him."

"Have you then, so long sat at this mountain-window, where but clouds
and, vapors pass, that, to you, shadows are as things, though you speak
of them as of phantoms; that, by familiar knowledge, working like a
second sight, you can, without looking for them, tell just where they
are, though, as having mice-like feet, they creep about, and come and
go; that, to you, these lifeless shadows are as living friends, who,
though out of sight, are not out of mind, even in their faces--is it
so?"

"That way I never thought of it. But the friendliest one, that used to
soothe my weariness so much, coolly quivering on the ferns, it was taken
from me, never to return, as Tray did just now. The shadow of a birch.
The tree was struck by lightning, and brother cut it up. You saw the
cross-pile out-doors--the buried root lies under it; but not the shadow.
That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again."

Another cloud here stole along, once more blotting out the dog, and
blackening all the mountain; while the stillness was so still, deafness
might have forgot itself, or else believed that noiseless shadow spoke.

"Birds, Marianna, singing-birds, I hear none; I hear nothing. Boys and
bob-o-links, do they never come a-berrying up here?"

"Birds, I seldom hear; boys, never. The berries mostly ripe and
fall--few, but me, the wiser."

"But yellow-birds showed me the way--part way, at least."