Pigeons. 113 



my bird I call her always 'my 

 bird' she ate from my hand, as 

 though she'd known me always. 

 We've been kind of friends ever 

 since." 



Just then the long wings were 

 expanded, and the Pigeon flew off 

 in circles, striking the air with her 

 resounding pinions as she wheeled, 

 and rose, and stooped, and rose 

 again, until finally she disappeared 

 behind the angles of the great 

 cathedral. 



"She will come again; oh yes !" 

 the boy murmured. And, eh, but 

 it must be fine to go like that ! " 



I looked at the helpless little 

 body. Others with far less reason 

 have longed, as he was longing, for 

 " the wings of a Dove." But there 

 was more of pleasure than of pain 

 on the white pinched face just then. 



Our Father, of Whose gift are 

 the birds of the air, makes the 

 simplest things His messengers of 



