A BIRD OF PASSAGE.
BY BEATRICE HARRADEN.
It was about four in the afternoon when a
young girl came into the salon of the little
hotel at C. in Switzerland, and drew her
chair up to the fire.
"You are soaked through," said an elderly
lady, who was herself trying to get roasted.
"You ought to lose no time in changing your clothes."
"I have not anything to change," said the
young girl, laughing. "Oh, I shall soon be dry."
"Have you lost all your luggage?" asked
the lady sympathetically.
"No," said the young girl, "I had none to
lose." And she smiled a little mischievously,
as though she knew by instinct that her
companion's sympathy would at once degenerate
"I don't mean to say that I have not a
knapsack," she added considerately. "I have
walked a long distance--in fact from Z."
"And where did you leave your companions?"
asked the lady, with a touch of forgiveness
in her voice.
"I am without companions, just as I am
without luggage," laughed the girl.
And then she opened the piano, and struck
a few notes. There was something caressing
in the way in which she touched the keys;
whoever she was, she knew how to make
sweet music; sad music too, full of that
undefinable longing, like the holding out of one's
arms to one's friends in the hopeless distance.
The lady bending over the fire looked up
at the little girl, and forgot that she had
brought neither friends nor luggage with her.
She hesitated for one moment, and then she
took the childish face between her hands and
"Thank you, dear, for your music," she
"The piano is terribly out of tune," said
the little girl suddenly, and she ran out of
the room and came back carrying her knapsack.
"What are you going to do?" asked her companion.
"I am going to tune the piano," the little
girl said; and she took a tuning-hammer out
of her knapsack, and began her work in real
earnest. She evidently knew what she was
about, and pegged away at the notes as though
her whole life depended on the result.
The lady by the fire was lost in amazement.
Who could she be? Without luggage
and without friends, and with a tuning hammer!
Meanwhile one of the gentlemen had
strolled into the salon; but hearing the
sound of tuning, and being in secret possession
of nerves, he fled, saying, "The tuner, by
A few minutes afterwards, Miss Blake,
whose nerves were no secret possession,
hastened into the salon, and in her usual
imperious fashion demanded silence.
"I have just done," said the little girl.
"The piano was so terribly out of tune, I
could not resist the temptation."
Miss Blake, who never listened to what
any one said, took it for granted that the
little girl was the tuner for whom M. le
Proprietaire had promised to send; and having
bestowed upon her a condescending nod,
passed out into the garden, where she told
some of the visitors that the piano had been
tuned at last, and that the tuner was a young
woman of rather eccentric appearance.
"Really it is quite abominable how women
thrust themselves into every profession," she
remarked in her masculine voice. "It is so
unfeminine, so unseemly."
There was nothing of the feminine about
Miss Blake: her horse-cloth dress, her
waistcoat and high collar, and her billy-cock hat
were of the masculine genus; even her nerves
could not be called feminine, since we learn
from two or three doctors (taken off their
guard) that nerves are neither feminine nor
masculine, but common.
"I should like to see this tuner," said one
of the tennis players, leaning against a tree.
"Here she comes," said Miss Blake, as the
little girl was seen sauntering, into the garden.
The men put up their eye-glasses, and saw
a little lady with a childish face and soft
brown hair, of strictly feminine appearance
and bearing. The goat came toward her
and began nibbling at her frock. She seemed
to understand the manner of goats, and played
with him to his heart's content. One of the
tennis players, Oswald Everard by name,
strolled down to the bank where she was
having her frolic.
"Good afternoon," he said, raising his cap.
"I hope the goat is not worrying you. Poor
little fellow! This is his last day of play.
He is to be killed to-morrow for table d'hôte."
"What a shame!" she said. "Fancy to be
killed, and then grumbled at!"
"That is precisely what we do here," he
said, laughing. "We grumble at everything
we eat. And I own to being one of the
grumpiest; though the lady in the horse-cloth
dress yonder follows close upon my heels."
"She was the lady who was annoyed at me
because I tuned the piano," the little girl said.
"Still it had to be done. It was plainly my
duty. I seemed to have come for that purpose."
