Instead of
hanging by the threads she had used she now hung from a dainty silken
spider web, for Arachne was still a weaver, but not a weaver as of old.
Today, perchance, if you should see a busy little spider, it might be
one of Arachne's children, or perhaps Arachne herself. No one
knows--neither you nor I.
THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH
It was spring, and the little town of Killingworth told of the joy of
living again. Every little rivulet had broken from its frozen chain,
which had held it fast during the long winter, and was rushing on,
rejoicing at its freedom. The purple buds, holding wonderful secrets of
things to come, were bursting forth from every tree and bush, while from
the topmost boughs the birds called and sang to their mates: "Oh! be
happy, be happy, for spring has come!"
There were all the messengers of spring--the robin, the oriole, and the
bluebird--filling the orchard with their glad melody. The little sparrow
chirped in glee for the very joy of living, and the hungry crows, in
great crowds, called loudly the tidings of spring.
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