"How little people know what they are doing when they pull up ferns and
mosses in the woods!" said the soft voice. "I was sleeping soundly on
the nicest bed imaginable, having travelled far for just a whiff of
water-lily odor that I thought might refresh a poor little hospital
patient tossing with fever in the city, when with a violent wrench I
found myself borne off from my sheltered and dusky resting-place, and
tossed into a boat in the blinding glare of the sun. Fortunately, I had
wrapped myself in some broad grape-vine leaves, and was mistaken for a
moth cocoon; else, dear Phil, I had not been here."
"I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again!" murmured Phil, softly.
"And I am so glad you are in the country! You could not have lived long
in the city. What are you doing now?"
"Getting well, they tell me."
"Do you ever think of the ones who cannot do that?"
"No, I do not," said Phil, in some surprise.
"Ah, there are so many. I see them often--little creatures who are
friendless and helpless. You should not forget them."
"It is not that I forget, I do not think of them at all. I suppose I
would if I saw them."
"Well, you must think of them, and do something for them. Oh yes, I know
you do not believe you can, but the way will come if you try. All that I
do is to whisper soft songs in their ears, or give them a little waft of
summer freshness, but it sometimes stops their painful tossing, and
brings sleep to their tired eyes.
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