And there was,
over and above all, the never ending marvel of the one humming-bird's
egg that lay like a pearl in Timothy's slender brown hand. Too tiny to
be stroked like the others, only big enough to be stealthily kissed. So
tiny that he must get out of bed two or three times in the night to see
if it is safe. So tiny that he has horrible fears lest it should slip
out or be stolen, and so he must take the box to the window and let the
moonlight shine upon the fleecy cotton, and find that it is still there,
and cover it safely over again and creep back to bed, wishing that he
might see a "thumb's bigness of burnished plumage" sheltering it with
her speck of a breast. Ah! to have a little humming-bird's egg to love,
and to feel that it was his very own, was something to Timothy, as it is
to all starved human hearts full of love that can find no outlet.
Miss Vilda was knitting, and Samantha was shelling peas, on the
honeysuckle porch. It had been several days since Miss Cummins had gone
to the city, and had come back no wiser than she went, save that she had
made a somewhat exhaustive study of the slums, and had acquired a more
intimate knowledge of the ways of the world than she had ever possessed
before. She had found Minerva Court, and designated it on her return as
a "sink of iniquity," to which Afric's sunny fountains, India's coral
strand, and other tropical localities frequented by missionaries were
virtuous in comparison.
"For you don't expect anything of black heathens," said she; "but there
ain't any question in my mind about the accountability of folks livin'
in a Christian country, where you can wear clothes and set up to an
air-tight stove and be comfortable, to say nothin' of meetinghouses
every mile or two, and Bible Societies and Young Men's and Young Women's
Christian Associations, and the gospel free to all with the exception of
pew rents and contribution boxes, and those omitted when it's
necessary.
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