  A DIALOGUE. BY MRS. C. HIGHBORN. Clarissa. Pray, Mary, what are you going to do with those crumbs which you hold in your hand? Mary. I am going to feed my snow-birds with them; and I should be very happy to have you go with me. I know you will enjoy seeing how merrily they hop about and flutter their wings, and seem to chirp out their thanks as they pick up the food I throw them. C. Thank you for your invitation; but I beg you will excuse me; it may be pretty sport for you, but, for my part, I can enjoy myself much better to stay here and arrange my baby-things, for I expect some girls to see me this afternoon. I cannot conceive what there is in those ugly-looking snow-birds to interest you; they are not handsome, surely; they have not a single bright feather; and, as for their songs, they sound like the squeak of a sick chicken. M. I am sorry to hear you speak so of my favorites; for, though they are not so brilliant in their colors as many that flutter around us in the summer, yet to me they tire dearer than any others, and far more beautiful than those of a gaudier hue. C. Well, you have a queer taste, I must confess; you remind me of the philosopher I read of in the story-book, who thought a toad the most beautiful of God's creatures. Come, perhaps you can show me why they are entitled to your regard, and point out their beauties. M. I will cheerfully comply with your request, for nothing gives me more pleasure than to speak of the good qualities of my friends. Examine them for a moment and see how exquisitely they are formed, and, though not gaudy in their colors, yet their feathers are soft and glossy. But these are trifles comparatively; what most endears them to me is their constancy. C. That is a new idea, indeed. Constancy in snow-birds! Please explain yourself, Mary. M. Well, they seem to me like those rare friends that love us best in adversity, when the bright summer of prosperity, with its attendant joys, has fled, and the winter of sorrow and misfortune shuts out, with its dark clouds, the light of life, and withers, with its frosts, the few flowers which bloom along its pathway. There are summer friends, Clara, as well as summer birds, and they both wear brilliant colors, and sing enchanting songs, but they depart with the sunshine; the first leave us to battle the storms of adversity, and the others, the cold and barren prospect of winter; these little snow-birds, however, remain, and through all its dark hours they cheer us by their presence. They seem to tell us that we are not entirely destitute of pleasure, but that the darkest hours have something of beauty; and, while they serve to awaken in our minds a remembrance of the bright days that have gone, they bid us look forward to the end of our sorrows, and welcome the bright spring days, which shall return to us the joys that departed. C. I declare! you have preached quite a sermon, and from a funny text; I confess there is both truth and poetry in what you say. I do not wonder that you love the snow-birds, if they awaken such pleasant and pretty thoughts in your mind. Henceforth I will love them myself, for the good lesson that, through you, they have imparted. I trust you will forgive me the rudeness of laughing at you. M. Cheerfully, Clara; but learn from this never to despise any of God's creatures; they can all teach us some important and beautiful lesson which we should be happy to heed. And now, if you please, we will go and feed the snow-birds. C. With all my heart! |
|
