ud-noted song.

A few days later I heard and saw him again. He was not so restless, and
his song was low-toned and had a rich and more pleasant refrain. His
notes were of endless and individual variety.

When he ceased singing I heard an incessant warble of sweet, though
feeble, notes and, looking above my head, saw the composer, his bride,
dressed in olive and gold, weaving on the pendulous nest of moss and
horse hair, near the tips of the overhanging limb. I then knew why his
song had changed and understood the happy warble of the busy weaver.

They were so gaily colored, so happily situated, their home so far from
harm, they were so exclusive, that I called the pair the little king and
queen.

Bright pair of boundless wing and sweet song, did you first meet here?
You did not come together. How did the king mark the way for his queen?
Have you searched all the way from Panama, your winter home, for this
old elm, to celebrate your bird marriage, pass your honeymoon and find
much joy in nest-building and rearing a family? Do you know tears and
night and nothingness? Or have you found and eaten of the fruit of the
trees of life and eternal love?

In about three weeks all song ceased. They made incessant trips to the
old orchard and returned with caterpillars to feed five cavernous
yellow-throated mouths.

One warm sultry afternoon in June I sat in my old place by the
springhouse, reading Story's Equity Jurisprudence and, closing the
book, enjoyed the ease and peace of the lazy, if not the righteous.

I slept; and my mind jumbling the springhouse, the orioles, the dead boy
and his strange tale, whispered that my little king and queen of the
hanging nest were Santa and Nefert. Thereafter I called them as the
dream had said.

The little nestlings grew apace and the nest made tight quarters. One,
seeking room and adventure, climbed out and perched upon a twig. Growing
careless or sleepy, or caught by a squall, he half flew, half fell from
his perch.

The big black cat, who every week ate his weight in young birds, pounced
upon the unfortunate one, who let out a squawk of terror.

Santa darted into the face of the cat with such fierce force as to
rescue the baby bird, but lost his own life by his brave rashness.

Before the plumage of white, black and old gold had been marred I drove
the cat away and picked up the little dead king.

In the corner of the old orchard, hedged about by a stone fence overhung
with m