It lowered the rose towards the human hands. It
hopped upon the twig. Its weight dropped the prize--almost into Judy's
fingers. She touched it.
"I've found him!" gasped the child.
She touched it--and sank with the final effort in a heap upon the
ground. The bird fluttered an instant, and was gone into the darkness.
The twig, released, flew back. But at the end of it, swinging out of
reach, still hung the lovely blossom in mid-air--unpicked.
There was confusion then about the four of them, for the light faded
very quickly and darkness blotted out the world; the rose was no
longer visible, the bush, the wall, the rubbish-heap, all were
shrouded. The singing-bird had gone, the Tramp beside his little fire
was hidden, they could hardly see one another's faces even. Voices
rose on every side. "She missed it!" "It was too lovely to be picked!"
"It's still there, growing....I can smell it!"
Yet above them all was heard Judy's voice that sang, rose out of the
darkness like a bird that sings at midnight: "I touched it! My airy
signs came true! I know the hiding-place! I've--found him!"
The voice had something in it of the Tramp's careless, windy singing
as well.
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