"Now, really," cried Marion, taking Elsie's hand, "you know I couldn't think of such a mean joke. I forgot you were from the North. You seem so sweet and homelike. He really does sing that way. You will hear him in the morning, bright and early, 'Free-nigger! Free-nigger! Free-nigger!' just as plain as I'm saying it."
"And did you learn to find all these birds' nests by yourself?"
"Papa taught me. I've got some jay-birds and some cat-birds so gentle they hop right down at my feet. Some people hate jay-birds. But I like them, they seem to be having such a fine time and enjoy life so. You don't mind jay-birds, do you?"
"I love every bird that flies."
"Except hawks and owls and buzzards"
"Well, I've seen so few I can't say I've anything particular against them."
"Yes, they eat chickens—except the buzzards, and they're so ugly and filthy. Now, I've a chicken to show you—please don't let Aunt Cindy—she's to be your cook—please don't let her kill him—he's crippled—has something the matter with his foot. He was born that way. Everybody wanted to kill him, but I wouldn't let them. I've had an awful time raising him, but he's all right now."
Marion lifted a box and showed her the lame pet, softly clucking his protest against the disturbance of his rest.
"I'll take good care of him, never fear," said Elsie, with a tremor in her voice.
"And I have a queer little black cat I wanted to show you, but he's gone off somewhere. I'd take him with
