us, on these
occasions, to see the care with which she examined the door of his cage,
to be sure that he really could not get out, and the satisfied air with
which she finally went home; even then she ate at the point of the
bayonet, as it were, he raging from side to side of his cage, as near
to her as he could get, and scolding furiously. This could not go on
forever, and the most watchful care was not able always to protect her
without making prisoner of one. It was the middle of winter, and she
could not be set free; but if I had suspected how far his tyranny would
go, I should have removed one of them to another room. To my deep
sorrow, I found her dead one morning, and her body so thin I was sure
she had been worried to death.

[Sidenote: _A BAD TEMPER._]

Naturally, I did not love the brutal bird who had teased another out of
her life, but I certainly looked for an improvement in his temper now
that he had no one to vex his sight. I looked in vain. He was more
savage, more of a tramp and poacher, more of a scold, than ever. He even
went so far as to huff at the sparrows outside the window. He never
entered into the feelings of his neighbors in any way; when every other
bird in the room was excited, alarmed, or disturbed, he alone remained
perfectly unconcerned, exactly as if he did not see them.

During the latter part of that winter I was interested to see a curious
provision of nature for an emergency. The oriole had a serious affection
of one hind-toe, which swelled, turned white, and was evidently so
painful to use that he alighted on the other foot, holding this one up.
After a few days I noticed him using his foot again; there was a hind
toe all well, and the disabled one above the new one, quite out of
harm's way. It looked as if it were going to fall off, and I did not
know but the universal Mother had provided a new toe; but on close
examination I found that one of the three front toes had turned back to
take the place of the useless member. Thus relieved, it became well, the
front toe returned to its proper place, and the bird was all right
again.

Now spring came on, and the oriole began to sing, strange, half-choking
sounds at first, interspersed with his harshest notes, as if he were
forced to sing by the season, but was resolved that no one should enjoy
it as music, and so spoiled it by these interpolations. I found
afterwards, however, on studying his wild relatives, that this is their
customa