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T HE stone baby was lonesome. He had looked forth over the city from his little round window on the side of the great building where the architect said he must forever stay, and had seen the homes of the other little ones.
Then he said to himself: "When it was summer I could see the children at their windows and in the street, but now they keep well inside. From here I cannot see the big boys and the girls skate and coast, even.
"I'd like to see the green grass in the square and the boys sailing boats on the pond.
"Dear me, I believe it's snowing. I don't mind a cold nose and snow-powdered hair, but I can't see even the children's houses if it gets very thick."
Just then there was a "chirp, chirp" in the air, and something flew right under the stone baby's chin. It was a little sparrow coming for refuge from the storm. "Chirp, chirp," and another came, and another.
"Thank you, baby, for a little corner from the storm," said the sparrows.
"Oh, you're very welcome," said the stone child.
They nestled closer and closer.
"Isn't it pleasant to be of some use in the world!" said the stone baby—for stone babies are so much more serious than flesh and blood children, "and they wouldn't do this for a real, walking and running child."
| — L. J. Bridgman, "The Youth's Companion" |