"Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes! It is the one I shot that day, and followed."
"Yes—"
"And found you by—I'm very much obliged to him," said Verty, smiling; "there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of Nature."
"How prettily he flies," Redbud said, looking at the bird,—"and now he is gone."
"I see him yet—another has joined him—there they go—dying, dying, dying in the distance—there! they are gone!"
And Verty turned to his companion.
"I always liked pigeons and doves," he said, "but doves the best; I never shoot them now."
"I love them, too."
"They are so pretty!"
"Oh, yes!" said Redbud; "and they coo so sweetly. Did you never hear them in the woods, Verty—moaning in their nests?"