Little brown birds
hopped backward and forward among the twigs, with quick, jerking tails
and sideway, speculative heads; or upon the ground, pecking at it here
and there with their little bills, as if under the impression that it
was summer's grave, and they might chance to dig her up again. But once
in a while they got discouraged, and took a sudden, rustling flight to
the roof-tree of the barn, seemingly half inclined to continue on
indefinitely southward. Then, a reluctance to leave the old place coming
over them, they would dip back again on their elastic little wings, to
hop and peck anew.
Bressant and Sophie were sitting one afternoon--it was in the first days
of September, and within less than a week of the time when they might
begin to expect Cornelia--upon the little rustic bench beside the
fountain. Their conversation had filtered softly into silence, and only
the flop-flop of the weak-backed little spout continued to prattle to
the stillness.
"I don't like it!" exclaimed Bressant, stirring his foot impatiently.
"I'd rather put my whole life into one strong, resistless shooting
upward, even if it lasted only a minute."
"The poor little fountain is happy enough," said well-balanced Sophie.
"To do any thing there must sometimes be a heat and fury in the blood;
or a whirl and passion in the brain.
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