IT was at Orniond, in Florida, on a summcrliive day in February. I was at dinner in the early afternoon, when a friend came in and laid something on the table before me. It was something soft and fluffy and blue—a tiny bird, and seemingly a dead one. It had just been picked up from the floor of the piazza under a window, against the glass of which it had evidently flown.
It was a Blue Yellow-backed or Parula Warbler, an exquisite little creature. I had never seen one of this species so near, and wished to examine it closely, so I placed the pitiful little body, with its tiny curled- up claws and half-shut, dull eyes under a glass finger-bowl near me and left it there to await my going to my room. A few minutes later as I took the bird in my hands I thought I felt a faint throb of life. I hastened to my room, but before I reached it the little body was quiv- ering and stirring perceptibly. I sat down by my window, holding the bird, and gently smoothing the soft blue feathers. Very soon the eyes brightened, opened wide, and the little beauty raised itself upon its feet and looked up at me. It did not seem frightened, but thinking it was still dazed and half unconscious and would be alarmed at my presence when fully aroused, I put it quickly and gently down upon the sill of the closed, sunshiny window, and left it. I always begin my friendships with what are called the lower creatures by letting them quite alone. It is not a bad method to use with certain higher beings ; but this is irrele- vant. It was a very warm, enervating Florida day, and I had been out all the forenoon, so I threw myself down upon the lounge with a book. But, of course, I kept an eye upon my new acquaintance, and the bird kept its eye upon everything. It tapped the window-panes with its bill, surveyed the landscape without, turning its head from side to side, then looked about the room. From the window-sill it hopped to a table near by and began its investigations, examining with apparent curiosity and interest each object, pecking softly at the books and pictures. Then it threw back his head and looked up at the white ceiling. This was so unlike the blue depths overhead in his old life that it seemed to puzzle him. After a long, curious look, he soared towards it, fluttered near it for a few seconds, then flew to a cornice over the door and perched upon it. There he stayed, like the Raven of poetry, "just above my chamber door." For a full half hour he rested there, pluming and preening his feathers, sometimes pecking at or tapping the wall with his bill, often, very often, looking across at me as I lay watching him. By
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