Whistling **** set his candle on a chair and placed his hat carefully under the table.After satisfying what we must suppose to have been his curiosity by a sober scrutiny, he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it upon the floor, near the wall, as far as possible from the unused bathtub.Taking his coat for a pillow, he stretched himself luxuriously upon the carpet.
When, on Christmas morning, the first streaks of dawn broke above the marshes, Whistling **** awoke, and reached instinctively for his hat.
Then he remembered that the skirts of Fortune had swept him into their folds on the night previous, and he went to the window and raised it, to let the fresh breath of the morning cool his brow and fix the yet dream-like memory of his good luck within his brain.
As he stood there, certain dread and ominous sounds pierced the fearful hollow of his ear.
The force of plantation workers, eager to complete the shortened task allotted to them, were all astir.The mighty din of the ogre Labour shook the earth, and the poor tattered and forever disguised Prince in search of his fortune held tight to the window-sill even in the enchanted castle, and trembled.
Already from the bosom of the mill came the thunder of rolling barrels of sugar, and (prison-like sounds) there was a great rattling of chains as the mules were harried with stimulant imprecations to their places by the waggon-tongues.A little vicious "dummy" engine, with a train of flat cars in tow, stewed and fumed on the plantation tap of the narrow-gauge railroad, and a toiling, hurrying, hallooing stream of workers were dimly seen in the half darkness loading the train with the weekly output of sugar.Here was a poem; an epic--nay, a tragedy--with work, the curse of the world, for its theme.
The December air was frosty, but the sweat broke out upon Whistling ****'s face.He thrust his head out of the window, and looked down.
Fifteen feet below him, against the wall of the house, he could make out that a border of flowers grew, and by that token he overhung a bed of soft earth.
Softly as a burglar goes, he clambered out upon the sill, lowered himself until he hung by his hands alone, and then dropped safely.No one seemed to be about upon this side of the house.He dodged low, and skimmed swiftly across the yard to the low fence.It was an easy matter to vault this, for a terror urged him such as lifts the gazelle over the thorn bush when the lion pursues.A crash through the dew-
drenched weeds on the roadside, a clutching, slippery rush up the grassy side of the levee to the footpath at the summit, and--he was free!
The east was blushing and brightening.The wind, himself a vagrant rover, saluted his brother upon the cheek.Some wild geese, high above, gave cry.A rabbit skipped along the path before him, free to turn to the right or to the left as his mood should send him.The river slid past, and certainly no one could tell the ultimate abiding place of its waters.
A small, ruffled, brown-breasted bird, sitting upon a dog-wood sapling, began a soft, throaty, tender little piping in praise of the dew which entices foolish worms from their holes; but suddenly he stopped, and sat with his head turned sidewise, listening.
From the path along the levee there burst forth a jubilant, stirring, buoyant, thrilling whistle, loud and keen and clear as the cleanest notes of the piccolo.The soaring sound rippled and trilled and arpeggioed as the songs of wild birds do not; but it had a wild free grace that, in a way, reminded the small, brown bird of something familiar, but exactly what he could not tell.There was in it the bird call, or reveille, that all birds know; but a great waste of lavish, unmeaning things that art had added and arranged, besides, and that were quite puzzling and strange; and the little brown bird sat with his head on one side until the sound died away in the distance.
The little bird did not know that the part of that strange warbling that he understood was just what kept the warbler without his breakfast; but he knew very well that the part he did not understand did not concern him, so he gave a little flutter of his wings and swooped down like a brown bullet upon a big fat worm that was wriggling along the levee path.
