her mother would allow her to accept, anything very
valuable, or of intrinsic worth: such as a watch, which I first thought
of. Besides, she had a watch already--one that kept time, unlike most
ladies' "time-keepers"--and a particularly pretty one it was, too; so,
that was out of the question at once. Jewellery would be just as
inadmissible. What on earth should my present consist of?

Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really
had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to
suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of
flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain,
that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen
inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de-
Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to
complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have.

I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild
songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies,
like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting
blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.--It would have afforded her no
pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling
that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who,
when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to "take
advantage of the situation;" _that_ would be the bird which she would
like to have, I was certain.

I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was "Dicky Chips:"--
the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little
bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on.

I resolved that Dicky Chips should be Min's property from henceforth.

Whenever she watched him going through his varied pantomimic role, and
heard his well-turned, whistling notes--he had a rare ear for music--she
would think of _him_ who gave him to her, although he might then be far
away. I decided the point at once before going to bed. Dicky Chips
should, like Caliban, have a new master, or rather mistress; and be a
new man, or rather bird, to adopt Mr Toots' peculiar ellipto-
synthetical style of speaking. Where do you think I got hold of him?
Do you know a travelling naturalist who goes about London during the
summer months--and all over the country, too, for that matter, as I've
met him north of Tweed, and down a