sort of air, who can say? In no way daunted, that gay bachelor pressed his suit warmly, picturing in tones of peculiar tenderness the snug little home they could establish together, what a devoted husband he would be, attentive, submissive, following her directions in all things. Miss Bluebird shook her head.

It was all very well, she replied, for him to talk of poetry and romance, but he knew well enough that upon her would devolve all the serious cares of life. While he would be very active in hunting for tenements, submitting, no doubt, to her choice, was it not the custom of all the Mr. Bluebirds to fly ahead in quest of material, gayly singing, while their mates selected and carried and builded the nest? What poetry would there be in life for her, she would like to know, under such circumstances, and then, when all was done, to sit for hours and days on the eggs she had laid in order to rear a brood. Oh, no! She was not ready to give up all the pleasures of life yet, and then — and then — Miss Bluebird lowered her eyes and stammered something about being too young to leave her mother.

What argument Mr. Bluebird brought to bear against this latter reason for rejecting his suit I cannot say, but being a wise bird he only stifled a laugh behind his foot and continued more warmly to press it. Again and again he followed her when she took a short flight, quavering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly, no doubt telling her of the many good qualities of the Mr. Bluebirds, how devoted they were, how they ever relied upon the good judgment and practical turn of their mates, never directing, never disputing, but by cheerful song and gesture encouraging and applauding everything they did. Then, too, unlike some other husbands that wear feathers, they regularly fed their mates when sitting upon the nest and did their duty afterward in helping to rear the young.

As he talked Miss Bluebird's coldness gradually melted till at length she coyly accepted his invitation to descend and examine a certain tenement which, hoping for her acceptance, he had the day previous, he said, been to view.

"We can at least look it over," he said artfully, noticing the elevation of her bill at the word "acceptance," "though of course it is too early in the season to occupy it.

Mr. Purple Martin lives in it last year and — — —"

Miss Bluebird interrupted him, a trifle haughtily, I thought.

"Is the tenement you speak of in a stump, fence hole, or tree cavity?" she inquired.

"Neither," he hastened to answer; "it is a box erected by the owner of these premises."

"Ah," said she, graciously, "that is another matter," and very amiably spread her wings and descended upon the roof of the box in question.

"You see," explained Mr. Bluebird, "the man who put up this dwelling knew what he was about. He had no intention the sparrows should occupy it, so he built it without any doorsteps or piazza, as you have no doubt remarked."

"Really," replied Miss Bluebird, "in my opinion that is a great defect. A house without doorsteps — — —"

"Is just what certain families want," interrupted Mr. Bluebird, smilingly. "Our enemies, the sparrows, cannot fly directly into a nest hole or box like this, as we can, but must have a perch upon which first to alight. It is for that reason, my dear, this house was built without doorsteps. No sparrow families are wanted here."

Miss Bluebird at this juncture thought it proper to be overcome with a feeling of shyness, and could not be prevailed upon to enter the box.

More than once her companion flew in and returned to her side, singing praises of its coziness as a place of abode.

"With new furnishings it will do capitally," said he; "we might even make the Purple Martins' nest do with a little — — —"

Miss Bluebird's bill at once went up into the air.