and ended in a musical mixture of all the notes, as if the
bird burst out laughing. Rose laughed also, and, forgetting her woes,
jumped up, saying eagerly,

"It is a mocking-bird. Where is it?"

Running down the long hall, she peeped out at both doors, but saw
nothing feathered except a draggle-tailed chicken under a burdock leaf.
She listened again, and the sound seemed to be in the house. Away she
went, much excited by the chase, and following the changeful song, it
led her to the china-closet door.

"In there? How funny!" she said. But when she entered, not a bird
appeared except the everlastingly kissing swallows on the Canton china
that lined the shelves. All of a sudden Rose's face brightened, and,
softly opening the slide, she peered into the kitchen. But the music
had stopped, and all she saw was a girl in a blue apron scrubbing the
hearth. Rose stared about her for a minute, and then asked abruptly,

"Did you hear that mocking-bird?"

"I should call it a phebe-bird," answered the girl, looking up with a
twinkle in her black eyes.

"Where did it go?"

"It is here still."

"Where?"

"In my throat. Do you want to hear it?"

"Oh, yes! I'll come in." And Rose crept through the slide to the wide
shelf on the other side, being too hurried and puzzled to go round by
the door.

The girl wiped her hands, crossed her feet on the little island of
carpet where she was stranded in a sea of soap-suds, and then, sure
enough, out of her slender throat came the swallow's twitter, the
robin's whistle, the blue-jay's call, the thrush's song, the wood-dove's
coo, and many another familiar note, all ending as before with the
musical ecstacy of a bobolink singing and swinging among the meadow
grass on a bright June day.

Rose was so astonished that she nearly fell off her perch, and when the
little concert was over clapped her hands delightedly.

"Oh, it was lovely! Who taught you?"

"The birds," answered the girl, with a smile, as she fell to work again.

"It is very wonderful! I can sing, but nothing half so fine as that.
What is your name, please?"

"Phebe Moore."

"I've heard of phebe-birds; but I don't believe the real ones could do
that," laughed Rose, adding, as she watched with interest the scattering
of dabs of soft soap over the bricks, "May I stay and see you work? It
is very lonely in the parlor."

"Yes, indeed, if you want to," answered Phebe, wringing out her cloth in
a capable sort of way that