A Sudden Friendship 95 



and by a fly came by and lighted near him. He darted at it, missed it, 

 and returned to his perch. He was hungry, and I am given to hospi- 

 tality where birds are concerned, so I looked about for proper food. 

 Catching a fly upon the window, I laid it upon the outside of my butter- 

 fly net — always near at hand — and held it up by the long handle, very 

 cautiously and slowly, towards the bird. When it was within his reach I 

 waited, silent and breathless. You bird people know the feeling, that 

 suspense, that mingling of hope and fear, when one is trying to win the 

 shy heart of a bird. I need not have been afraid. He was not; a 

 glance at the fly, then one at me, and he reached out his little bill and 

 took the food. I drew a long breath of relief. Then I repeated the 

 process. Again and again I caught a fly and held it up for my little 

 friend. For he was a friend, even then, though I did not know how 

 close a friend until later. At last, as I was standing at my window 

 watching for another morsel for my guest, there was a flutter of wings, 

 a breath of air on my cheek, and the jewel of a bird, a sapphire surely, 

 was on my shoulder. I scarcely breathed or moved. But, again, I need 

 not have feared. Turning his pretty head, he looked at me with his 

 bright, soft eyes, then touched my cheek with his bill. 



He was mine; I had won him. Whatever had been his old world, 

 his old friends, he had waked up into a new life, and I was a part of it; 

 the best part of it, I think, for from that minute he was a friend and 

 lover. In all my life I have never had so close a bird friend ; he took 

 food from my hands, he nestled against my cheek and sat upon my 

 shoulder. At first I was very cautious, for fear of frightening him, but 

 I soon found there was no danger. So I held him gently in my hand 

 and examined the plumage; the blue feathers with a sort of whitish, 

 misty bloom on them, the yellowish patch on the back almost hidden 

 until I parted the outer feathers to see it, the creamy breast with just 

 the suggestion of a brownish band across it, and the white spots on tail 

 feathers. I am sure few, if any, lovers of birds ever had such oppor- 

 tunity of studying closely the living Parula. I grew bolder as I saw his 

 boldness, and tried little experiments with my new friend. I shook him 

 from my hand, pushed him gently away from me, refused him food or 

 caresses; but he came back to me, pecked my hands and face, pulled at 

 my hair with his beak, crept into my half-shut hand and nestled there. 

 All that soft, warm afternoon we were together and in closest intimacy. 



As the sun went down across the Halifax river, but before it had 

 disappeared from sight, the bird was suddenly missing. For some min- 

 utes I searched for him in vain. At last I found him. There was a 

 pot of English Ivy on one end of my mantel. On the earth in the 

 flower-pot under the sheltering ivy leaves was a little ball of blue down, 

 — my visitor with his head tucked under his wing, asleep. It was bed- 



