He
looked after her and listened, feeling that eye and ear could ask for no
fuller enchantment. At last she came back to him with the fresh loveliness
of the morning in her face, and exclaimed, "I have seen an ideal bird, and
he wears his plumage like a quiet-toned elegant costume that simply
suggests a perfect form. He was superbly indifferent, and scarcely looked
at us until we came too near, and then, with a reserved dignity, flew away.
He is the true poet of the woods, and would sing just as sweetly if there
was never a listener."
"I knew he would not disappoint you. Yes, he is a poet, and your true
aristocrat, who commands admiration without seeking it," Webb replied.
"I am sure he justifies all your praises, past and present. Oh, isn't the
morning lovely--so fresh, dewy, and fragrant? and the world looks so
young and glad!"
"You also look young and glad this morning, Amy."
"How can one help it? This May beauty makes me feel as young as Alf," she
replied, placing her hand on the boy's shoulder.
Her face was flushed with exercise; her step buoyant; her eyes were
roaming over the landscape tinted with fruit blossoms and the expanding
foliage. Webb saw in what deep accord her spirit was with the season, and
he thought, "She _is_ young--in the very May of her life. She is scarcely
more ready for the words that Burt would speak than little Johnnie. I
wish he would wait till the girl becomes a woman;" and then for some
reason he sighed deeply.
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