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serve as railways whereon the spinners run 

 swiftly about their world? Up, down, 

 across, athwart they go a labyrinth with 

 never a possible clue. 



How green the grass shows under it! 

 May has not tenderer verdure than these 

 new spears. So fresh are they, so smiling- 

 bright, what wonder the low cloud kisses 

 them. Low and lower it drops. Overhead, 

 the eye pierces to far, faint ethereal blue. 

 To left, to right, the billowing vapors wrap 

 all the world from sight. 



Something whirls through the dimness 

 something white with glancing wings. The 

 pigeons have left their cote, and dash be- 

 wildered through the mist, vainly seeking 

 the stubble where daily they feed fat. One, 

 not yet fairly in flight, flutters down to your 

 feet tremulous, helpless, utterly afraid. 

 How the poor heart beats as it lies in your 

 hand, all its pretty white feathers aruffle, a 

 world of appeal in its soft, clear eyes! 

 Touch it tenderly, warm it at your breast. 

 A little while, and it will feed from your 

 hand, come to call, perch joyfully on your 

 shoulder it may be even ruffle and preen 

 it upon your arm. A true-love bird it is, 

 ready to give you all its warm heart if you 

 do but show yourself willing to take it. 



