ught she was going to die
after the winter was gone. And she kept wishing the birds would come
back, 'cause she thought she'd die before they comed. But at last one
morning she heard a little squeaking--no I don't mean squeaking--I mean
chirping, just outside her window, and she called the servants, and told
them she was sure her bird had come back, and they must catch it. And
her nurse catched it some way, and brought it to her, and what do you
think? when she looked under its wing, there was the weeny ribbon she
had tied. It was the very same bird. Wasn't it clever to know to come
back to the very same _window_ even? It's quite true, Pierson knowed the
girl."

"And did she die?" I asked Tom.

"Oh no; she was so glad the bird had come back, that she jumped out of
bed, and got quite well that very minute."

"That very minute, Tom," I said; "she couldn't get well all in a
minute."

"Oh, but she just did; and if you don't believe it, you needn't. Pierson
knowed her. _I_ think it's a very nice story, not frightening at all."

"Yes, it's very nice," I said. "Thank you, Tom. Now, Racey, it's your
turn."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

TOAST FOR TEA.

"Did you hear the children say.
Life is rather out of tune?"

"Mine's very stupid," said Racey.

"Never mind, I dare say it'll be very nice," said Tom and I
encouragingly.

"It's about a fly," said Racey. "It was a fly that lived in a little
house down in the corner of a window, and when it was a fine day it
comed out and walked about the glass, and when it was a bad day it
stayed in its bed. And one day when it was walking about the glass there
was a little boy standing there and he catched the fly, and he thought
he'd pull off its wings, 'cause then it couldn't get away--that was
dedfully naughty, wasn't it?--and he was just going to pull off its
wings when some one came behind him and lifted him up by his arms and
said in a' awful _booing_ way--like a giant, you know--'If you pull
off flies' wings, I'll pull off your arms,' and then he felt his arms
tugged so, that he thought they'd come off, and he cried out--'Oh
please, please, I won't pull off flies' wings if you'll let me go.' And
then he was let go; but when he turned round he couldn't see
anybody--wasn't it queer?--only the fly was very glad, and he never
tried to hurt flies any more."

"But who was it that pulled the boy's arms?" said Tom, whose interest
had increased as the story went