It was a large twisted thing with one low flying limb that curled out across another tree and made a mighty seat above the waters.
“Don’t throw the dirt too high there,” she begged; “it’ll bring my seat too near the earth.”
He looked up.
“Why, it’s a throne,” he laughed.
“It needs a roof,” he whimsically told her when his day’s work was done. Deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree and bush, he wove a canopy of living green that shadowed the curious nest and warded it snugly from wind and water.
Early next morning Bles slipped down and improved the nest; adding footrests to make the climbing easy, peepholes east and west, a bit of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk, a little picture in blue and gold of Bougereau‚Äôs Madonna. Zora sat hidden and alone in silent ecstasy. Bles peeped in‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere was not room to enter: the girl was staring silently at the Madonna. She seemed to feel rather than hear his presence, and she inquired softly:
“Who’s it, Bles?”
“The mother of God,” he answered reverently.
“And why does she hold a lily?”
‚ÄúIt stands for purity‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was a good woman.‚Äù
“With a baby,” Zora added slowly.
‚ÄúYes‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù said Bles, and then more quickly‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúIt is the Christ Child‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGod‚Äôs baby.‚Äù
“God is the father of all the little babies, ain’t He, Bles?”