And in full
enjoyment of all these doings, the poet of the whole stood singing--the
simple-minded thrush, proclaiming that the world was good and kind, but
himself perhaps the kindest, and his nest, beyond doubt, the best of it.
"How lovely everything is to-day!" Blyth Scudamore spoke slowly, and
gazing shyly at the loveliest thing of all, in his opinion--the face of
Dolly Darling. "No wonder that your brother is a poet!"
"But he never writes about this sort of thing," said Dolly, smiling
pleasantly. "His poems are all about liberty, and the rights of men,
and the wrongs of war. And if he ever mentions cows or sheep, it is
generally to say what a shame it is to kill them."
"But surely it is much worse to kill men. And who is to be blamed for
that, Miss Darling? The Power that wants to overrun all the rest, or the
Country that only defends itself? I hope he has not converted you to
the worship of the new Emperor; for the army and all the great cities of
France have begged him to condescend to be that; and the King of Prussia
will add his entreaties, according to what we have heard."
"I think anything of him!" cried Dolly, as if her opinion would settle
the point. "After all his horrible murders--worst of all of that very
handsome and brave young man shot with a lantern, and buried in a ditch!
I was told that he had to hold the lantern above his poor head, and his
hand never shook! It makes me cry every time I think of it.
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