es from Venice, in which Java sparrows
carry on their ceaseless love-making, billing and cooing for hours and
hours, as if all life to them was an interminable honeymoon. There is
also a great white parrot, who, perched in a brass ring, mutters and
mutters to himself for hours, and hums snatches of tunes, and calls
imaginary dogs and visionary cats; and when he sees a certain manly form
coming up the garden-walk is wont to cry out in a miserable mockery of
tenderness, "Oh, my darling! I'm _so_ glad to see you!" and then smack
his bill as near like a kiss as he can, and chuckle and laugh and turn
somersaults, and otherwise disport himself as parrots do when they are
pleased.

And while all this is going on there comes running out of the house a
pretty little figure in a fresh muslin dress and with outstretched arms;
and, strangely enough, she says just what Polly has said, and there is a
kiss that is no imitation, and a responsive kiss that fairly puts Polly
to shame; but the bird chuckles and laughs nevertheless.

When all this takes place--and it is no more of an event than the daily
home-coming of our good neighbor and dear friend Arthur Sterling, Esq.,
barrister-at-law,--when this home-coming takes place, all the birds at
The Nest break forth into a merrier song--get so enthusiastic in their
pipings that you'd think, to hear them, that they would split their
throats; and still gladder and sweeter and merrier than their song is
the voice of our dear neighbor's wife, Mistress May Sterling, who pours
forth, in a ceaseless chattering song, a whole day's accumulation of
love--yes indeed, a whole lifetime's accumulation; and while the
rippling flow goes on their two fond hearts sing louder with joy than
any birds would ever dare to think of singing.

How they love the birds! And why not? Since but for a little bird they
would not have been together in this sweet little nest, outbilling and
outcooing the Java sparrows, dwelling in the land of Love's young dream,
in the sunshine of each other's affection, and ready to declare upon
oath that there is no night in their lives that isn't radiant with the
sheen of the honeymoon.

And now I'll tell you the story of a little bird as Mistress May
Sterling told it to me one evening while her Arthur and I smoked our
cigars in the moonlight on The Nest's piazza. No: on the whole, Mistress
Sterling shall tell the story herself: she tells it much better than I
can.

"Why, yes," she