One day Eliza with amused memory of her childish terrors pushed open the door of the forlorn chicken-house, and looked in; but one look was enough. She closed it again quickly on the dirt and cobwebs. Its small windows were opaque with the dust of years. It was almost picturesque with its leaking roof which had once been red, huddling close to earth under the protection of those hardy old warriors, the balm-of-Gilead trees.
"If 'twas mine," mused Eliza, as she withdrew from the dirt and damp of the close interior, "I'd clean it with a good fire. It's hopeless."
A sparrow lit on the despised roof, and poured a song toward the sea.
"That's so," said Eliza looking up at the tiny creature with a smile. "It is spring. It's a wonder to be in a place where there ain't one o' your English cousins."
She turned and nearly trod on Pluto. His green eyes were fixed on the bird. His lithe body crouched in the fresh grass and quivered along its length in the intensity of his upward gaze.
"Pluto Brewster!" she exclaimed in desperation. "Supposin' you ever should catch a bird up here!" She stooped and boxed his ears. He laid them back and, blinking the eager eyes, crouched lower.
Mrs. Wright on her doorstep saw Eliza approaching, the cat under her arm.
"He was lookin' at a sparrow," announced Eliza.
Mrs. Wright laughed. "I've heard that a cat may look even at a king," she said.
"If Pluto should kill birds!" exclaimed his owner desperately.