OUR OLD-GARDEN BIRDS. 137 



sian cuckoo is said by the peasants of that country 

 to be the soul of an unbaptized infant. The peasants 

 hold out some hope for it, but our cuckoo is too un- 

 canny a bird for us to believe that it will ever return 

 to happier conditions. 



" I have flowers from April to the end of fall," said 

 Aunt Peggy, when 

 she returned, " and 

 I don't have no 

 favorites ; they're 

 all good enough for me ; 

 but what I like best, if 

 there is any choice, is 

 them I remember the longest 

 I'm just young again when the 

 yellow rose comes out in May." 

 As she spoke, a little house- 

 wren filled the garden with melody, 

 and I fancied that auntie thought of 

 the days when she was young, she had 

 such a far-off look while the bird was 

 singing. 



" Shop!" rang out on the perfume-laden 



j A ^_ T T House-wren. 



air, and Aunt Peggy was gone. It was a 

 hot August day and everybody was thirsty, so I was 

 again alone. Looking about me, I saw the shadow 

 of the cuckoo fall across the path, and marking the 

 direction taken by the bird, my eyes fell on a wren's 

 mossy mansion near the kitchen door. The cuckoo 

 was forgotten. Above the wren's home on the low 

 eaves was a box of house-leek that drooped grace- 



12* 



