The Story of a Dewdrop | Page 3

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 Sun; and he was bound in all sincerity to add, that it seemed rather a dull and uninteresting tear to boot.
"I know better," growled the Thrush. (I have used the word "growl," because I can find no better to describe the reality.) Growling, I am well aware, is a very uncommon demonstration of feeling in the case