Verty gazed up into the sky and mused—­the full sunlight of the bright October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements.

By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds, ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;—­and passing perforce of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer.

Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often, while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt brighter as he looked.

His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly fitted an arrow upon the leather string.  What should he shoot at?

There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry, which was veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed to Verty an excellent mark.  As he was about to take aim, however, his quick eye caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky; and he lowered his bow again.

Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed his penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size as it drew nearer.  It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined against the azure.

Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance.  Then drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast presented an excellent mark.

The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air—­struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch it.

It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.

Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was all stained with blood.

“Oh, what large eyes you have!” he said, smiling; “you’re a handsome pigeon.  I will not kill you.  I will take you home and cure your wing, and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my pretty bird.”

Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.

Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the pigeon’s neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his eye.

“Paper! and writing on it!” he said; “why, this is somebody’s pet-pigeon I have shot!”

And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a delicate, running-hand: 

“I am Miss Redbud’s pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her!” Verty remained for a moment motionless—­his eyes expanded till they resembled two rising moons;—­“I am Miss Redbud’s pigeon!” Then Redbud was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town—­she had not gone far out into the wide, unknown world—­this pigeon might direct him;—­Verty found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.