The roses were
gone and he was not in the rose-world. I called again. The call was
sometimes a soft whistle as near a robin sound as I could make it--
sometimes it was a chirp--sometimes it was a quick clear repetition of
"Sweet! Sweet! Sweetie"--which I fancied he liked best. I made one
after the other--and then--something scarlet flashed across the lawn,
across the rose-walk--over the wall and he was there. He had not
forgotten, it had not been too long, he alighted on the snowy brown
grass at my feet.
Then I knew he was a little Soul and not only a bird and the real
parting which must come in a few weeks' time loomed up before me a
strange tragic thing.
* * *
I do not often allow myself to think of it. It was too final. And there
was nothing to be done. I was going thousands of miles across the sea. A
little warm thing of scarlet and brown feathers and pulsating trilling
throat lives such a brief life. The little soul in its black dew-drop
eye--one knows nothing about it. For myself I sometimes believe strange
things. We two were something weirdly near to each other.
At the end I went down to the bare world of roses one soft damp day and
stood under the tree and called him for the last time. He did not keep
me waiting and he flew to a twig very near my face. I could not write
all I said to him.
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