The Story of a Dewdrop - John R. Macduff (best short books to read TXT) 📗

FOREWORDS.

To Charlie.


A Dewdrop is a small affair; and the world would not be the least interested, nor a bit the wiser, by knowing how I come affectionately to dedicate the story I have written about it to you. I may tell you it was one line of eleven words, read one night from a musty old volume of last century, which suggested it.

Everybody must have their play-hours and moments of recreation. I think I have gone back to other and more serious work all the better after writing a page or two of what follows. I am happy thus to have had my little holiday along with you in this ideal region of quaint conceits.

Shall we hope that others may share our pleasure?

Let us try.


CHAPTER THE FIRST.


Three birds of very favourable repute in these regions met together one evening-a Thrush, a Lark, and a Nightingale. And all for what purpose, think you? It was a queer one-to hold a solemn conference about a DEWDROP!

Yes, it must be allowed it was an original thought which brought these three feathered friends thus into council; and a pretty talk to be sure they had about it.

They selected, as an appropriate time for preliminaries, the close of a bright day in early summer; just when things in outer nature were looking their best. The snowdrop and crocus had long ago hid their faces to make way for more ambitious rivals. That always pleasant season was a great way past, when you see the drowsy plants (after being tucked up-it may have been for weeks-in a white snowy coverlet), first roused from their sound winter sleep, yawning and stretching themselves, and rubbing their little eyes, and looking; wonderingly about them, saying-"What! is it now time to wake up and dress?" The tree foliage was approaching, if it had not already reached, perfection; all the mosses, too, looked so green and fresh; and how prettily the various ferns were uncoiling themselves among the rocks and shady nooks by the stream; while on this particular occasion the very Sun seemed to have coaxed his setting beams into the production of most gorgeous colouring. Belts of golden cloud were streaking the western sky; such long trails of them, that it was impossible to say whether the great ball of fire, which gave them their glory, had actually gone down behind the horizon, or was just about to do so. At all events, it was unmistakably sundown: though the scene was far removed from northern latitudes, it might be designated by the familiar Scotch "gloamin'." The groves, and dells, and hedgerows, which had kept up a goodly concert the livelong day, were now silent. Their winged tenants had, one after another, slunk to their nests, with very tired throats. They had left, apparently, all, or nearly all the music to the aforesaid brook in the dell. A stone's-throw higher up the valley, this latter, fed by recent rains, rattled in gleeful style over a bed of white and grey pebbles-the tiny limpid waves chasing one another as if they were playing at hide-and-seek amid the sedges, king-cups, and rushes. But it had now reached a quieter spot where, however, it still kept up a gentle, soothing evensong, a lullaby peculiar to itself, as if it wanted to hush the little birds asleep in their varied leafy cradles. The very cattle, that had been seen lying lazily out of the heat under the beech-trees, had ceased their lowings. In fact, Nature had rung her curfew bell, and the sentry stars were coming out, one by one, to keep their night-watch.

* * * * *

Let me first, however, say a word about this Dewdrop, which had awakened so much curiosity as to gather three representative members of the bird-world together.

It was a great puzzle, this Dewdrop was. It was a puzzle where it came from; what it had come about; and a still greater puzzle, what it was made of. It was evidently a visitor from some unknown land. Very quietly, too, it had travelled to its adopted country. These birds, in succession (with the curiosity birds generally have), had endeavoured by stealth to track its dainty fairy footsteps, and learn its past history. But it was to no purpose. However, there it was; not perhaps making its appearance every night, but almost every night. And, then, it invariably managed to perch itself so daintily on the tip of a rose-leaf. All three birds agreed that it had substantiated its claim in this, to be decidedly a lover of the beautiful. The leaf, moreover, which it made its resting-place, was not only pretty in itself, of a subdued delicate green, but it hung right over a full-blown rose, with a mass of pink leaves. The Dewdrop quite seemed as if it had said to its own little personality regarding this round coral ball (or cup, if you prefer to call it so)-"Well, I shall have a good look at you at all events, from my cozy couch, the last thing at night, and the first thing in the morning."


I somehow really believe the rose must have heard this complimentary speech, or at all events, by some instinctive way, have correctly surmised what the Dewdrop was thinking about; for, in the last fading, glimmering light, it covered up its face so coyly with both hands, and blushed a deeper and deeper crimson.

* * * * *

But to return to the birds. It was just outside a copsy retreat that these three winged acquaintances met. The Thrush, with his brown plumage and yellow spotted neck, being the biggest, and, if anything, the more talkative of the three, began the conversation.

The consultation was a long and animated one, too long indeed to report in full, besides there being a considerable amount of superfluous talk, what in bird-language is called chattering; but I can give the close of it.

"Well," said the Thrush, summing up the discussion, "I must now be off to bed-at all events after providing something suitable in the way of supper for my wife and family, and seeing them made tolerably comfortable for the night. And so too must you," he added, with a quizzical look to the Lark, whose left eye was beginning to droop, as he stood, with one leg up, in the significant fashion our woodland friends indulge in when they indicate that they are tired. "We shall leave to you, Bird of the night"-were his last words, as he addressed the Nightingale-"we shall leave to you the first interview with this little sparkling thing from fairyland, or whatever other land it has quitted. We shall defer our visit till to-morrow."

So away the two brown-winged companions sped, I know not exactly where. But, though both in a great hurry to get home, they judiciously deemed, as I have just observed, that they might do a trifle of purveying business on the way, by picking up a few seeds; or if a manageable slug or grub presented itself, so much the better. I had not the curiosity to follow them; but I believe they each contrived to carry home a dainty supper; the one to the hole of a big ash-tree, the other to its nest in the furrow beside some tufts of golden gorse. It may be interesting, however, to know, by way of completing their domestic history, that both had promising young households-the one of three, and the other of four-to support; and the wee downy children had arrived too at a very ravenous age, with any capacity for food, which indeed amounted, at times, on the part alike of father and mother, to a trial of temper.

The Nightingale, now left all alone for the discharge of a somewhat novel duty, seemed at first to feel his responsibility: perhaps a feeling allied to nervousness in the human being. But he was a knowing little fellow too; and resolved to proceed in the most alluring as well as discreet way to his task. Being fully acquainted with the position of the rose-leaf, he took wing, and settled himself on the branch of a birch close by. Without any possible warning, he forthwith began (it was the best way of getting over these nervous sensations) to pipe one of his very best and most enchanting songs. He had somewhat unwarrantably indulged the expectation that he would get an immediate response from the Dewdrop. He had however, in this, to exercise the virtue of patience.


"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