I knew how to
insinuate myself into the private life of each bird that homed
on our farm, and they were many, for we valiantly battled for their
protection with every kind of intruder. There were wrens in the
knot holes, chippies in the fences, thrushes in the brush heaps,
bluebirds in the hollow apple trees, cardinals in the bushes,
tanagers in the saplings, fly-catchers in the trees, larks in the
wheat, bobolinks in the clover, killdeers beside the creeks,
swallows in the chimneys, and martins under the barn eaves. My
love encompassed all feathered and furred creatures.
Every day visits were paid flowers I cared for most. I had been
taught not to break the garden blooms, and if a very few of the
wild ones were taken, I gathered them carefully, and explained to
the plants that I wanted them for my mother because she was so ill
she could not come to them any more, and only a few touching her
lips or lying on her pillow helped her to rest, and made vivid the
fields and woods when the pain was severe.
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