The Story of a Dewdrop | Page 5

rose-leaf.
But, can you imagine? To his wonder, sorrow, and chagrin, lo! when he
looked for it, the leaf was empty! Its small householder was gone! Not

a trace of either Dewdrop or Diamond left! There was no need of
asking any questions; he comprehended in a moment what the roguish
twinkle of the eye meant an hour before. He had, in a word, been
"sold." It was more than a mere innocent trick played on him. His
feelings and bird-dignity had, he felt, been a little compromised by
what, had it occurred at night, would have been called "a moonlight
flitting." It was more like what the big creatures in the world around
him were in the habit of describing as an April errand. It was only too
evident that the Queen of the Morning, in passing by, had picked up the
dew diamond, and had inserted it in her crown; and that the little thing
had made no demur to the appropriation.
Well, it must be owned that, anyhow for once, the Thrush was
crestfallen. He almost never knew any ditties but joyous ones; but on
the present occasion, with no attempt at concealment, he went away
wailing to the thicket, and outpoured his wounded vanity in something
very like a dirge. He then buried his beak in rather sulky fashion under
his wing, and went to sleep.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER THE
THIRD.
But what is this? It is a change of scene. Away up in the morning sky,
oh, how blue it is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they float in folds of
white ether! The Sun has climbed higher. It is now above the tallest of
the poplars; and the long shadows cast by trunks and stems and
branches are visibly shortened. And see! the cattle are again lowing in
the fat meadows, and by degrees beating a safe retreat from the coming
heat under the forest trees.
High in that bright dome of azure, there is a delightful frolicsome
twitter heard. It is not the Nightingale; no, not so clear and mellow as
that. Not the Thrush; no, not so loud or gushing as that. It is our little
friend the Lark. Oh! how merry he is! more so than either of the other
two. And what is he about? He seems to be floating and soaring,

sauntering and curtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking and
frolicking--now up, now down--now describing gyrations, now
imitating a pendulum--now trying to be so steady with his fluttering
wings, that he looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in short,
playing all sorts of droll antics, indulging in every imaginable pirouette
and somersault, in all the world (in his case above the world) like a
school-boy beginning his holidays; certainly appearing to put himself
to a great deal of unnecessary trouble and exertion. But he is
unmistakably, with his winning ways, about something, and something
to the purpose. But what that is, no mortal could guess. As the thing
however must be guessed, or otherwise found out, Gentle Reader, I
shall take you into confidence, and unriddle the secret.
The Queen of the Morning, as you already know, or at all events know
now, had come with all her court, and troupe of gay courtiers. The
Young Hours had unbarred for her the Gates of Day, and she at once
sallied forth. Beautiful little pages in the shape of pink clouds, quite
like tiny angels with wings, were holding up her train. Some of those
fairy cherubs seemed, too, to have censers in their hands, at least if one
could judge from the delicate wreaths of mist which rose like incense
from them. Others appeared to be discharging tiny golden arrows from
silver bows; others to paint, with invisible pencils, in delicate and
varying hues of amber and purple, the fringes of clouds; while the
Queen herself at times laid her own finger upon the larger of these, and
braided them with snow and crimson. And then, how loyal everything
seemed to be on the earth beneath! How each flower that had been
asleep all night instantly rose on awaking, and, in the most duteous
manner uncovering its head, prepared to take its place in the royal
procession. The more gorgeous ones of the garden led the way, with
their velvet tassels, and silken brocades, and pendants of opal and
turquoise; some apparently carrying chalices filled with nectar. Then
the fields and hedgerows, in their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion, with
their fustian jackets and smock-frocks, said--"We shall not be behind
our betters;" so their buttercups and wood-anemones, speedwell and
scarlet pimpernel, the meadow violet with its modest blue, the cowslip
with its burnished cells, the daisy with its "golden eye and white silver
eyelashes," all did fealty to their adored Queen. Some