"But you seem nicely fed."

I picked on.

"What is his name, old man? Don't you like to talk?"

"Adam Moss."

"Such a green, cool, soft name! It is like his house and yard and
garden. What does he do?"

"Whatever he pleases."

"You must not be impertinent to me, or I'll tell him. What does
he like?"

"Birds--red-birds. What do _you_ like?"

"Red-birds! How does he catch them? Throw salt on their tails?"

"He is a lover of Nature, madam, and particularly of birds."

"What does _he_ know about birds? Doesn't he care for people?"

"He doesn't think many worth caring for."

"Indeed! And _he_ is perfect, then, is he?"

"He thinks he is nearly as bad as any; but that doesn't make the
rest any better."

"Poor old gentleman! He must have the blues dreadfully. What does
he do with his birds? Eat his robins, and stuff his cats, and sell
his red-birds in cages?"

"He considers it part of his mission in life to keep them from
being eaten or stuffed or caged."

"And you say he is nearly a hundred?"

"He is something over thirty years of age, madam."

"Thirty? Surely we heard he was very old. Thirty! And does he
live in that beautiful little old house all by himself?"

"_I_ live with him!"

"_You_! Ha! ha! ha! And what is _your_ name, you dear good old
man?"

"Adam."

"_Two_ Adams living in the same house! Are you the _old_ Adam? I
have heard so much of him."

At this I rose, pushed back my hat, and looked up at her.

"_I_ am Adam Moss," I said, with distant politeness. "You can have
these strawberries for your breakfast if you want them."

There was a low quick "Oh!" and she was gone, and the curtains
closed over her face. It was rude; but neither ought she to have
called me the old Adam. I have been thinking of one thing: why
should she speak slightingly of _my_ knowledge of birds? What does
_she_ know about them? I should like to inquire.

Late this afternoon I dressed up in my high gray wool hat, my fine
long-tailed blue cloth coat with brass buttons, by pink waistcoat,
frilled shirt, white cravat, and yellow nankeen trousers, and
walked slowly several times around my strawberry bed. Did no see
any more ripe strawberries.

Within the last ten days I have called twice upon the Cobbs, urged
no doubt by an extravagant readiness to find them all that I feared
they were not. How exquisite in life is the art of not seeing many
things, and of forgetting many that have be