written. She began it "Dear Friend," touched very lightly on the subject of the hair, just enough to explain it, then decorously hoped that if any misunderstanding had interrupted their friendship it might be done away with; she should always value his very highly. Then she signed herself his true friend "Emmeline E. Steadman.”

Nobody knew what tortures of suspense Emmeline suffered after she had sent her poor little friendly letter. She sewed on quietly just as usual. Her mother knew nothing about it.

She began to go regularly to the postoffice, though not at mail times. She would make an errand to the store where it was, and inquire if there was a letter for her quietly and casually after she was through trading.

One morning she came home from one of those errands, dropped down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands. Her mother was frightened: she was mixing bread: they were both out in the kitchen.

"Emmeline, what is the matter?" Emmeline burst into a bitter cry: "He's married. Mrs. Wilson told me just now. Mrs. Adams told her: she lives next to his folks."

66

Why, Emmeline, I didn't know you cared so much about that fellar as all that!"

"I didn't!" said Emmeline, fiercely; "but I-wrote to him, an' what's he goin' to think? I'd died first, if I'd known. Oh, if you'd only let that lock of hair alone! You brought all this trouble on me!"

"Well, Emmeline Steadman, if you want to talk so to the mother that's done for you what I have, on account of a fellar that's showed pretty plain he didn't care any great about you, you can.'

Emmeline said no more, but, with a look of despair, rose to go upstairs.

"I've told you I am sorry I took it." "I think you'd better be," said Emmeline, as she went through the door.

She did no more work that day; she staid upstairs, and would see nobody: she did not care what people thought now. Mrs. Steadman grew more and more conscience-stricken and worried; she went for the night mail herself, with a forlorn hope of something, she did not know what.

66

When she got back she came directly upstairs into the room where Emmeline was. Emmeline," said she, in a shaking voice, "here's a letter for you; I guess it's from him."

Emmeline took it and opened it, her face set and unmoved; she had it all settled that the letter was to tell her of his marriage. She read down the first page, her face changing with every word. Her mother watched her breathlessly, as if she too was reading the letter by reflection in her daughter's face.

At last Emmeline looked up at her mother. She was radiant; she was trying to keep from smiling, lest she betray too much; but she could not help it. She looked blissful and shamefaced together.

"Mother-he ain't married after all; and he says it's all right about the hair; and-he's coming home!"

Charlotte's face was as radiant as her daughter's, but she said, "Well, what do you think now? After you've been such an ungrateful girl, blaming your mother, an' talkin' to her as you did this mornin', I should think you'd be ashamed. You don't deserve it!"

Emmeline got off the bed; with her letter in her hand she went over to her mother, and kissed her shyly on her soft old cheek. "I'm real sorry I spoke so, mother."

Suddenly he rose on wing, and flew with tail wide spread across the walk, into an althea bush, where he disappeared.

I was about to pass on, when fancying I heard a faint twittering in the shrub, I approached quietly till near enough to put my hand on him before I saw him. There he sat on a branch about as high as my head, looking at me very sharply with his intelligent black eyes, but not in the least agitated. I stood still, and he went on with his song.

It was a most extraordinary perform ance. The sweetest notes, given with every trill and turn the bird can execute, with swelling throat and jerking tail, yet not a note louder than a whisper! I had to listen to catch the sound, although I could touch him where I stood. It was a genuine soliloquy. When he had finished he flew out the other side of the bush, and pushing my way between the althea and a close-growing weigela, I found myself in his nook, a charming sunny spot, running down to the lake.

Though burdened with an undeserved and offensive name, and having somehow become an object of suspicion and dislike to many persons, the cat-bird-Mimus carolinensis-is one of the most intelligent and interesting of our native birds. No bird makes closer observation, or more correctly estimates one's attitude toward him. As I sit motionless in his nook he will circle around me, hopping from bush to bush, at a distance of ten or twelve feet, looking at me from every side, and at last slip behind a low shrub, and come out boldly upon the grass with an unconcerned air, entirely different from that with which he had kept me under surveillance for the last ten minutes.

The cat-bird has an inquiring mind; nothing escapes his eye, and everything is of interest to him. Far from being satisfied to accept anything as "mysterious," he wishes and intends to know the why and the wherefore of everything new or strange. After one has won his confidence, to induce him to show himself on the grass it is only necessary to place there something new-a bit of paper, a small fruit, or anything unusual. From behind his screen of leaves he sees it, is at once seized with intense curiosity, and if not afraid he will almost instantly come down to inspect it. This he does by trying to stab it with his sharp black bill,

jumping off the ground and pouncing on it, when it happens to be hard, till one fears he will break his bill. A bit of apple treated by him is full of minute stabs or gashes like dagger thrusts. His manner, however, is not one of vulgar curiosity, but always of philosophical inquiry into the nature of substances, and his look is as grave and thoughtful as though he were studying some of the problems of human or bird life.

He has also a sense of humor. I had the fortune to see from my own window in the city an amusing exhibition of this quality. Hearing the sweet song of a catbird, I seized an opera-glass and looked over the neighboring yards till I found him perched on the roof of a pigeon-house, singing with great energy. Several pigeons were also on the roof, and seemed interested in the stranger entertaining them, stupidly-in pigeon fashion-walking about and looking at him, turning their heads from side to side in their mincing way. Suddenly, in the middle of a burst of song, the minstrel darted like a flash among them, evidently for pure fun, for he did not touch one of them, and returned instantly to his song. Wild panic, however, seized the pigeons, and although he was a mere atom among them, they flew every way, and would have shrieked with terror had they been able.

Then the sparrows began to observe him. They gathered near, in a cherrytree and a lilac bush, chattering and scolding, and plainly questioning the right of the stranger to intrude upon their grounds. After a while one of them flew rapidly past the apparently unconcerned cat-bird, who interpolated one scolding note, without pausing in his song. This insult not being resented, the sparrow grew bolder, returned, and alighted on the roof near him. Wishing to finish his song, the cat-bird merely scolded a little, and put himself in an attitude of "going for him," when the sparrow considered it prudent to retire.

For a few minutes there was great chattering in the cherry-tree, and the sparrows, having made up their minds that he could do nothing but scold, plainly resolved to mob him in true sparrow fashion. One led the way by flying down to the roof about two feet from the singer, all bristled up ready for fight. This was too much; the song ceased, and with a fearful war-cry the singer fairly flung himself