136 Etnuntu of tifte ^vttn 



of angels ? This was no bird, but a spirit, 

 the soul of some departed saint, praying 

 in the bush. It was too pure for earth, 

 too deep for words, and was the mirage 

 of man's thought of God, his holy of 

 holies. At a touch, a gross suggestion, 

 it would vanish like the mists of morn- 

 ing. 



Then there was a rustle and a flutter 

 in the bush, and the leaves parted to dis- 

 close the gray coat of a catbird, who bal- 

 anced himself upon a slender twig and 

 eyed me curiously. 



" Mew-e-e Pew-e-e, Mew-e-e,'' he 

 called derisively. *' Mew-e-e, Pew-e-e,'' 

 again and again, as though he thought 

 the joke too good to pass lightly by, and 

 would din it into my cranium that he 

 was just an ordinary catbird. Mew-e-e, 

 Mew-e-e, Pew-e-e. 



