Bluebird.—There’s a gun below. It will kill me! Oh, if I could only live!
Jimmy.—It is strange. The butterfly wished the very same thing. Now, what do you want to live for, bluebird?
Bluebird.—Why, to sing with the other birds, and to swing on the boughs; to take care of my little birdies, and to spread my wings, and fly away and away over the treetops; also to go South with the summer. Oh, but we birds have rare sport then! Have you heard of the sunny South? Do you know that we go where the orange-trees bloom? We find no frost there, but sunshine always, and flowers, and a mild air. And then the fun of going all together! We sing, we fly races in the sky, we follow the leader. Ah! a bird’s life is a happy life, and—
“A gun has been fired.
“The Jimmy-fly flies down, and finds the bird on the ground, gasping for breath. Its bright eyes are closed. Its head fails on its breast. One little flutter of the wings,—dead! The bluebird will never sing again, nor swing on the boughs, nor fly away and away over the treetops, nor go South with the summer.
“And here enters into the dream the curious being spoken of just now, namely, the ‘Great Head-Horner,’ or captain, with his five tall black-and-white plumes,—one in his hat, and two on each shoulder. Behind him, in single file, all keeping step, march his ten helpers.”
Captain (in a loud voice).—Halt! Here is the boy.—Boy, step this way!
Jimmy.—I am not—a boy. I am—a—a—fly.
Captain.—Ha, ha! He says he is a fly. Ha, ha! Pass it along.
“It passes along the line, each helper saying to the next,—