Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [41]
They gathered around, some on the log, most on the ground. A blond girl with long curls banded by a bright pink ribbon arranged her calico dress and bibbed pinafore over drawn-up knees. Several boys in short pants plopped to the ground on the opposite side from the girls, other than Bettina. She sat cross-legged among them, her dress a lackluster brown and without a pinafore. He could make out the faces of those sitting cross-legged, but not the ones resting on their heels.
The number of boys in her group surprised him. From what he could see, they weren’t bookish types, but as rascally as they came. The two facing him elbowed each other, their freckled grins up to no good. Much as he wanted to shrink further beneath the shrub, he didn’t move.
The brown-haired boy picked up a pebble and flicked it over the heads of those around them. It landed softly on the blond girl. She brushed at her hair and glanced up before dismissing it and returning her attention to Georgie.
“The robins used to trust us,” Georgie said, her voice soft. “On the first Christmas morning, one visited Baby Jesus in His manger. That was before the robin had its orange underbelly.”
The boys had lobbed two more pebbles, but Georgie’s statement captured their attention.
“The night was wrapped in a bitter chill, and Jesus had grown cold in that drafty stable. Mary called to Joseph, asking him to stoke their little fire, but it had been a long night and he slept deeply. So she caught the eye of a nearby oxen. ‘My son grows cold,’ she said. ‘Could you blow on the embers?’ But the ox was locked behind a stall and couldn’t stir from its place.”
A rock underneath Luke gouged into his leg. In an effort to ignore it, he concentrated on Georgie’s retelling of the old legend.
“Mary asked the donkey, but it was asleep and didn’t hear her call. Nor did the horse or the sheep.”
Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.
They all looked toward the sound.
“There it is!” A redheaded boy pointed.
The children began talking at once. “I see it!”
“Where? Where is it?”
“There. Look there.”
Luke imagined the orange-breasted bird. Another early sign of spring. He had heard its song on many occasions, but he hadn’t realized it belonged to the robin.
The children quieted.
Georgie pressed her feet together, resting linked hands atop her knees. “A little brown bird in the rafters of the stable noticed the dwindling fire and Mary’s distress. It flew down and fluttered its wings, rekindling the ashes. Hopping about the stable, it gathered sticks and hay with its beak, then dropped them into the fire. Suddenly, a flame shot up, touching the little bird’s chest and turning it orange.”
The boys’ eyes grew wide.
“Did it hurt?” the blond girl asked.
“A little,” Georgie admitted. “But the robin continued to fan the flames with its wings. The blazes grew, the stable warmed, and Jesus slept soundly. Instead of returning to the rafters, the bird tended the fire all night long. At dawn, Mary lifted her hand. The tired but faithful robin landed on her fingers. ‘From this day forward,’ she said, ‘may your red breast be a blessed reminder of the great charity you have done for Baby Jesus.’ And as you can see, the robin’s orange underbelly still covers its noble heart.”
The children sat quietly, absorbing the tale.
Bettina scrunched up her nose. “Do ya think the robin knew who Jesus was?”
“Perhaps,” Georgie answered. “But because of the beauty of their orange chests, women want to use robins as decorations on their hats and cloaks.”
The black-haired boy scratched the back of his head. “But what if we only killed one? That won’t hurt none.”
“It seems that way, Eugene. But look what happened to our friendly beavers. We had millions and millions and millions of them until they were harvested for hats and coats. And the impossible happened. Animals which could not run out, ran out. We barely have a few thousand