If you could mind what it sings like I could listen for it."

The remark was broadly insinuating, but elicited no response.

"Where did you hear it?"

"Far away from here."

"In another country?"

"I guess so--yes."

"In Nova Scotia?"

The man turned sharply. "What made you say that?" he cried.

"I--we came from there," whispered the boy; "but you won't tell, will
you?"

"No."

"Only Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer knows. Our father he was a bad man, so we
don't tell. The kids don't mind him, but I do. He wasn't bad to us,
but he done somethin' awful, an' then he ran away, an' our mother died,
an' he sent us miles an' miles away to a city, an' we lived with old
Mother Cummins. But I mind the ocean--it smelt like--ok, it smelt
awful good! Did you ever smell the ocean?"

The man was supporting his head on his hand; his face was turned away.

"Oh, say! it's bully! It's somethin' like the smell o' the crick, jist
below the falls, on a hot day--only--only different. That's why I play
hookey so often down in the holler, 'cause it smells like the ocean."

Tim made his statement proudly. It was a wonderful privilege to boast
of how bad you were, and be sure you would be unreproved.

"We had good times when we lived there, but when ole Mother Cummins got
us it was different. She wasn't so awful bad at first, 'cause our
father uster send money; but he stopped. I guess he must 'a' died, or
run away farther. An' after that, say! didn't our ole woman uster
hammer us? She'd get drunk an' sleep on the floor, an' I uster pinch
her black an' blue an' stick pins into her for poundin' Joey!" His
small, withered face was fierce, his old eyes were cruel. "An' one day
she cut Lorry's head open with her stick; so we all lit out. I carried
Joey for miles an' miles, an' then some folks took us to the Home, an'
then Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer came. Do you s'pose God sent them for us?
Miss Scott said He did. Did He? Eh?"

"I--I suppose so."

"You ain't dead sure about anything God does, are you?" asked Tim
sympathetically. "Ain't you remembered about the harmless thrush yet?"

John McIntyre did not answer. He sat still so long, with his face in
his hands, that the boy grew weary, and rising, hobbled homeward.

The man's gray head sank lower. His thin hands, hard, and worn with
heavy toil, were trembling violently. His stooped shoulders, in their
poor, thread-bare covering, heaved convulsively. For the first time i