greeted with a low, murmuring note of affection never heard in the
daytime.

It was with deep concern that I watched Birdie's declining strength;
there was no disease, only weakness, and at last appetite failed, but
even then he would take whatever I offered him and hold it in his beak
as if to show that even to the last he would try to please me as far as
he could, but he wanted nothing but the quiet rest which came at length,
and dear little Birdie is now only a cherished memory of true
friendship.

[Illustration: ZOeE, THE NUTHATCH.]

ZOeE, THE NUTHATCH.

A visit to a bird-dealer's shop always awakens a deep feeling of pity in
my mind as I look at the unhappy, flutter-little captives, and think of
the breezy hill-sides and pleasant lanes from which they came, to be
shut up in cages a few inches square, with but little light, a stifling
atmosphere, strange diet, and no means of washing their ruffled feathers
or stretching their wings in flight. Truly, they are in evil case, and
no wonder so many die off within a few days of their capture! In some
places they are better cared for than in others, but in most bird-shops
dirt and misery seem to prevail amongst the tenants of the cages.

One such place I have often visited for the sake of meeting with live
curios. The owner was a kind-hearted woman, and did not intentionally
ill-treat her live-stock; but the shop was very dark and dirty, and one
could but wonder how anything contrived to live in such close, stivy
air. On going in one day, I nearly walked over a large, pensive-looking
duckling which stood in the middle of the shop. His brother had been
considered suitable for the adornment of a table-lamp with a
looking-glass stand, on which a bright yellow duckling was placed, as if
swimming on water; this bird, having some darker markings, was of no use
for that purpose and had been allowed to live. He had a strange,
old-fashioned look, and gave one the impression that he was already
tired of life and felt bored. A lark on its little piece of turf,
fluttering and looking up for a glimpse of blue sky; a dejected robin,
with no tail to speak of, and sundry other sad-looking specimens met my
pitying gaze, and I suppose I had caught their sorrowful expression,
for I was startled by a sharp voice near me, saying, "What's the
matter?" I turned to reply, and found the inquiry was made by a grey
parrot, who introduced himself as "Pretty Poll," and was ready to make