elt it
preferable that I should be the survivor.

A skillful taxidermist has preserved as much of Kizzie as possible for
me, and he now adorns the parlor mantel, a weak, mute reminder of three
weeks of anxiety.

And his parents--

The peahen died suddenly and mysteriously. There was no apparent reason
for her demise, but the autopsy, which revealed a large and irregular
fragment of window glass lodged in her gizzard, proved that she was a
victim of Beauty's vanity. A friend who was present said, as he tenderly
held the glass between thumb and finger: "It is now easy to see through
the cause of her death; under the circumstances, it would be idle to
speak of it as pane-less!" Beauty had never seemed very devoted to her,
but he mourned her long and sincerely. Now that she had gone he
appreciated her meek adoration, her altruistic devotion.

Another touch like human nature.

And when, after a decent period of mourning, another spouse was secured
for him he refused to notice her and wandered solitary and sad to a
neighbor's fields. The new madam was not allowed to share the high roost
on the elm. She was obliged to seek a less elevated and airy dormitory.
His voice, always distressingly harsh, was now so awful that it was
fascinating. The notes seemed cracked by grief or illness. At last,
growing feebler, he succumbed to some wasting malady and no longer
strutted about in brilliant pre-eminence or came to the piazza calling
imperiously for dainties, but rested for hours in some quiet corner. The
physician who was called in prescribed for his liver. He showed
symptoms of poisoning, and I began to fear that in his visit to a
neighbor's potato fields he had indulged in Paris green, possibly with
suicidal intent.

There was something heroic in his way of dying. No moans, no cries; just
a dignified endurance. From the western window of the shed chamber where
he lay he could see the multitude of fowls below, in the yards where he
had so lately reigned supreme. Occasionally, with a heroic effort, he
would get on his legs and gaze wistfully on the lively crowd so
unmindful of his wretchedness, then sink back exhausted, reminding me of
some grand old monarch, statesman, or warrior looking for the last time
on the scenes of his former triumphs. I should have named him Socrates.
At last he was carried to a cool resting place in the deep grass,
covered with pink mosquito netting, and one kind friend after another
fanned him and