The Bluebird And the Sparrow
“Bustling—that’s what Mama calls it, observed three-year-old Berta, curled up in an overstuffed chair, waiting.
Waiting.
It seemed to her that she had been waiting forever. Why was it— whatever it was—taking so long?
She sighed a deep sigh, pushed back dark hair that wanted to hang in her eyes, and rearranged her sitting position.
If only—if only someone would stop and tell her what was happening.
She heard quick steps in the hall again and another scurrying person entered the room. It was Mrs. Pringle, a neighbor. Berta uncurled her legs and jumped to the rug.
“Where’s Mama?” Berta asked before the woman could hurry on by.
Mrs. Pringle seemed to slide to a stop. She looked at the young child and her eyes softened.
“She’s—she’s in her room. She—”
“Doesn’t she got the baby yet?” asked Berta impatiently.
“No. No—not yet. Soon. The doctor says soon—now.”
The answer was not what Berta wished to hear.
“Why does it take so long?” she asked, her voice filled with annoyance.
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