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96 Bird -Lore time and he had retired, goinjj; to sleep as peacefully, as trustingly as if in his own nest among the hanging moss. I could not leave him there, for I wanted to open my window before I left the room for the evening, so I made a cosy bed -room of my wicker scrap -basket and placed him in it. As I took him out of bed very gently he made a faint, protesting, drowsy little noise, a chirp or peep; the only sound I ever heard him utter. When I came upstairs two or three hours later, I looked in at my little friend and found him fast asleep. But at dawn he was awake and stirring. I uncovered the basket and he at once sprang toward me, darting upward, lighting upon my clothing and nest- ling against my neck. He had not forgotten me. But I had forgotten that the window was open. Before 1 remembered, the bird flew to it, lighted upon the sill and looked out through the open slats of the shut- ters. The air came softly in, full of the breath of flowers, and birds were singing just outside. Had I lost him? No; he listened, looked, then turned away and flew to my shoulder. He was a very silent lover, but 1 understood him. At the breakfast table I talked about my new friend, and, of course, all wished to see him. So I brought him down stairs, and exhibited him in the large front hall. He stood upon my outstretched hand and looked about him, took the flies I offered, pecked at my cheek, my fingers, but took no notice at all of the people who gathered around him. He and I were alone together in this new life, and he was con- tent. Now came the question as to what I should do with the bird. It was scarcely a question; 1 knew what I ought to do, what I must do. I could not keep him. We were leaving Ormond ne.xt day, and I could not carry this active, restless, insect -eating warbler on my travels, caged and unhappy; but it was a little hard to let him go. I fed him till he would eat no more. I smoothed the blue feathers, looked into the soft, dark eyes and perhaps said a few foolish good-by words he could not understand. Then I took him out into the sunshine, among the trees and flowers and but- terflies, and tossed him lightly into the air towards liberty. He fluttered there an instant, then darted towards me and settled upon my shoulder. Again and again this was repeated. He would not leave me. I saw that I must treat him as one sometimes treats a clinging child : I must steal away stealthily so that he would not find me. So I took him away from the house, up the road to a hammock where the trees grew thickly and where there were many birds, and some Parulas like himself. 1 placed him upon a branch among the leaves, his head turned away from me, then tried to steal quickly away unseen. In an instant he was on my shoulder. Three times I tried this, with the same result. But the fourth time it was successful. As he reached out toward a fly-