"Don't throw the dirt too high there," she begged; "it'll bring my seat
too near the earth."
He looked up.
"Why, it's a throne," he laughed.
"It needs a roof," he whimsically told her when his day's work was done.
Deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree and bush, he wove
a canopy of living green that shadowed the curious nest and warded it
snugly from wind and water.
Early next morning Bles slipped down and improved the nest; adding
foot-rests to make the climbing easy, peep-holes east and west, a bit
of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk, a little picture
in blue and gold of Bougereau's Madonna. Zora sat hidden and alone in
silent ecstasy. Bles peeped in--there was not room to enter: the girl
was staring silently at the Madonna. She seemed to feel rather than hear
his presence, and she inquired softly:
"Who's it, Bles?"
"The mother of God," he answered reverently.
"And why does she hold a lily?"
"It stands for purity--she was a good woman."
"With a baby," Zora added slowly.
"Yes--" said Bles, and then more quickly--"It is the Christ Child--God's
baby."
"God is the father of all the little babies, ain't He, Bles?"
"Why, yes--yes, of course; only this little baby didn't have any other
father."
"Yes, I know one like that," she said,--and then she added softly: "Poor
little Christ-baby.
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