"She'll shut me off from that, too," she murmured bitterly. "She'll shut me off from that too--_if she can_!"
"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a very ol'."
"A very ol' _what_?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel.
"I d'know. Only it's up a tree, an' she wants to show you it."
Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the branches of a splendid spruce.
"Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near.
Martha's eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire's pointing finger, saw nothing.
"Quick! Look! O--oh! There he goes! He's flown away!"
Mrs. Slawson's interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious disappointment.
"What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn't Francie tell you 'twas a vireo?"
"Certaintly she did. But she didn't say 'twas a very ol' _bird_. Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin' like Gran'pa Trenholm, or ol' lady Crewe a-sittin' up there, needin' immediate assistance. I thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was great, there's no knowin' what I _could_ do."
Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don't believe you'll ever make an ornithologist."
"Without knowin' what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I don't believe I ever will, though I'm ready to try."
"Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It's not quite so early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you want to come?"
For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.
Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn't it lovely? When I think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."
"Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin' 'round steady an' sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the twist, first or last, before we're turned out fine enough to suit. Some folks feels the twist more'n others. I suppose it's nice to live easy, but there's this about not bein' too soft: you ain't likely to get hurt so much. D'you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn't by, you tried to pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An' the coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine's so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an' nary a splinter. Yes, it's good not to be too sens'tive. If you are, you're bound to get all that's comin' to you, an' then some."