Blue-Bird Weather

And now, to her beauty was added an adorable friendliness and

confidence, free from the slightest taint of self-consciousness or the

least blemish of coquetry. Intelligent, yet modest to the verge of

shyness, eager yet reserved, warm hearted yet charmingly impersonal with

him, he realized that she was finding, with him, only the happiness of

speech with mankind in the abstract. And so she poured out to him her

heart, long stifled in the abyss of her isolation; and, gazing into his

eyes, she was gazing merely toward all that was bright and happy and

youthful and responsive, and he was its symbol, God-sent from those busy

haunts of men which already, to her, had become only memories of a

blessed vision.

And all the while the undercurrent of his own thoughts ran on

unceasingly: "What can I do for her? I am falling in love--in love,

surely, hopelessly. What can I do for her--for her brother--her father?

I am falling in love--in love--in love."

The long, still, sunny afternoon slipped away. Gradually the water

turned to pearl, inlaid with gold, then with glowing rose. And now, far

to the north, the first thrilling clangor of wild geese, high in the

blue, came to their ears, and they shrank apart and lay back, staring

upward. Nearer, nearer, came the sky trumpets, answering faintly each to

each--nearer, nearer, till high over the blind swept the misty wedge;

and old Uncle Dudley flapped his wings and stretched his neck, calling

up to his wild comrades of earthly delights unnumbered here under the

shadow of death. And every wild goose answered him, and the decoys

flapped and clamored a siren welcome; but the flying wedge glided onward

through the blue.

"They've begun to move," whispered the girl. "But, oh, dear! It is

blue-bird weather. Hark! Do you hear the swans? I can hear swans coming

out of the north!"

Marche could not yet hear them, but the tethered swans and geese heard,

and a magnificent chorus rose from the water. Then, far away as

fairyland, faintly out of the sky, came a new murmur--not the martial

clangor of wild geese, but something wilder, more exquisitely

unearthly--nearer, nearer, enrapturing its weird, celestial beauty. And

now, through the blue, with great, snowy wings slowly beating, the swans

passed over like angels; and like angels passing, hailing each other as

they winged their way, drifting on broad, white pinions, they called,

each to the other in their sweet, unreal voices, gossiping, garrulous,

high in the sky. And far away they floated on until they became only a

silver ribbon undulating against the azure; and even then Marche could

hear the soft tumult of their calling: Heu! Heu! Hiou! Hiou-oo! until

sound and snowy flecks vanished together in mid-heaven.