A Sweet Little Maid Part 14

"Rock! Dimple! Come here, quick. I have found something so funny and cunning."

Out of their nests started the children to see Florence standing over another nest in a trellis, in which was a family of little baby wrens, opening their small beaks and clamoring to be fed.

"Sh! Sh!" Dimple said, softly. "Don't let's scare them, poor little things. See, there is the mother bird. She is distressed because we have found her babies. Oh Rock, don't let any one else know they are here, for they might hurt them."

"Let us go away now," said Rock, in a whisper. "The poor mother bird is flying around, and is so troubled. She doesn't know that we wouldn't harm her little ones for anything." So they tiptoed away and left the mother in possession.

"What kind of bird was it?" Florence asked, in a low voice.

"Why, don't you know? That was Jenny Wren," returned Dimple, more accustomed to creatures of woods and fields.

"Was it really Jenny Wren?" exclaimed Florence, delightedly. "I'm so glad I've seen her."

"Didn't you ever see her before? You have heard Mr. Wren sing, haven't you? Oh, how he sings! I think house-wrens are such dear, dear birds. We always put up boxes and cans and such things for them, for we like to have them around, and they can build their nests in quite small places.

The other big birds try to drive them away sometimes, but we always try to protect them. Mamma says Jenny Wren is a very neat housekeeper, and takes excellent care of her family. They are such friendly little birds.

I love them better than any others."

"Do you believe you have any wrens' nests near the house, this year?"

Florence asked.

"Yes, indeed, ever so many. I know just where to look for them. I'll show you some to-morrow. There's one in the funniest place. You know where the bamboo shade is rolled up at the side of the front porch: well, in one end of that a wren has built a nest, and mamma will not have the shade let down till the little birds are ready to fly."

Florence gave a sigh of content. She enjoyed such things so heartily, and saw none of them in her city home.

"I like the robins," put in Rock, "they are such cheerful fellows.

Listen to that one whistle. Doesn't it remind you of juicy cherries?"

Dimple laughed. "Yes, and don't they love cherries! I believe they eat half on our trees, and they always pick out the very finest ones."

"Of course. So would you, if you were a robin," Rock returned. "Speaking of birds, Florence, have you ever watched the swallows--the chimney swifts--come home? It's a sight."

"No, I never saw them. Are there any here?" returned Florence, eagerly.

"Lots of them. They build in that old chimney, and they come every year on a certain day of the month. They seem to have a sort of system in the way they circle around, and go down the chimney; just as if they were regularly drilled for it. It's about time for them now. Suppose we sit here and watch them."

This they did, and when the last belated swallow had dropped down into the tall old chimney, they went up to the house where Mrs. Hardy was waiting for them, and where they were glad to listen to her tales of California; its big trees, its fine fruits, and the lovely flowers that grow wild there; and she told many funny tales of the Chinese, till Mr.

Dallas made his appearance, and with regretful good-byes they took their leave.

All this time the girls had not once remembered Bubbles. They were having such a good time, and it was not till they were on their way home, when Mr. Dallas questioned them, that they thought of how they had left her on the roof.

"Mrs. Hardy is just lovely, mamma," said Dimple, when they reached home.

"I hope she liked me, for I liked her, and, oh mamma! I am so sorry about Bubbles."

"I am glad you like Mrs. Hardy," said her mother, "but the next time Bubbles does wrong, I hope you will tell me, and not punish her yourself. You must remember that she is only a little ignorant, colored girl, and that it is no wonder she wants what you have, for you have played with her, and been with her so much. Of course it was wrong for her to take anything without leave. Were you and Florence good girls?"

"Yes, I think so. Mamma, what did Rock mean when he said he was more likely to be my cousin than my brother?"

"Did he say that?" said Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "Well, so you are."

"Mamma, I don't understand."

"No. I know you don't. You will in a few days. Now go to bed."

"Florence," said Dimple, after they were in bed. "There is another secret somewhere, and I cannot puzzle it out. Mamma wants Mrs. Hardy to be fond of me, and Rock is likely to be my cousin, and all that."

"I can't imagine," answered Florence, sleepily.

"I don't see into it," said Dimple, after thinking a while. "Florence, are you asleep?"

But Florence made no answer, having by that time arrived in dreamland, and Dimple soon followed her, dreaming that she was feeding the little wrens on croquettes, and was taking her doll to drive in California, when a big tree came up to her, and insisted on shaking hands, because it said it was her cousin. She laughed right out in her sleep, and frightened a little mouse back into its hole.

When the two little girls ran down to breakfast the next morning, they wore very happy faces, for Dimple had just discovered that her birthday was only a week off, and she and Florence had been planning for it.

"Papa always does something very specially nice for me," Dimple had just announced, "and I always have a lovely birthday-cake with icing and candles. Mamma makes it herself, because I always think it tastes better when she does. And she lets me choose what we are to have for dinner.

You tell what you like best, Florence, and we'll have that."

"I like fried chicken better than anything, except, of course, ice cream and cake."

"So do I. I'm so glad you like what I do, and I'm very glad my birthday is in June, for it is such a rosy month, and we can have strawberries with the ice cream. There are so many good things to eat in June; strawberries, and peas, and asparagus and--oh, I don't know what all."

This conversation took place before breakfast, and Dimple was sitting on the floor hugging her knees, and looking as contented as it was possible to be.

They were still talking on the important subject when they entered the dining-room.

"What's all this about birthdays?" asked Mr. Dallas, looking up from his morning paper.

"Why, papa, don't you know my birthday will be next week?" returned Dimple, as she went up to give him his morning kiss. "Aren't you glad?"

she added.

"Is it an occasion for great joyfulness? I'm not so sure of that. Don't you know it makes mamma feel very serious to have a daughter eight--or is it nine--years old? And as for myself, I begin to feel the grey hairs popping out all over my head at the very thought of it."

"I shall be nine years old. But, papa, you are always making out that you are old and that makes me feel sorry. I don't see a single grey hair. People are not very old till they are forty, at least, are they?"

"Well, no, but they are rather decrepit when they reach such extreme old age as that--Uncle Heath is forty you know, and see what a tottering old man he is."

"Now, papa, you are laughing at me. I don't believe you'll have grey hairs for years and years."

"They are starting, I am sure. However, we'll change the subject, if you wish. What do you expect me to give you on that festal day? Not another doll, surely?"

"No--I don't know--perhaps."

"Oh, you are insatiable as to dolls. I believe if any one were to give you a dozen at Christmas you would be glad to have a dozen more on New Years. I don't believe Florence is so doll-crazy."

"Yes, she is. Aren't you, Florence?"

Florence nodded.