d how
she had watched it day after day flying back and forth in the forest,
its yellow breast flashing among the green leaves. It had a long golden
bill, and its tail was black as jet; and its wings were the softest gray
in the world with a feather of jet in either one. Its song was the
clearest, the highest, the purest of all the bird songs in the forest.
It was a wonderful bird, and she wanted it for her own.

Then she told the children how she had set traps for it, and how it had
escaped every time. But at last she had made a dear little cage, all
woven of spring flowers and leaves, and put food in it. Still the bird
escaped, pulling the food out with its long bill and never getting
inside the door. And finally she told them how she did capture that
wild, shy bird by learning its song and singing it sitting in her
tree-house with the window open, until the bird heard and came flying in
wonder to find what other bird was calling it. Then she had closed the
window and the bird was hers. It hung now in the pretty cage in her
prettiest room, and sometimes sang in the middle of the night.

Eric liked the story, and all the better because it was a true story.
And the Beautiful Wicked Witch said he could see the bird himself if he
would come to her house. He could stroke its bright breast, and it would
sing perhaps. Then there were other things caged in her house, cunning
little animals, and some big ones, worth any boy's seeing.

But Ivra answered for Eric, shaking her head hard. "No, no. Mother
doesn't want us to visit you."

But Eric said, "May I open the cage door and the window and see the bird
flash away? I should like that."

"No. Well, perhaps," said the Beautiful Wicked Witch. "Will you come
then?"

"I can't, I suppose, if Mother Helma doesn't want me to. Are you sure
she doesn't, Ivra?"

Ivra was sure.

The Beautiful Wicked Witch laughed then. "Of course, if you _tell_ her
she won't let you come. But if you came without telling, how could she
mind?"

"That sounds true,--but someway it can't be," said Ivra. And that seemed
to end it.

But after a little the Beautiful Wicked Witch began another story. This
one was about a frock she had made, a wonderful thing all of cobwebs and
violet petals, with tiniest rosebuds around the neck. If Ivra were to
slip that frock over her head, and unbraid her funny little pigtails,
she would look as pretty as any fairy in the world.

Ivra was not too young to want to