ONLY A BIRD.

BY JAMES OTIS.

For the many words of loving sympathy from the warm little hearts of the readers of Young People for Toby Tyler very many thanks are due. The praise has been very sweet; and that I may in some measure repay you for your kindness, I am going to tell you a true story of a little bird that I owned at the time Toby's history was being written, and who sat on the leaves of the book, keeping me company far into the night. The little fellow is dead now, and there is a corner in my heart sacred to the memory of the dearest little pet I ever had, even though it was only a bird.

Two years ago, on a chilly, wet morning, the servant-girl came into the library with a very ragged, discouraged-looking little fellow covered with her apron, who, on being released from his imprisonment, hopped in front of the fire, opening his mouth so wide that it seemed as if he was about to swallow grate, coals, and everything warm. It was a young robin, a naturally active little body, who had got up too early for the worms. Ellen had found him on the curb-stone, where he was looking down at the pools of water in the gutter much as if he believed it would be better to drown himself at once rather than wait for the rain to wash him entirely away.

Some crumbs of bread soaked in milk, and two or three worms, dropped into the large hole that served as mouth, and which seemed nearly as big as his entire body, had the effect of cheering Bobby wonderfully. In less than an hour he was hopping around the library as if he was the owner of it all; and from that time until he died he was thoroughly saucy and perfectly independent while in that room.

For about a month it was necessary to feed Bobby, but after that time he was able to take care of himself. If any one was eating anything that he fancied he should like, he would hop on to his shoulder, and, without so much as saying "By your leave," would peck at it until he was satisfied, or driven away. In the latter case he would seat himself on his master's shoulder, and scold at the offender until he was hoarse, and the occupants of the room nearly deafened.

Now although Bobby was so nearly drowned on the day when he first made his appearance in our family, a bath was his great delight, and whenever he heard the water running from the faucet, he would fly up on the slab, flapping his wings and screaming until the water was poured on his head and back. Then, when he had had quite as thorough a bath as he thought he needed, he would fly to the top of the canaries' cage, and shake the water from his feathers over them, enjoying the trouble he caused.

Of course he had a cage of his own, into which he would retire when he wanted a lunch or a nap; but it was a rule with him never to stay there quietly if he was fastened in. So long as the door of the cage was open, he was perfectly contented; but when it was closed, he would dance back and forth, scolding and screaming, until, for the sake of peace and quiet, one was quite willing to unfasten the door.

Bobby trotted gravely over the entire house, never offering to go out-of-doors when the windows were open, although he sometimes surveyed the street from the window-ledge. No one was ever more punctual at the table than this same saucy Bob; the back of a chair served him as a seat, and a cake with a quantity of plums in it was regularly put on the table for his especial benefit. He was very well behaved at meal-time, except when the plums were baked in too hard, and then he would pull and tug at the offending dainty until, it coming out suddenly, he would tumble on his back, with the plum held tightly in his beak.

At twilight his favorite position was on my shoulder, where, with his little body as close to my neck as possible, he would remain until driven away.

But it was in the library, the room in which he was first introduced to the family, that he most liked to stay. There, perched high on the desk while his master was writing, he would gravely watch the work, or, tiring of that, amuse himself by dragging pencils or pen-holders to the edge of the desk, and pushing them off. With his head tipped on one side, he would watch the fall of the articles, his little bright eyes fairly twinkling with mischief and pleasure.

It was when the story of Toby Tyler was being written that Bobby appeared to settle down into a grave and sedate citizen, acting very much as if he thought he was aiding in the work. He would sit quietly on the pen rack until the book was opened and the writing begun; then he would hop down on the open page, watching every movement of the pen, singing over and over again two or three soft notes, as if giving advice, only stepping from the book when it was necessary to turn the pages. In this manner Bobby would pass hour after hour, until he thought he had been neglected too long, when he would peck and strike at the pen, as much as to say that it was time he was attended to. Then he would fly back and forth from the desk to the closet where his grapes were, calling loudly for his favorite fruit. From one end to the other of the table he would roll the grapes, after eating all he wanted, almost as if he were having a regular game at ball.

After having been thus feasted and amused, Bobby would take up his position on the book again, standing there on one leg until he was so sleepy that he could hardly keep erect, but never attempting to go to bed until the book was closed. Of the many pages of manuscript that made up the story of Toby, there certainly were not more than four or five on which he had not perched somewhat after the fashion of general assistant; and his life was ended very shortly after his work on the story was done.

In November, at about the same time Toby's story was begun in Young People, little Bobby disappeared. All search for him was vain, and we grieved sorely for him, believing some strange cat had devoured him. Each one in the house missed the poor little fellow almost as much as if he had been a child, and for many days Bobby's perch on the desk, without its bright-eyed occupant, made the room seem too lonely for work.

A few weeks ago the heavy draperies that had been hanging at the windows were taken down to give place to lighter ones for the summer; and there, far up, at one corner, under the cornice, with his feet caught in the ravelled edges of the lace curtains, was the body of poor Bobby. He had probably crept up there in search of flies, been imprisoned by the threads, and died, the heavy covering over him preventing his cries from being heard.

It was a sad ending to the little life which made that home bright, whose walls have never echoed to the music of childish voices and the patter of tiny feet.