"Dear bird, you have lost your mate, and are crying for her," the
girl said, stretching out her little brown hand compassionately
toward the crouching songster. "Your companions have gone to the
South, and you wait here, trusting that your mate will come back, and
not journey to summer lands without you. Is not that so, my poor
bird? Ah, would that I could go with you where there are always
flowers, and ever can be heard the ripple of little brooks. Here the
leaves will soon fall, ah, me! and the daisies wither; and, instead
of the delight of summer, we shall have only the cry of hungry
wolves, and the bellowing of bitter winds above the lonesome plains.
But could I go to the South, there is no one who would sing over my
absence one lamenting note, as you sing, my bird, for the mate with
whom you had so many hours of sweet love-making in these prairie
thickets. Nobody loves me, woos me, cares for me, or sings about me.
I am not even as the wild rose here, though it seems to be alone, and
is forbidden to take its walk; for it holds up its bright face and
can see its lover; and he breathes back upon the kind, willing,
breeze-puffs, through all the summer, sweet-scented love messages,
tidings of a matrimony as delicious as that of the angels."
She stood up, and raised her arms above her head yearningly. The
autumn wind was cooing in her hair, and softly swaying its silken
meshes.
"Farewell, my desolate one; may your poor little heart be gladder
soon. Could I but be a bird, and you would have me for a companion,
your lamenting should not be for long. We should journey, loitering
and love-making all the long sweet way, from here to the South, and
have no repining."
Turning around, she perceived two men standing close beside her. She
became very confused, and clutched for her robe to cover her face,
but she had strayed away among the flowers without it. Very deeply
she blushed that the strangers should have heard her; and she spake
not.
"Bonjour, ma belle fille." It was the tall commanding one who had
addressed her. He drew closer, and she, in a very low voice, her
olive face stained with a faint flush of crimson, answered, "Bonjour, Monsieur."
"Be not abashed. We heard what you were saying to the bird, and I
think the sentiments were very pretty."
This but confused the little prairie beauty all the more. But the
gallant stranger took no heed of her embarrassment.