A LITTLE BIRD THAT DIED 9 



The New Orleans plantation where he dwelt was full 

 of birds; in the morning the dewy air was filled with 

 song. There were joyous wings in the gray moss of the 

 glistening green leaves of the magnolias. Gem-like hum- 

 ming-birds flitted among the trumpet-creepers, and hung 

 pendent from the orange and crimson flowers. The song 

 of the mocking-bird thrilled him as it floated through the 

 regions of the air. He followed it as if it were a celestial 

 being; he heard in it an expression of nature that came 

 from the benevolent heart of the Omniscient. 



"Hush! His the mocking-bird/ 7 he may have said to 

 those around him. " Why should we prattle when a true 

 poet was singing as at the very gate of heaven? " 



He had a passion for painting birds. His family de- 

 lighted to follow his development in this art. 



One day he found a live bird of beautiful plumage, 

 and brought it gently to his room with a palpitating heart. 

 The lovely creature charmed him, and he dreamed of it 

 day by day. As he studied it the bird grew more beau- 

 tiful, and he loved it more and more. He awoke early 

 to visit its cage; he fed it often. But the thought of the 

 bird seemed far away among the magnolias or in the 

 rice and cotton fields. Her mate may have been there. 

 The close room and the loving boy were not the open 

 air, the blue, sun-flaming sky, or the brother and sister 

 birds of flower-haunted Louisiana. The little bird pined 

 away notwithstanding the boy's love and care. 



