bitter, salt spray vexed him,
and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and
icebergs gleamed upon the horizon.

"The sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become
deeply attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had
scarcely fretted after his beloved wood. But with every hour of the
voyage, home-sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went
back to the nest, and the pine-top, and the old home. When one sleeps
soundly, it is seldom that one remembers one's dreams; but when one is
apt to be roused by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a
fog-whistle, or the scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper,
and the visions of the night have a strange reality, and are easily
recalled. And now the thrush always dreamt of home.

"One day he was hung outside. It was not a very fine day, but he looked
drooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. His
heart was sore with home-sickness, and he watched the sea-birds
skimming up and down with envious eyes. It seemed all very well for
poor men, who hadn't so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to
build lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish,
and wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy
steam-engines--and to endure it all. But for him, who could fly over a
hundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing
outside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his,
which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars.
As he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the
wires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel
righted, the cage-door swung slowly open.

"At this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a
gleaming sea bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a
wave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much.
With one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage,
spread his wings, and followed him.

"When the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take
the cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed.

"'The canary died last voyage,' he said, sadly. 'The cage was bought on
a Friday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to Mother;
but the old lady says there's no such thing as luck, and she's
Bible-learned, if ever a woman was. "That's very tr