Chapter I: Introductory

It was Christmas morning, and everywhere the merry bells were ringing and telling again the story, which, though more than eighteen hundred years old, is always sweet, always new—the story of Bethlehem’s babe, for whose birthday we keep the Christmas-tide. All over the northern hills the December snow was lying, and the wind was sharp and cold as it went singing past the windows of the houses where so many eager, happy children ate their Christmas cakes, or counted their Christmas toys. But far away in the south land it was like summer still, and the orange-trees were fresh, and green, and beautiful, with the yellow fruit and the white blossoms showing among the leaves. Upon the highest branch of a tall orange-tree which grew upon the bank of the river St. John, a Red-bird was sitting, and listening to a Paroquet, which, on a magnolia near by, was dressing its bright plumage, and talking to his neighbor, the Red-bird.

After wishing him a merry Christmas, he said:

“And so, Mrs. Red, you are still alive! Why, we all thought you were dead, and Mr. Red wore mourning for a month, and then—but never mind. Have you been up to the old nest among the yellow jasmine? If not, I advise you to stay away; but say, where have you been this year or more? Tell me about it.”

It seemed strange to me, who was sitting on a bench beneath the magnolia-tree, to hear birds talking together after this fashion, and remembering the children at the North who had never seen a Paroquet, nor a magnolia, nor a Red-bird, nor an orange-tree, I said to myself, I will write down what these birds are saying, and sometime, perhaps, I’ll send it to the little ones at home.

And this, as nearly as I could understand it, was the story the Red-bird told.