alifornia pheasant, which he chased into a
coyote-hole and captured. Knowing how fond I am of pets, he brought it
home and proposed that I should try to tame it. Now, from earliest
childhood I have resolutely refused to keep _wild_ birds, and when I
have had them given to me (which has happened several times in this
country,--young bluebirds, etc.), I have invariably set them free, and
I proposed doing the same with the pretty pheasant, but as they are the
most delicately exquisite in flavor of all game, F. said that if I did
not wish to keep it he would wring its neck and have it served up for
dinner. With the cruelty of kindness--often more disastrous than that
of real malice--I shrank from having it killed, and consented to let it
run about the cabin.

It was a beautiful bird, a little larger than the domestic hen. Its
slender neck, which it curved with haughty elegance, was tinted with
various shades of a shining steel color. The large, bright eye glanced
with the prettiest shyness at its captors, and the cluster of feathers
forming its tail drooped with the rare grace of an ostrich-plume. The
colors of the body were of a subdued brilliancy, reminding one of a
rich but somber mosaic.

As it seemed very quiet, I really believed that in time we should be
able to tame it. Still, it _would_ remain constantly under the sofa or
bedstead. So F. concluded to place it in a cage for a few hours of each
day, in order that it might become gradually accustomed to our
presence. This was done, the bird appearing as well as ever, and after
closing the door of its temporary prison one day I left it and returned
to my seat by the fire. In less than two minutes afterwards, a slight
struggle in the cage attracted my attention. I ran hastily back, and
you may imagine my distress when I found the beautiful pheasant lying
lifeless upon the ground. It never breathed or showed the faintest sign
of life afterwards.

You may laugh at me if you please, but I firmly believe that it died of
homesickness. What wonder that the free, beautiful, happy creature of
God, torn from the sight of the broad blue sky, the smiling river, and
the fresh, fragrant fir-trees of its mountain-home, and shut up in a
dark, gloomy cabin, should have broken in twain its haughty little
heart? Yes, you may laugh, call me sentimental, etc., but I shall never
forgive myself for having killed, by inches, in my selfish and cruel
kindness, that pretty creature.

Many pe