CHAPTER VI.

Sunbeam after sunbeam peeped into the cave the next morning, but could not wake the Child, until at length they poured in in a flood, and the little sleeper's eyes unclosed to see every nook and corner of his dwelling lighted up, and every projecting ledge, and point, and stalactite flashing back the rays. Then he rubbed his eyes, and rose, and went out to take his breakfast on the mossy bank, feeling still half in a dream. The birds had finished their morning songs; the flowers had drunk in their breakfast of dew-drops, and were standing upright in the full daylight; everything seemed so busy and wide awake that the Child would have had to take his breakfast alone had it not been for a sober bee, which kept buzzing in and out of the blossoms, and a blue butterfly which fluttered silently around them, now and then poising on the open disk of a flower which scarcely bent beneath its weight.

The Child sat watching them in silence, until, through the silvery tinkling of the stream and the rustling of the wind, he caught for the first time near his cave the sound of soft familiar music floating around. It was the sweet solemn Song to which he had listened in the rock-pools and far out on the deep sea. Then he thought, "I wonder if they know the words far away in the depths of the wood."

He turned from the sea, and followed the stream with his eyes until the sparkling waters were lost in the shade of the trees and the long grass. Along the green glade which bordered the brook the sunshine lay in broad patches, so that the wood looked less dim and dark, and more inviting than he had ever seen it before: and he said to the butterfly, "Where do you live?"

The blue fairy creature drew its tube out of the nectar-cup of the flower it was sipping from, and fluttering its brilliant wings, said, "My home is everywhere where the flowers grow and the sun shines; and at night I fold my wings together and go to roost on some flower-cup which has feasted me in the day. I do not think whence I come or whither I go: I knew enough once of what it was to stay at home, in those dark days when I crept along the cold earth and was entombed in my hard mummy-case; now I am free of air and sky--a citizen of the heavens, and every breath is a joy, and every sunbeam a home."

"Then you cannot guide me into the wood," said the Child; and the butterfly fluttered and soared away till it lost itself in a sunbeam.

"But I can," said the busy sober bee, seated on a flower, which rocked to and fro beneath the weight of his little solid body; "I shall soon be going home to our village, and you can follow me."

The Child waited patiently until his new friend had filled his little basket with bread, made of the yellow flower-dust, and then joyfully obeyed the busy little workman's signal, and followed him into the wood.

As they went, the bee chatted in a grave and pleasant way about his relations and acquaintances,--about his cousin the carpenter who carved her nest in wood, and lined it with rose leaves; and his cousin the mason, who built her little dwelling with many chambers, of grains of sand cemented together and plastered over. He had also many wonderful stories about that part of their race who lived in cities and villages, each city with its queen and royal family, its busy labourers, confectioners, bakers, builders, nurses of the royal children, and body-guard of the queen. And they were constantly meeting friends and acquaintances, with whom the bee would stop and buzz a little politics, or discuss the last news from court.

The Child was greatly delighted with all he heard of this busy happy people; and when at length the bee stopped at his native village, he gladly accepted the invitation of the hospitable little negro inhabitants, who thronged around him, to share their mid-day meal. For here also he was no stranger,--every creature welcomed him, and was eager to render loving homage to their little king.

Thus the hours passed swiftly on. Squirrels darted up the trees, and there sat waving their long bushy tails, cracking nuts between their paws, and peeping at the Child with their quick twinkling eyes. Field-mice crept out of their holes in the mossy banks, and gazed on him with their grave whiskered faces; tiny ants bustled to and fro, too busy to attend to anything but housing their winter stores; butterflies in their rich brocades, and insects with lustrous wings, fluttered joyously around him; whilst all the flowers laid their crowns at his feet in their silent love. But more than all, the Child delighted in the birds. They perched around him, hidden among the leafy branches, and poured forth their happy songs; they hopped about on the grass close to him, turning their pretty heads from side to side, and looking up at him with their bright eyes full of trust.

At length, as he was rambling among the thick trees, feeling his way through the long grass, his hand unexpectedly rested on something soft and downy, from which issued a low plaintive chirp. Instantly he drew back, and held aside the grass to see what it could be. There, couching among the thick stems, he descried a little bird sitting patiently on her nest, spreading her wings over her brood. She looked up timidly in his face, but did not stir.

"Were you not afraid I might hurt you?" said the Child. "Why do you sit still?"

"If I flew away, who would take care of my little ones?" said the mother.

Then the Child's heart comprehended something of what is meant by a mother's love, and he stooped down and tenderly stroked the soft head and breast of the mother-bird; but the tears gathered in his eyes as he looked at her, and a strange feeling of loneliness and want crept over him.

It was too late for him to return to his little cave that evening, so he gathered some dry leaves, and laid himself down by the side of the mother-bird and her brood.

As he lay there, the birds were finishing their evening song, and all around arose a flood of soft melody, filling the air, and wandering in and out among the trees, and ferns, and flowers. Sometimes it seemed to the Child as if the beautiful music were forming itself into a Name; but he listened and listened until he fell asleep, and still the Song was without words.