could be. If she heard a mysterious sound like the nibbling of a mouse, or the stealthy footstep of a rat, who was more excited than Bess! In the garden, too, she would look longingly after the birds, and in the house she became Bobbie's declared enemy. Once with extended claws she sprung upon his cage, and so frightened him, that we feared he would die. One day we thought we had lost him; by some means the door of the cage came open, and he flew forth into the garden. Upward he soared, delighted with his new power, then he rested upon a spreading elm, and sung Yankee Doodle. We called him by all tender and endearing names, sweet Bobbie! pretty Bobbie! dear Bobbie! but he regarded us from afar with a most independent air. Then my uncle whistled all the familiar notes they had so often whistled together, and beseechingly held out his hands. Bobbie seemed to hesitate, but at last an irresistible impulse brought him down to us, and he alighted in all love and faith on my uncle's fore

finger. It was a glad moment for us all. Dear Bobbie! how I loved him. I dread to tell his fate.

After this he lived on happily enough, seeming as contented with his narrow wiry abode, as he did before he soared into the regions of freedom. Bessie was still a favorite, and allowed me my usual liberties with her ears and tail, without a murmur. One night I left Bobbie

fast asleep, with

"His head under his wing,

Poor thing!"

and in the morning when I went to his cage, I found it empty. In alarm I hurried from the room, and in the passage leading to the garden I saw on the floor a bird's wing and several feathers scattered along; they were Bobbie's! I sat down and cried bitterly. Bessie came along and rubbed against me. "O Bessie, did you do this?" said I; she looked innocently in my face, and walked away.

During the night, by some unknown means, she had gained access to his cage, and had killed him. He was dead. My beautiful bird, who had sung to me, and loved me, and made me happy. My uncle tried to console me, but he felt the loss of Bobbie nearly as much as myself. What remained of Bobbie I took to the garden, and under a cherry-tree, from which I had often gathered cherries for him, I buried the wing and the feathers.

Bessie was punished by unkind words from all, and it was long before she found the house. a pleasant home; but we forgave her, because we knew she was not aware of the extent of her offence. I never loved her quite so well again; how could I? She seemed to forget all about it, and lived on unconcerned for years, growing more and more stupid and dull every day, till at last she died comfortably and peacefully of old age.

THE SOUTH WIND.

SOUTH wind softly blowing,

Balmy is thy breath,

Gentle as a spirit,

Stealing o'er the earth.

Thou hast passed o'er flowers,

Blooming in the spring,

Bearing with thee odors.

On thy cloudy wing.

Of green fields thou mind'st me,

Of the forest tree;

Of all buds and blossoms,

Talkest thou to me.