to
his spoon as if nothing had happened; instantly we closed our windows,
and had him secure once more.

At another time I was going to ride to the Atlantic House, about a mile
from my boarding-place. I left all secure, as I supposed, at home. While
gathering moss on the walls there, I was surprised by a little green
humming-bird flying familiarly right towards my face, and humming above
my head. I called out, "Here is Hum's very brother." But, on returning
home, I saw that the door of the room was open, and Hum was gone. Now
certainly we gave him up for lost. I sat down to painting, and in a few
minutes in flew Hum, and settled on the edge of my tumbler in a social,
confidential way, which seemed to say, "O, you've got back then." After
taking his usual drink of sugar and water, he began to fly about the
ceiling as usual, and we gladly shut him in.

When our five weeks at the seaside were up, and it was time to go home,
we had great questionings what was to be done with Hum. To get him home
with us was our desire,--but who ever heard of a humming-bird travelling
by railroad? Great were the consultings; a little basket of Indian work
was filled up with cambric handkerchiefs, and a bottle of sugar and
water provided, and we started with him for a day's journey. When we
arrived at night, the first care was to see what had become of Hum, who
had not been looked at since we fed him with sugar and water in Boston.
We found him alive and well, but so dead asleep that we could not wake
him to roost; so we put him to bed on a toilet cushion, and arranged his
tumbler for morning. The next day found him alive and humming, exploring
the room and pictures, perching now here and now there; but, as the
weather was chilly, he sat for the most part of the time in a humped-up
state on the tip of a pair of stag's horns. We moved him to a more sunny
apartment; but, alas! the equinoctial storm came on, and there was no
sun to be had for days. Hum was blue; the pleasant seaside days were
over; his room was lonely, the pleasant three that had enlivened the
apartment at Rye no longer came in and out; evidently he was lonesome,
and gave way to depression. One chilly morning he managed again to fall
into his tumbler, and wet himself through; and, notwithstanding warm
bathings and tender nursings, the poor little fellow seemed to get
diptheria, or something quite as bad for humming-birds.

We carried him to a neighboring sunny parlor, where i