Hotel, St. Louis.
Dear Mr.—:
To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards
which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed.
The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks
on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare,
in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the
turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote
you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen
for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother
away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious
snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits
the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall
light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial
gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty
dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all.
But my poor pen is too humble and impotent to speak
of such a man. His peers only should attempt it, and
where, at this day, are they to be looked for!
My little brother, of whom I speak, is my regular
correspondent, or rather I write to him regularly, and in
return I receive certain hieroglyphics in the shape of
very crooked pot-hooks and trammels, crossed in various
directions by bold, independent strokes, which no doubt
show energy, but are quite incomprehensible. In a word,
my brother is too small yet to know how to write, but he
is too gallant a little fellow to leave a lady's letter unanswered,
and so sends me the best fist he can achieve.
As it would gratify him very much to have a
printed letter,
Mr. —, I will just write to him through your
columns, and let his sister read it to him when it reaches
her.
“My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction
and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't
write in return, and that your little heart will dance with
gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print.
You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter
from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that
the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I
have a story to tell you about these same birds.
“One day the sun was shining very warm, and Isabel
wanted to make a grass wreath for the colonel's hat, so
we walked out to gather some pretty green grass, and as
I walked along what should I spy but a little, tiny blue-bird,
that was not old enough to walk? There he lay,
roasting in the hot sun, and no one near him! Poor
thing! he soon would have died, but I took him up, and
he nestled down in my hand just like a little baby on its
mamma's lap. I thought if dear little Leila, your sister,
should fall out of doors, how grateful I should be to any
one who would take care of her. So I took the little
bird, and laid it in the shade in some nice grass, so that
its mother might see it, and know it was alive. I then
went away a little distance and watched it. After a
while two old blue-birds flew to the tree, and began to
flutter and chirp in great trouble, and they then talked
to each other, and afterwards I saw them fly down on
the grass, and try and coax the poor little bird to follow
them. The father took a worm in his mouth, and hopping
down, fed it, and then running away a few steps,
chirped and coaxed, but the little thing could not fly.
Then the old bird went away, and told his neighbors and
friends of his trouble, while the good mother sat by,
soothing and comforting her baby.
“In a short time, the old bird came back with troops
of friends—yellow-birds, robins, mocking-birds, orioles,
sparrows, and black-martins. They all took the deepest
interest in the unhappy little thing, and would fly down,
around it, and over it, almost touching it with their soft
wings, all the while chirping in the greatest excitement,
but the little baby-bird sat quiet and trembling in the
little bed of grass I had put it on, its eyes half closed.
Then two young blue-birds, which, I guess, were its
cousins, went and gave him a pink-colored worm, which
it ate as if it were very hungry. Such singing and
talking as were now heard in the tree you have no idea,
for new friends kept coming, and the sorrowful parents
had to tell each new comer their pitiful tale. I think,
dear Charley, that birds can talk as well as children,
though we cannot always understand them. These birds
seemed to say:
“`Poor birdie! you are to be pitied. You are so little,
and you have fallen out of your mother's nest, and we
can't put you back. Don't you think you can use your
little wings, and fly up?'
“`See me,' says the yellow-bird, `see how I fly!' and
away it went from bush to bush.
“`Now,' says the mother, from a little, low stump, `just
hop here. You can soon do it, and we will get you back
to the nest where you fell from.'
“Still the little bird never stirred, only lifting its eyes
pitifully, and moved not a feather of its half-grown
wings.
“Presently hopped along a ground-sparrow, in his
neat gray coat, and said, smartly:
“`Come, little fellow, hop after me! Hop! one—
two—three—right into the tree! Hop first, and then
you will fly! Come, now—one hop, two hops, three
hops, and then away go we!'
“And away went master sparrow, but alone by himself,
for birdie moved not an inch.
“Then all the birds got on one tree near by, and held
a great confab, and by the way they chattered, they
seemed very much distressed that they could not, with
all their coaxing, get the little bird up into the nest
again. Then I went into the house, and took my little
work-basket, and lined it softly with white cotton-wool,
and went softly to it and laid birdie down carefully in it,
as nice as bird could wish to be, for the night was coming
on, and the ground was cold and damp. The birds
looked on, and did not fly away, but seemed to know the
little fellow had found a friend, and by their chirping,
after I had done, they seemed right pleased that it was
so well cared for, for I tucked the cotton in all round
its sides, leaving only its little head peeping out, just as
I have seen you when you were a baby, tucked into your
crib under the snow-white sheets.
“When I went into the house, I told the colonel and
Mr. De Clery the story. The kind, good French gentleman
then got a servant to bring a step-ladder, and went
up to the nest, and I reached up to him the wee birdie,
to put into it with his three little brothers and sisters,
who were all safe in bed, tucked under their mamma's
wing. You never saw any thing so happy as the mother
looked when the little runaway was nestled again under
her feathers, and all the rest of the birds seemed to
rejoice with her; they chirped and sang so loudly and
noisily. I think the little bird was very glad to get
back again into its warm nest, and will be very careful
not to fall out again. I suspect he disobeyed his mother,
and leaned too far over the edge, just as some little
boys stretch their heads out of the window, when
their mother tells them not, and then away they fall out.
But little boys do not live when they fall, as they strike
the hard stones and are killed; and, if that little bird
had struck on a stone, instead of the soft grass he too
would have died. When you and little cousin Fred get
up to the windows, remember the little blue-bird and be
careful not to lean too far out.
“Now, good-bye, dear Charley, and remember the little
blue-bird and his fate, and take warning, and I shall
be more than repaid for writing the history of his mishap.
Be a good little fellow, and kiss your ma, and my
little sister, and cousin for me over and over again, and
tell mamma that sister Kate will soon be at home, after
her three years' absence.
“Your loving sister,
“Kate.”
