soft bits of cotton go. I must throw out that red stuff; I don’t like bright colors for any nest of mine.”
“Mrs. Martin never put that in,” I said. “It must have been the children. You might put it in the middle of the nest where no strange bird would see it.”
“And suppose it is hot, and I sweat,” she said, “and get the young ones all damp?”
“I don’t think you will perspire, Daisy,” I said. “You are such a cool little bird. I will sing you ‘By a Nice Stream of Water a Canary Bird Sat.’”
“Thank you,” she said, and I, perching on the top of the cage, was beginning one of my best strains, with fine long notes in it, when I heard a well-known footstep in the hall.
It was Mr. Martin coming home in the middle of the morning. What could be the matter with him?
His wife came hurrying out of the bedroom. “Henry, are you ill?”
“No,” he said wearily, passing his hand over his forehead, “but I saw this in the street, and bought it for you,” and he handed her a cardboard box.
Missie opened it, and in the box sat a dear little ring-dove, of a pale, dull, creamy color, and with a black half ring round the nape of the neck.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, “where did you get it?”