"It has been confoundedly annoying having
it out of tune," he said. "I've had to give up
singing altogether. But what a strange
profession you have chosen! Very unusual, isn't it?"
"Why, surely not," she answered, amused.
"It seems to me that every other woman has
taken to it. The wonder to me is that any
one ever scores a success. Nowadays,
however, no one could amass a huge fortune out
"No one, indeed!" replied Oswald Everard,
laughing. "What on earth made you take
"It took to me," she said simply. "It
wrapt me round with enthusiasm. I could
think of nothing else. I vowed that I would
rise to the top of my profession. I worked
day and night. But it means incessant toil for
years if one wants to make any headway."
"Good gracious! I thought it was merely
a matter of a few months," he said, smiling
at the little girl.
"A few months!" she repeated scornfully.
"You are speaking the language of an
amateur. No; one has to work faithfully year
after year, to grasp the possibilities and pass
on to greater possibilities. You imagine what
it must feel like to touch the notes, and know
that you are keeping the listeners spellbound;
that you are taking them into a fairyland of
sound, where petty personality is lost in vague
longing and regret."
"I confess that I had not thought of it in
that way," he said humbly. "I have only
regarded it as a necessary everyday evil; and
to be quite honest with you, I fail to see now
how it can inspire enthusiasm. I wish I could
see," he added, looking up at the engaging
little figure before him.
"Never mind," she said, laughing at his
distress; "I forgive you. And after all, you
are not the only person who looks upon it as
a necessary evil. My poor guardian
abominated it. He made many sacrifices to come
and listen to me. He knew I liked to see
his kind old face, and that the presence of a
real friend inspired me with confidence."
"I should not have thought it was nervous
work," he said.
"Try it and see," she answered. "But
surely you spoke of singing. Are you not
nervous when you sing?"
"Sometimes," he replied, rather stiffly.
"But that is slightly different." (He was
very proud of his singing, and made a great
fuss about it.) "Your profession, as I
remarked before, is an unavoidable nuisance.
When I think what I have suffered from
the gentlemen of your profession, I only
wonder that I have any brains left. But I
"No, no," she said. "Let me hear about
"Whenever I have specially wanted to be
quiet," he said; and then he glanced at her
childish little face, and he hesitated. "It
seems so rude of me," he added. He was the
soul of courtesy, although he was an amateur
"Please tell me," the little girl said, in her
"Well," he said, gathering himself together,
"it is the one subject on which I can be
eloquent. Ever since I can remember I have
been worried and tortured by those rascals.
I have tried in every way to escape from
them, but there is no hope for me. Yes; I
believe that all the tuners in the universe are
in league against me, and have marked me out
for their special prey."
"All the what?" asked the little girl, with
a jerk in her voice.
"All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather
snappishly. "I know that we cannot do
without them; but, good heavens! they have no
tact, no consideration, no mercy. Whenever
I've wanted to write or read quietly that fatal
knock has come at the door, and I've known
by instinct that all chance of peace was over.
Whenever I've been giving a luncheon party,
the tuner has arrived, with his abominable
black bag, and his abominable card, which has
to be signed at once. On one occasion I was
just proposing to a girl in her father's library,
when the tuner struck up in the drawing-room.
I left off suddenly, and fled from the
house. But there is no escape from these
fiends; I believe they are swarming about in
the air like so many bacteria. And how, in
the name of goodness, you should deliberately
choose to be one of them, and should be so
enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me
beyond all words. Don't say that you carry a
black bag, and present cards that have to be
filled up at the most inconvenient time;
He stopped suddenly, for the little girl was
convulsed with laughter. She laughed until
the tears rolled down her cheeks; and then
she dried her eyes and laughed again.
"Excuse me," she said, "I can't help
myself; it's so funny."
"It may be funny to you," he said, laughing
in spite of himself; "but it is not funny
"Of course it isn't," she replied, making a
desperate effort to be serious. "Well, tell
me something more about these tuners."
"Not another word," he said gallantly. "I
am ashamed of myself as it is. Come to the
end of the garden, and let me show you the
view down into the valley."
