all events hear, if they could not appreciate his
melodies.
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CHAPTER THE
SECOND.
It was now morning. The mist still slept drowsily in the valley; in some
places so dense, that the smoke of the early fires in the hamlet could
scarcely pierce it. Already our friend the Thrush had completed both
toilet and breakfast, and had issued forth on his round of daily work
and pleasure; as active and busy as the thrush family always are. When
he first rose from bed, he was not exactly in the very best of humours;
for he had, what was always a cross to him when it occurred (though
that was rarely), a disturbed night. Shall I tell you how his rest came
thus to be invaded? Why, the Nightingale, on his way from the
rose-leaf, had, perhaps somewhat inconsiderately, tapped at his door, to
inform him that all he could get out of the Dewdrop was (a very
incomprehensible sentiment to a sleepy bird), that he was a tear wept
by the Sky when it lost the