It tried to rest its
tired feet under the shade of a great angel-wing or to nestle in the
sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it away
from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off the
ledges. No respectable bird sang with so much feeling, they cheeped one
to another, and the wanderer had to move on.
Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons
did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leaned so much out
of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too much in the shadow. The
figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven
dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made
a snug resting-place for the little bird. Every evening it crept
trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image, and the
darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers. The lonely bird
grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day it would sit from
time to time on some rainshoot or other abutment and trill forth its
sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may
have been the work of wind and weather, or some other influence, but the
wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and
unhappiness.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253