333 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



To-day a tree close to the house stands out 

 clearly. I see it in its wealth of golden blossom. 

 Myriads of tiny black and gold birds clamber 

 through the mass of bloom, searching every fold 

 in each flower with their slender, pointed bills; 

 they are the honey-creepers, the rivals of the hum- 

 ming-birds. To this same tree these jewels flock, 

 and it is difficult to say if this emerald-green one 

 with the exaggerated forked tail, the " doctor bird," 

 or that amethystine creature of larger size, the 

 " mango," or yet that golden dwarf, scarcely larger 

 than a bumblebee, is the greater marvel. 



Look out to the sea and perhaps a water-spout 

 towers from its surface toward the zenith. One 

 afternoon during our stay, seven of these weird 

 funnel-like towers of liquid proceeded in stately 

 and slow procession down the coast, hidden finally 

 by a distant headland. Among such neighbors 

 the tropic bird, not at all awed, continued his 

 aerial pilgrimage — a bird of grace in form and 

 motion, whose blushing silvery coat contrasts 

 with the jet-black feathers in wing and shoulder, 

 and whose long attenuated tail seems a prodigal 

 decoration to one already so well endowed. 



As the time for leaving drew near, Mrs. Scott 

 was beset by our black neighbors, who begged her 

 to take a son or daughter to the United States. 

 " Please, good kind missis, or please, dear sweet 

 missis, do take my pick'ny." All ages and sizes 



