e humming insects rioting in the genial sun, all of them gave token of strange new impulses calling for something more than mere living because spring had come.
Upon the topmost tip of the taller of the twin poplars that flanked the picket gate opening upon the Gwynnes' little garden sat a robin, his head thrown back to give full throat to the song that was like to burst his heart, monotonous, unceasing, rapturous. On the door step of the Gwynnes' house, arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the Gwynne boy of ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a bird for flight.
"Law-r-ence," clear as a bird call came the voice from within.
"Mo-th-er," rang the boy's voice in reply, high, joyous and shrill.
"Ri-ght a-way af-ter school. Good-bye, mo-ther, dear," called the boy.
"W-a-i-t," came the clear, birdlike call again, and in a moment the mother came running, stood beside the boy, and followed his eye to the robin on the pop