outstretched as if beckoning to the plumy sprays above her Head.
"Isn't it queer how such things will happen when if I'd been trying to
make poetry in my dairy I couldn't have thought of those words for an
hour? I guess it was the lilacs that did it. Oh, you are so beautiful!
You'd make anything rhyme, wouldn't you? What is it that gives you your
sweetness? I wish you could tell me the secret. Oh, you lovely lilacs,
growing up so high; swinging in the sunshine--" Again her made-up words
came to a sudden end, and she stood motionless, her head cocked to one
side, listening intently to a brilliant trill of melody from the other
side of the hedge.

"There goes my bird again! Saint John says it must be a canary which
b'longs to the stone house that owns these lilacs, but I don't b'lieve
it would sing like that if it was shut up in a cage."

She held her breath again to harken to the music, then puckered her lips
and mocked its song. The feathered musician broke off in the midst of
his rhapsody, surprised at the strange echo of his own notes. There was
a moment of silence; then he began again, and once more Peace mimicked
the warbler. This time there was a stir on the other side of the bushes,
and the purple-tasseled branches were cautiously parted where the
foliage was thinnest, but Peace was too much absorbed in watching the
topmost boughs--for the music seemed to come from overhead somewhere--to
see the startled eyes looking at her through the tangle of leaves and
blossoms. All unconscious of her hidden audience, she joyously trilled
the canary bird's chorus.

Then miracle of miracles--or so it seemed to Peace--there was a whir of
wings, and a bright-eyed, yellow-coated, saucy, little bird perched on a
twig just above her head. Peace gasped and was silent.

The bird chirped a note of defiance and hopped to the branch below.
Peace advanced a cautious step; the canary did not retreat, but tipped
its dainty head sidewise and eyed the child curiously. A small brown
hand shot out unexpectedly, dexterously, and the yellow songster found
itself a helpless prisoner in the child's tight grasp.

Peace was almost as surprised as the bird. She had not really thought to
capture the creature so easily, and to find it in her hand sent a thrill
of delight through her whole being. She snuggled it close in her neck
and crooned:

"You little darling! Saint John was right, you _are_ a canary! But I was
right, too. You ain't caged. I'm