No dread of wintry storms had yet driven away any of the birds that Ruth
fed every day on the sill of her chamber window. They were all there as
usual--the whole feathered colony--as if they wished to be polite, even
though they were not hungry on that sunny morning. The little ones, to
be sure, pecked a crumb now and then with a languid indifference. The
blue jays--as usual--were brazen in their ingratitude for any dole of
commonplace crumbs, while spicy seeds were still strewn by every scented
breeze. But shy and bold alike, they all flocked around Ruth's window,
and sat on the sill within reach of her hand, and cocked their pretty
heads as if it were feast enough only to look at her.
She had already been downstairs to fetch the birds' breakfast, and had
gone into the garden where the sweetest and reddest roses of all the
year were still blooming. She held a big bunch of them in her hand as
she stood at the open window and waved it at David in a morning
greeting, when she saw him crossing the yard. She came down the broad
stairs as he entered the great room, and she was wearing a fresh white
frock and her arms were full of the fragrant red roses.
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