One warm sultry afternoon in June I sat in my old place by the springhouse, reading Story's Equity Jurisprudence and, closing the book, enjoyed the ease and peace of the lazy, if not the righteous.
I slept; and my mind jumbling the springhouse, the orioles, the dead boy and his strange tale, whispered that my little king and queen of the hanging nest were Santa and Nefert. Thereafter I called them as the dream had said.
The little nestlings grew apace and the nest made tight quarters. One, seeking room and adventure, climbed out and perched upon a twig. Growing careless or sleepy, or caught by a squall, he half flew, half fell from his perch.
The big black cat, who every week ate his weight in young birds, pounced upon the unfortunate one, who let out a squawk of terror.
Santa darted into the face of the cat with such fierce force as to rescue the baby bird, but lost his own life by his brave rashness.
Before the plumage of white, black and old gold had been marred I drove the cat away and picked up the little dead king.
In the corner of the old orchard, hedged about by a stone fence overhung with myrtle and honeysuckle, under three ancient cedar trees, were four graves; three of slaves long dead and the other of the half-witted boy.
Under the fresh green sod of the newer grave I buried the dead bird, and marked the spot with little cedar grave boards, on which I carved the name, "Santa." What a place to bury a king who had built a great pyramid for his sepulchre!