She had conquered her fit of merriment,
but her face wore a settled look of mischief,
and she was evidently the possessor of some
secret joke. She seemed in capital health
and spirits, and had so much to say that was
bright and interesting, that Oswald Everard
found himself becoming reconciled to the
whole race of tuners. He was amazed to
learn that she had walked all the way from
Z, and quite alone too.
"Oh, I don't think anything of that," she
said; "I had a splendid time, and I caught
four rare butterflies. I would not have missed
those for anything. As for the going about
by myself, that is a second nature. Besides,
I do not belong to any one. That has its
advantages, and I suppose its disadvantages;
but at present I have only discovered the
advantages. The disadvantages will
"I believe you are what the novels call an
advanced young woman," he said. "Perhaps
you give lectures on Woman's Suffrage or
something of that sort."
"I have very often mounted the platform,"
she answered. "In fact, I am never so happy
as when addressing an immense audience.
A most unfeminine thing to do, isn't it? What
would the lady yonder in the horse-cloth
dress and billy-cock hat say? Don't you
think you ought to go and help her drive
away the goat? She looks so frightened.
She interests me deeply. I wonder whether
she has written an essay on the Feminine in
Woman. I should like to read it; it would
do me so much good."
"You are at least a true woman," he said,
laughing, "for I see you can be spiteful. The
tuning has not driven that away."
"Ah, I had forgotten about the tuning,"
she answered brightly; "but now you remind
me, I have been seized with a great idea."
"Won't you tell it to me?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "I keep my great
ideas for myself, and work them out in secret.
And this one is particularly amusing. What
fun I shall have!"
"But why keep the fun to yourself?" he
said. "We all want to be amused here; we
all want to be stirred up; a little fun would
be a charity."
"Very well, since you wish it, but you must
give me time to work out my great idea. I
do not hurry about things, not even about
my professional duties. For I have a strong
feeling that it is vulgar to be always amassing
riches! As I have neither a husband nor a
brother to support, I have chosen less wealth,
and more leisure to enjoy all the loveliness of
life! So you see I take my time about
everything. And to-morrow I shall catch butterflies
at my leisure, and lie among the dear
old pines, and work at my great idea."
"I shall catch butterflies," said her
companion. "And I too shall lie among the dear
"Just as you please," she said; and at that
moment the table d'hôte bell rang.
The little girl hastened to the bureau and
spoke rapidly in German to the cashier.
"Ach, Fräulein!" he said. "You are not
"Yes, I am," she said. "I don't want them
to know my name. It will only worry me.
Say I am the young lady who tuned the piano."
She had scarcely given these directions
and mounted to her room, when Oswald
Everard, who was much interested in his
mysterious companion, came to the bureau
and asked for the name of the little lady.
"Es ist das Fräulein welches das Piano
gestimmt hat," answered the man, returning
with unusual quickness to his account-book.
No one spoke to the little girl at table
d'hôte; but for all that she enjoyed her
dinner, and gave her serious attention to all the
courses. Being thus solidly occupied, she
had not much leisure to bestow on the
conversation of the other guests. Nor was it
specially original: it treated of the
shortcomings of the chef, the tastelessness of the
soup, the toughness of the beef, and all the
many failings which go to complete a
mountain-hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed
to the little girl, this time-honored talk passed
into another phase; she heard the word
music mentioned, and she became at once
interested to learn what these people had to
say on a subject which was dearer to her
than any other.
"For my own part," said a stern-looking
old man, "I have no words to describe what
a gracious comfort music has been to me all
my life. It is the noblest language which
man may understand and speak. And I
sometimes think that those who know it, or
know something of it, are able at rare
moments to find an answer to life's perplexing
The little girl looked up from her plate.
Robert Browning's words rose to her lips,
but she did not give them utterance:
"God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason, and welcome; 'tis we musicians know."
"I have lived through a long life," said
another elderly man, "and have therefore had
my share of trouble, but the grief of being
obliged to give up music was the grief which
held me longest, or which perhaps has never
left me. I still crave for the gracious
pleasure of touching once more the strings of a
violoncello, and hearing the dear tender voice
singing and throbbing and answering even to
such poor skill as mine. I still yearn to take
my part in concerted music, and be one of
those privileged to play Beethoven's string
quartettes. But that will have to be in
another incarnation, I think."
