io8 FEATHERED FRIENDS. 



Presently I might have exclaimed with Edgar Allan 

 Poe, "Surely that is something tapping 1" for "Rat, 

 tat, tat, tat, tatl" came very distinctly from the hat- 

 rack. The other occupants of the carriage looked up, 

 and then glanced at each other, and one lady, evidently 

 of a nervous temperament, gave a slight start, and 

 shrieked in a subdued key. "Oh my I what is that?" 

 but "Grip" did not reply, while I of course took no 

 notice, but continued to read my paper as if no sound 

 had reached my ear. 



Presently, however, the bird recommenced knocking, 

 and someone exclaimed. "It's a boy in the next 

 compartment," an explanation that appeared to satisfy 

 my fellow-travellers, for they made no further remark, 

 although the "tapping" was continued, at intervals, 

 until the train reached Victoria, where, taking possession 

 of my box, I got out to change carnages, reaching 

 home in due course, and not, on the whole, sorry to 

 be rid, I do not mean of "Grip", but of her travelling 

 conveyance, which was decidedly heavy as well as in- 

 convenient to carry under one's arm from its size, for 

 I had to walk some distance from the station to my 

 house. 



At home, at last, I carried my new acquisition into 

 the wash-house and opened the box, when "Grip" 

 immediately hopped out with an interrogative croak, 

 flapped her wings, and perched on the mangle, where 

 she again shook herself and looked round with an air 



