But they only leave a few dark freckles on the
garden beds. Alas, yes! There is no light without its shadow, no
joy without its sorrow tagging after. It isn't all marbles and play
in the gladsome springtide. Bub has not only to spade up the garden
- there is some sense in that - but he has to dig up the flower
beds, and help his mother set out her footy, trifling plants.
The robins have come back, our robins that nest each spring in the
old seek-no-further. To the boy grunting over the spading-fork
presents himself Cock Robin. "How about it? Hey? All right? Hey?"
he seems to ask, cocking his head, and flipping out the curt
inquiries with tail-jerks. Glad of any excuse to stop work, the
boy stands statue-still, while Mr. Robin drags from the upturned
clods the long, elastic fish-worms, and then with a brief "Chip!"
flashes out of sight. Be right still now. Don't move. Here he
comes again, and his wife with him. They fly down, he all eager
and alert to wait upon her, she whining and scolding. She doesn't
think it's much of a place for worms. And there's that boy yonder.
He's up to some devilment or other, she just knows. She oughtn't
to have come away and left those eggs. They'll get cold now, she
just knows they will. Anything might happen to them when she 's
away, and then he 'll be to blame, for he coaxed her.
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