The mother was knitting
a little stocking; her fingers moved the
bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on
the clear evening sky.
As the darkness gathered, the wee boy
laid his head on her lap and kept so still
that, at last, she leaned forward to look
into his dear round face. He was not
asleep, but was watching very earnestly a
blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall,
dark-red spray in the wind outside the
fence.
"What are you thinking about, my
darling?" she said, smoothing his soft,
honey-colored hair.
"The blackberry-bush, mamma; what
does it say? It keeps nodding, nodding to
me behind the fence; what does it say,
mamma?"
"It says," she answered, `I see a happy
little boy in the warm, fire-lighted room.
The wind blows cold, and here it is dark
and lonely; but that little boy is warm
and happy and safe at his mother's knees.
I nod to him, and he looks at me. I
wonder if he knows how happy he is!
"`See, all my leaves are dark crimson.
Every day they dry and wither more and
more; by and by they will be so weak they
can scarcely cling to my branches, and the
north wind will tear them all away, and
nobody will remember them any more.
Then the snow will sink down and wrap
me close. Then the snow will melt again
and icy rain will clothe me, and the bitter
wind will rattle my bare twigs up and
down.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75