In woman's ear was poured his last message to his loved ones far away, and when death was near it was woman who spoke the words of consolation and her finger that pointed hopefully to the stars.
Did not all this prove her to be sweet and tender and loving and gentle and kind?
Yes--a thousand times yes.
My grandmother once had her nest near a cemetery, and often related pathetic incidents which had come under her observation at that time.
One in particular I now recalled.

It was of a woman who came every day to weep over the mound where her babe was buried.

She was worn to a shadow from her long watching through its illness, and when it was taken from her, her grief was deep.

The bright world was no longer bright since she was bereft of her darling, and her moans for the lost loved one were heartrending.
This incident was only yet another instance of the tenderness of woman's nature, and I could not reconcile it with what my mother had told me.
"No, no," I repeated as I cuddled my head under my wing, "never can I believe that woman, tender-hearted woman, who is all love and mercy, all gentleness and pity, never can I believe she is our enemy." And resolving to ask my mother to more fully explain her unjust assertion I fell asleep.
But a source of fresh anxiety arose which for a time caused me to forget the matter.
The lindens which fringed the wood were now in full leafage, adorned with their delicate ball-like tassels, and hosts of birds flitted among them daily.

Many of them were of the kind frequently known as indigo birds, smaller than the ordinary bluebird.