CHAPTER IV. 
MY HUMMING BIKDS. 
As a child, I always liad a passion for the humming bird. 
It ever caused a thrill of delight when one of these glittering 
creatures, with its soft hum of flight, came out of repose all 
suddenly — hanging, a sapphire stilled upon the air — ^for here 
no wings are seen, — as, like a quick, bright thought, it darts, 
is still, and then away ! 
The mystery of " whence it cometh, and whither it goeth," 
was a lovely and exciting one to me. How and where could 
a thing so delicate live in a rough, wintry world like this ? 
How could the glory of its burnished plumes remain un- 
dimmed, that it thus shot forth arrows of light into my eyes, 
while all other things seemed slowly fading ? 
Where could it renew its splendors ? In what far bath 
of gems dissolved, dipping, come forth mailed in its varied 
shine ? How could those tiny wings, whose soul-like motion 
no mortal eye can follow, bear the frail sprite through beat- 
ing tempests that are hurling the albatross, with mighty pin- 
ions, prone upon the wave ; or that dash the sea-eagie, 
shrieking, against its eyrie-cliff ? How speeds it straight and 
safe — ^the gem-arrow of the elfs ? 
Could it be that the tiny birds lived only on the nectar of 
flowers ? It seemed, surely, the fitting food for beauty so 
ethereal. But, then, it removed them so far from things of 
the earth, earthy — their home must surely be fairyland, and 
they coursers of the wind for Ariel to " put a girdle round 
