Веснянки

           Fromtheclearskyithadfallen,andFreckles,gazingeagerlyintothearchofJunebluewithafewlazycloudsfloatinghighintheseaofether,hadneithermindnorknowledgetodreamofabirdhangingasiffrozenthere.Heturnedthebigquillquestioningly,andagainhisawedeyessweptthesky.

           “AfeatherdroppedfromHeaven!”hebreathedreverently.“Aretheholyangelsmoulting?Butno;iftheywere,itwouldbewhite.Maybealltheangelsarenotforbeingwhite.WhatiftheangelsofGodarewhiteandthoseofthedevilareblack?Butablackonehasnobusinessupthere.Maybesomepoorblackangelissotiredofbeingpunishedit’sforslippingtothegates,beatingitswingstryingtomaketheMasterhear!”

           AgainandagainFrecklessearchedthesky,buttherewasnoansweringgleamofgoldengates,noformofsailingbird;thenhewentslowlyonhisway,turningthefeatherandwonderingaboutit.Itwasawingquill,eighteeninchesinlength,withaheavyspine,grayatthebase,shadingtojetblackatthetip,anditcaughttheplayofthesun’sraysinslantinggleamsofgreenandbronze.AgainFreckles’“oldmanofthesea”satsullenandheavyonhisshouldersandweightedhimdownuntilhissteplaggedandhisheartached.

           “Wherediditcomefrom?Whatisit?Oh,howIwishIknew!”hekeptrepeatingasheturnedandstudiedthefeather,withalmostunseeingeyes,sointentlywashethinking.