He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then,
as though ashamed of this allusion to his own
personal infirmity, he added hastily:
"But when the first pang of such a pain is
over, there remains the comfort of being a
listener. At first one does not think it a
comfort; but as time goes on, there is no
resisting its magic influence. And Lowell said
rightly that 'one of God's great charities is
"I did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith,"
said an English lady. "You have
never before spoken of music."
"Perhaps not, madam," he answered.
"One does not often speak of what one cares
for most of all. But when I am in London
I rarely miss hearing our best players."
At this point others joined in, and the
various merits of eminent pianists were
"What a wonderful name that little English
lady has made for herself!" said the Major,
who was considered an authority on all
subjects. "I would go anywhere to hear Miss
Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be very
proud of her. She has taken even the
German musical world by storm, and they say
her recitals at Paris have been brilliantly
successful. I myself have heard her at New
York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and even
The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair.
"I don't think Miss Flowerdew has ever
been to Chicago," she said.
There was a dead silence. The admirer of
Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked much annoyed,
and twiddled his watch chain. He had meant
to say Philadelphia, but he did not think it
necessary to own to his mistake.
"What impertinence!" said one of the ladies
to Miss Blake. "What can she know about
it? Is she not the young person who tuned
"Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew's
piano!" suggested Miss Blake in a loud whisper.
"You are right, madam," said the little girl
quietly. "I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew's piano."
There was another embarrassing silence,
and then a lovely old lady, whom every one
reverenced, came to the rescue.
"I think her playing is simply superb," she
said. "Nothing that I ever hear satisfies me
so entirely. She has all the tenderness of
an angel's touch."
"Listening to her," said the Major, who
had now recovered from his annoyance at
being interrupted, "one becomes unconscious
of her presence, for she is the music itself.
And that is rare. It is but seldom nowadays
that we are allowed to forget the personality
of the player. And yet her personality is an
unusual one; having once seen her, it would
not be easy to forget her. I should
recognize her anywhere."
As he spoke he glanced at the little tuner,
and could not help admiring her dignified
composure under circumstances which might
have been distressing to any one; and when
she rose with the others, he followed her,
and said stiffly:
"I regret that I was the indirect cause of
putting you in an awkward position."
"It is really of no consequence," she said
brightly. "If you think I was impertinent, I
ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be
officious. The words were spoken before I
was aware of them."
She passed into the salon, where she found a
quiet corner for herself, and read some of the
newspapers. No one took the slightest notice
of her; not a word was spoken to her; but
when she relieved the company of her
presence her impertinence was commented on.
"I am sorry that she heard what I said,"
remarked Miss Blake. "But she did not seem
to mind. These young women who go out
into the world lose the edge of their sensitiveness
and femininity. I have always observed that."
"How much they are spared then!" answered some one.
Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly.
She had merry dreams, and finally woke up
laughing. She hurried over her breakfast,
and then stood ready to go for a butterfly
hunt. She looked thoroughly happy, and
evidently had found, and was holding tightly
the key to life's enjoyment.
Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony,
and he reminded her that he intended
to go with her.
"Come along, then," she answered; "we
must not lose a moment."
They caught butterflies, they picked flowers,
they ran; they lingered by the wayside,
they sang; they climbed, and he marveled at
her easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her,
and everything seemed to delight her: the
flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses,
and the fragrance of the pine-woods.
"Is it not good to live?" she cried, "Is it
not splendid to take in the scented air?
Draw in as many long breaths as you can.
Isn't it good? Don't you feel now as though
you were ready to move mountains? I do.
What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she
pets us, and gives us the best of her treasures!"
Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard's
soul, and he felt like a schoolboy once more,
rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty; with
nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and
nothing to threaten the freedom of the moment.
"Is it not good to live?" he cried. "Yes,
indeed it is, if we know how to enjoy."
They had come upon some haymakers, and
the little girl hastened up to help them.
