Aunt Jo’s Scrap-Bag Vol. 1

fro about an ant-hill. The sun shines on him splendidly in the morning;
the gay flag waves and rustles in the wind above him sometimes; and the
moonlight turns him to silver when she comes glittering up the sky.
When it rains he never shakes his feathers; snow beats on him without
disturbing his stately repose; and he never puts his head under his wing
at night, but keeps guard in darkness as in day, like a faithful
sentinel. I like the big, lonely bird, call him my particular fowl, and
often wish he'd turn his head and speak to me. One night he did actually
do it, or seemed to; for I've never been able to decide whether I
dreamed what I'm going to tell you, or whether it really happened.

It was a stormy night! and, as I drew down my curtain, I said to myself,
after peering through the driving snow to catch a glimpse of my
neighbour, 'Poor Goldy! he'll have a rough time of it. I hope this
northeaster won't blow him off his perch.' Then I sat down by my fire,
took my knitting, and began to meditate. I'm sure I didn't fall asleep;
but I can't prove it, so we'll say no more about it. All at once there
came a tap at my door, as I thought; and I said 'Come in,' just as Mr.