They disappear in the canon, helpfulness and interest
in every wave of their feelers. Their heads come into sight again,
and--yes! they have the bud. Now, indeed, events move, and the burden
travels rapidly across the smooth courtyard toward the house. Can they
intend to take it up on the flat roof, where we have lately suspected
a nest? Yes, there they go, straight up the wall, all putting their
shoulders to the wheel, and resting now and then in the chinks of the
crumbling adobes. Up the bud moves to the gutters,--I can see it gleam
as it is pulled over the edge,--they are out of sight,--the task is
done! How easy any undertaking, I think, when people are willing to
help.
* * * * *
In a high dormer window of a great city, in a nest of quilts and
pillows, sits little Ingrid. Her blue Danish eyes look out from a
pinched, snow-white face, and her thin hands are languidly folded in
her lap. She gazes far down below to the other side of the square,
where she can just see the waving of some green branches and an open
door.
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