There she was in the midst of them, laughing
and talking to the women, and helping them
to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a
broad-backed man, who then conveyed his burden
to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard
watched his companion for a moment, and
then, quite forgetting his dignity as an
amateur tenor singer, he too, lent his aid, and
did not leave off until his companion sank
exhausted on the ground.
"Oh," she laughed, "what delightful work
for a very short time! Come along; let us
go into that brown chalet yonder and ask for
some milk. I am simply parched with thirst.
Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own
"What an independent little lady you are!"
"It is quite necessary in our profession, I
can assure you," she said, with a tone of
mischief in her voice. "That reminds me that
my profession is evidently not looked upon
with any favor by the visitors at the hotel.
I am heartbroken to think that I have not
won the esteem of that lady in the billy-cock
hat. What will she say to you for coming
with me? And what will she say of me for
allowing you to come? I wonder whether
she will say, 'How unfeminine!' I wish I
could hear her!"
"I don't suppose you care," he said. "You
seem to be a wild little bird."
"I don't care what a person of that description
says," replied his companion.
"What on earth made you contradict the
Major at dinner last night?" he asked. "I was
not at the table, but some one told me of the
incident; and I felt very sorry about it.
What could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew?"
"Well, considering that she is in my
profession, of course I know something about
her," said the little girl.
"Confound it all!" he said, rather rudely.
"Surely there is some difference between the
bellows-blower and the organist."
"Absolutely none," she answered--"merely
a variation of the original theme!"
As she spoke she knocked at the door of
the chalet, and asked the old dame to give
them some milk. They sat in the Stube,
and the little girl looked about, and admired
the spinning-wheel, and the quaint chairs,
and the queer old jugs, and the pictures on
"Ah, but you shall see the other room,"
the old peasant woman said, and she led them
into a small apartment, which was evidently
intended for a study. It bore evidences of
unusual taste and care, and one could see
that some loving hand had been trying to
make it a real sanctum of refinement. There
was even a small piano. A carved book-rack
was fastened to the wall.
The old dame did not speak at first; she
gave her guests time to recover from the
astonishment which she felt they must be
experiencing; then she pointed proudly to the
"I bought that for my daughters," she
said, with a strange mixture of sadness and
triumph. "I wanted to keep them at home
with me, and I saved and saved and got
enough money to buy the piano. They had
always wanted to have one, and I thought
they would then stay with me. They liked
music and books, and I knew they would be
glad to have a room of their own where they
might read and play and study; and so I gave
them this corner."
"Well, mother," asked the little girl, "and
where are they this afternoon?"
"Ah!" she answered sadly, "they did not
care to stay. But it was natural enough;
and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they
come to see me."
"And then they play to you?" asked the
little girl gently.
"They say the piano is out of tune," the
old dame said "I don't know. Perhaps
you can tell."
The little girl sat down to the piano, and
struck a few chords.
"Yes," she said. "It is badly out of tune.
Give me the tuning-hammer. I am sorry,"
she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, "but
I cannot neglect my duty. Don't wait for me."
"I will wait for you," he said sullenly; and
he went into the balcony and smoked his
pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.
When she had faithfully done her work,
she played a few simple melodies, such as
she knew the old woman would love and
understand; and she turned away when she
saw that the listener's eyes were moist.
"Play once again," the old woman whispered.
"I am dreaming of beautiful things."
So the little tuner touched the keys again
with all the tenderness of an angel.
"Tell your daughters," she said, as she
rose to say good-bye, "that the piano is now
in good tune. Then they will play to you the
next time they come."
"I shall always remember you, mademoiselle,"
the old woman said; and, almost
unconsciously, she too took the childish face
and kissed it.
Oswald Everard was waiting in the
hayfield for his companion; and when she
apologized to him for this little professional
intermezzo, as she called it, he recovered from
his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves, which
the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed.
"It was very good of you to tune the old
dame's piano," he said, looking at her with
"Some one had to do it, of course," she
answered brightly, "and I am glad the chance
fell to me. What a comfort it is to think
that the next time those daughters come to
see her, they will play to her, and make her
very happy! Poor old dear!"
"You puzzle me greatly," he said. "I
cannot for the life of me think what made you
choose your calling. You must have many
gifts; any one who talks with you must see
that at once. And you play quite nicely too."
