“Well, so it does,” said Joseph, after considering the matter for a little. “You and I don’t seem to get talked out very easy, do we, grandma?” “Not very, dear; you have a tolerably busy tongue of your own.” “Sister Anna says, sometimes she’s afraid you find it most too long,” said Joe, honestly. “There isn’t any danger of that, my boy; it’s as sweet to your old grandmother as the birds’ songs used to be.” “Only not like that parrot in the baker’s shop,” amended Joseph, with a laugh. “More like the wood-thrushes I used to hear up in Vermont,” she said; for his laughter brought back again the memory of the brooks, and the beautiful summers that lay so far off behind the shadows of all those later years. “How does a wood-thrush sing?” Then there had to be an elaborate explanation; at the end of which he must ask, in great haste: “Did you live in Vermont, grandma?” “No, dear; but I spent a summer there once—so long, long ago.” “But you have forgotten about it?” “Forgotten, child? Oh! I couldn’t forget it!” “Was it so very pleasant, grandma?” The feeling that surged up in her heart was like a glow from her perished youth, so warm and powerful was it; the soft wind from that summer of the past blew across her soul and made her voice sweet as a psalm. “So pleasant, Joey—so pleasant!” “Was grandpa with you?” “Yes; he was there part of the time.” “I think I should like to hear about it,” said Joe; “it sounds like a story.” So it was—the story every youth knows, varied according to individual experience; but the old story still, that is always so beautiful. “Won’t you tell me about it, grandma?” “Indeed, dear, there is nothing to tell! It was like a story to me, because I was so very, very happy, and the birds sang as I don’t think they ever have sung since; and I haven’t heard any thing, either, like the sound of the brooks, only your dear voice; and it was such a beautiful time of rest.” She was far beyond little Joe’s comprehension now; but the unusual look in her face interested him, and her voice sounded like a blessing, it was so soft and caressing. “What makes you think the birds haven’t sung so since?” he asked, with that tendency to be direct and practical, which children show in so odd a way when they are perplexed by a conversation that makes new echoes in their untrained souls. “That was only grandma’s foolish fancy,” she said, trying to come back from the phantom world, where her thoughts had wandered. “Dear boy, the birds never stop singing! Never forget that as you grow older, and troubles begin to weary you. Even if you can’t hear them for a time, they are singing still; and so are God’s blessed angels, too, and sometime we shall hear both clearly again.” “Up in heaven,” said Joe, gravely and thoughtfully. “Up in heaven!” repeated the old woman, and her voice was a thanksgiving.