BIRD STORIES 



spattered over with pretty marks, were stuffed into 

 feather-beds for people to sleep on. 



Well it was for Larie that he lived when he did; for his 

 third world was a wonderful place and it was right that 

 he should enjoy it in safety. When Larie first left his 

 nest and went out to walk, he stepped upon a shelf of 

 reddish rock, and the whole wall from which his shelf 

 stuck out was reddish rock, too. Beyond, the rocks 

 were greenish, and beyond that they were gray. Oh ! the 

 reddish and greenish and grayish rocks were beautiful 

 to see when the fog lifted and the sun shone on them. 



But Larie's island-world was not all rock of different 

 colors: for over there, not too far away to see, was a 

 dark-green spruce tree. Because rough winds had swept 

 over this while it was growing, its branches were scraggly 

 and twisted. They could not grow straight and even, 

 like a tree in a quiet forest. But never think, for all of 

 that, that Larie's spruce was not good to look upon. 

 There is something splendid about a tree which, though 

 bending to the will of the mighty winds that work their 

 force upon it, grows sturdy and strong in spite of all. 

 Such trees are somehow like boys and girls, who meet 

 hardships with such courage when they are young, that 

 they grow strong and sturdy of spirit, and warm of 

 heart, with the sort of mind that can understand 

 trouble in the world, and so think of ways to help it. 



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