"I am sorry that my profession sticks in your
throat," she answered. "Do be thankful that I
am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might
be something worse--a snob, for instance."
And so speaking, she dashed after a
butterfly, and left him to recover from her words.
He was conscious of having deserved a
reproof; and when at last he overtook her, he
said as much, and asked for her kind indulgence.
"I forgive you," she said, laughing. "You
and I are not looking at things from the
same point of view; but we have had a
splendid morning together, and I have enjoyed
every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on
"And to-morrow you go!" he repeated. "Can
it not be the day after to-morrow?"
"I am a bird of passage," she said, shaking
her head. "You must not seek to detain me.
I have taken my rest, and off I go to other
They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald
Everard saw no more of his companion until
the evening, when she came down rather late
for table d'hôte. She hurried over her dinner
and went into the salon. She closed the
door and sat down to the piano, and lingered
there without touching the keys; once or
twice she raised her hands, and then she let
them rest on the notes, and half-unconsciously
they began to move and make sweet music,
and then they drifted into Schumann's
Abendlied, and then the little girl played
some of his Kinderscenen, and some of his
Fantasie Stucke, and some of his songs.
Her touch and feeling were exquisite; and
her phrasing betrayed the true musician. The
strains of music reached the dining-room, and
one by one the guests came creeping in,
moved by the music, and anxious to see the
The little girl did not look up; she was in
a Schumann mood that evening, and only the
players of Schumann know what enthralling
possession he takes of their very spirit. All
the passion and pathos and wildness and
longing had found an inspired interpreter;
and those who listened to her were held by
the magic which was her own secret, and
which had won for her such honor as comes
only to the few. She understood Schumann's
music, and was at her best with him.
Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music
this evening because she wished to be at her
best? Or was she merely being impelled by
an overwhelming force within her? Perhaps
it was something of both.
Was she wishing to humiliate these people
who had received her so coldly? This little
girl was only human: perhaps there was
something of that feeling too. Who can tell?
But she played as she had never played in
London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York,
At last she arrived at the Carneval, and
those who heard her declared afterward that
they had never listened to a more
magnificent rendering; the tenderness was so
restrained, the vigor was so refined. When
the last notes of that spirited Marche des
Davidsbundler contre les Philistins had died
away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who
was standing near her, almost dazed.
"And now my favorite piece of all," she
said; and she at once began the Second
Novellette, the finest of the eight, but
seldom played in public.
What can one say of the wild rush of the
leading theme, and the pathetic longing of
"... The murmuring dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea;"
"The passionate strain that deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through."
What can one say of those vague aspirations
and finest thoughts which possess the
very dullest among us when such music as
that which the little girl had chosen catches
us and keeps us, if only for a passing
moment, but that moment of the rarest worth
and loveliness in our unlovely lives?
What can one say of the highest music,
except that, like death, it is the great
leveler: it gathers us all to its tender
keeping--and we rest.
The little girl ceased playing. There was
not a sound to be heard; the magic was still
holding her listeners. When at last they had
freed themselves with a sigh, they pressed
forward to greet her.
"There is only one person who can play
like that," cried the Major, with sudden
inspiration; "she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew."
The little girl smiled.
"That is my name," she said simply; and
she slipped out of the room.
The next morning, at an early hour, the
Bird of Passage took her flight onward, but
she was not destined to go off unobserved.
Oswald Everard saw the little figure
swinging along the road, and he overtook her.
"You little wild bird!" he said. "And so
this was your great idea: to have your fun
out of us all, and then play to us and make
us feel, I don't know how--and then to go."
"You said the company wanted stirring
up," she answered; "and I rather fancy I
have stirred them up."
"And what do you suppose you have done
for me?" he asked.
"I hope I have proved to you that the
bellows-blower and the organist are sometimes
identical," she answered.
But he shook his head.
"Little wild bird," he said, "you have given
me a great idea, and I will tell you what it
is: to tame you. So good-bye for the present."
"Good-bye," she said. "But wild birds are
not so easily tamed."
Then she waved her hand over her head,
and went on her way singing.