he was a part of it.

Timothy had all the poet's faculty of interpreting the secrets that are
hidden in every-day things, and when he lay prone on the warm earth in
the cornfield, deep among the "varnished crispness of the jointed
stalks," the rustling of the green things growing sent thrills of joy
along the sensitive currents of his being. He was busy in his room this
afternoon putting little partitions in some cigar boxes, where, very
soon, two or three dozen birds' eggs were to repose in fleece-lined
nooks: for Jabe Slocum's collection of three summers (every egg acquired
in the most honorable manner, as he explained), had all passed into
Timothy's hands that very day, in consideration of various services well
and conscientiously performed. What a delight it was to handle the
precious bits of things, like porcelain in their daintiness!--to sort
out the tender blue of the robin, the speckled beauty of the sparrow; to
put the pee-wee's and the thrush's each in its place, with a swift throb
of regret that there would have been another little soft throat bursting
with a song, if some one had not taken this pretty egg. And there was,
over and above all, the never ending marvel of the one humming-bird's
egg that lay like a pearl in Timothy's slender brown hand. Too tiny to
be stroked like the others, only big enough to be stealthily kissed. So
tiny that he must get out of bed two or three times in the night to see
if it is safe. So tiny that he has horrible fears lest it should slip
out or be stolen, and so he must take the box to the window and let the
moonlight shine upon the fleecy cotton, and find that it is still there,
and cover it safely over again and creep back to bed, wishing that he
might see a "thumb's bigness of burnished plumage" sheltering it with
her speck of a breast. Ah! to have a little humming-bird's egg to love,
and to feel that it was his very own, was something to Timothy, as it is
to all starved human hearts full of love that can find no outlet.