This was not because he really had anything to complain of. The sun was shining; there were flies in plenty; and no one was doing him harm. A little while before, a pretty girl, with jet-black eyes, had sat under the bush and listened to his song and kissed her hand to him.

 

And yet he wanted something.

 

He was tired of the Italian flies. He had a feeling in his wings as if he could do hundreds of miles at a stretch. There were notes in his throat which he was unable to get out and his little heart was filled with a longing² which he could not understand and which would have made him cry, if a reed-warbler knew how to cry. But he can only sing and he sings just alike on all days, whether he be glad or sorry.

 

So he sang. And, when he stopped, he heard a voice, from a bush close by, which resembled his own to a nicety, only it was not so strong.

 

He was off in a moment and alighting on a twig³ gazed at the sweetest little lady reed-warbler that one could wish to set eyes on.

 

There was no one to introduce them to each other and so they introduced themselves. For there is not the same stiff etiquette⁴ among birds as at a court ball. Also things move more quickly; and, when they had chatted for five minutes or so, the reed-warbler said:

 

"Now that I have seen you, I know what's the matter with me. I am longing to go back to the land where I was born. I have a distinct recollection of a quiet pond, with reeds and rushes and green beeches⁵ round it."

 

"I am longing to go there, too," said the little reed-warbler. "I remember it also."

 

"Then the best thing that we can do is to get engaged," said he. "As soon as we come to the pond, we will celebrate our marriage and build a nest."

 

"Will you love me till I die?" she asked.

 

"I can't answer for more than the summer," he replied. "But I promise you that."

分享到：