The topmost branches of the elm are talking of the sky,--of those
highest white clouds that float like tresses of silver hair in the far
blue, of the sunrise gold and the rose-color of sunset that always rest
upon them most lovingly. But down deep in the heart of the great
branches you may hear something quite different, and not less sweet.
"Peep under my leaves," sings the elm-tree, "out at the ends of my
broadest branches. What hangs there so soft and gray? Who comes with a
flash of wings and gleam of golden breast among the dark leaves, and
sits above the gray hanging nest to sing his full, sweet tune? Who
worked there together so happily all the May-time, with gray honeysuckle
fibres, twining the little nest, until there it hung securely over the
road, bound and tied and woven firmly to the slender twigs? so slender
that the squirrels even cannot creep down for the eggs; much less can
Jack or Neddy, who are so fond of birds'-nesting, ever hope to reach the
home of our golden robin.
"There my leaves shelter him like a roof from rain and from sunshine. I
rock the cradle when the father and mother are away and the little ones
cry, and in my softest tone I sing to them; yet they are never quite
satisfied with me, but beat their wings, and stretch out their heads,
and cannot be happy until they hear their father.
"The squirrel, who lives in the hole where the two great branches part,
hears what I say, and curls up his tail, while he turns his bright eyes
towards the swinging nest which he can never reach.
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