, in his rough voice; 'you've got a
bird in your show which I've got to have. It's the Californy golden
pigin. It's a sort o' mine anyhow--mine's a show of Californy critters,
and nothing else.'

'You can't have _that_, Adams,' said Mr. Barnum. ' That's the greatest
curiosity in the known world. Nothing like it--unique.'

'Sha--a--aw!' was the reply. 'Stuff! Don't run more o' that con-tusive
stuff on me. _Rare!!_ here he winked; '_why, I've seen them yallar
pigeons, three and four hundred in a flock_, up round Los Angeles and
Cabeza del Diablo, and them places. The miners find where the gold is,
by 'em.'

'Why didn't you bring some on with you?' inquired Barnum.

'Fact was, they were so everlastin' common that it didn't seem to me
they were worth bringin'. Why, you can git a dozen of 'em any day in
'Frisco.'

With much feigned reluctance Barnum yielded his pigeon up to the
California show, and all went well--for a time.

Perhaps two weeks had elapsed, when Old Adams burst into the office,
excited.

'Barnum!' he cried, 'you infarnal old humbug--that California golden
pigin is a darned swindle! It's painted!'

'Why, how you talk!' replied Barnum. 'Humbug, indeed! Haven't you seen
golden pigeons, three and four hundred in a flock, in California?'

'It's painted and gilded, I tell you!' cried Adams. 'The color is all
coming off the edges of the wings, and its tail is 'most rubbed white!'

'The idea!' replied Barnum, mildly, but with a droll, merry light in his
eyes. 'You know you can send out to the San Francisco market any day and
get a dozen!'

That is the legend of Ye Golden Pigeon. No--hold on; it is told in the
Museum that one day a lady charged Mr. Barnum with having had his Angel
Fish artificially colored.

'Indigo,' she remarked.

But the golden pigeon captivated her, and she implored Mr. B. for one of
its eggs. He evaded the request on the ground that the 'sect' to which
the pigeon belonged was not of the egg-laying kind.

So we should think. Apropos of the Angel Fish, the CONTINENTAL heard a
lady remark lately that they were well named, and lovely enough to have
been caught in the ponds of paradise. 'They certainly must be the kind,'
she added, 'which they fish for with golden hooks.'

* * * * *

And ah! the merry summer-tide!' as a Minnisinger and many another singer
have sung. As we write, summer is losing its last traces in the
peach-time of September. Bartlet