One night I rose hastily to close the windows in a sudden shower.  Kizzie wakened promptly, and actually followed me out of the room and down-stairs.  Alas! it was not far from his breakfast hour, for he preferred his first meal at four o’clock A.M.  You see how he influenced me to rise early and take plenty of exercise.

I once heard of a wealthy Frenchman, nervous and dyspeptic, who was ordered by his eccentric physician to buy a Barbary ostrich and imitate him as well as care for him.  And he was quickly cured!

On the other hand, it is said that animals and birds grow to be like those who train and pet them.  Christopher North (John Wilson) used to carry a sparrow in his coat pocket.  And his friends averred that the bird grew so large and impressive that it seemed to be changing into an eagle.

But Kizzie was the stronger influence.  I really grew afraid of him, as he liked to watch my eyes, and once picked at them, as he always picked at any shining bit.

What respect I now feel for a sober, steady-going, successful old hen, who raises brood after brood of downy darlings without mishaps!  Her instinct is an inspiration.  Kizzie liked to perch on my finger and catch flies for his dinner.  How solemn, wise, and bewitching he did look as he snapped at and swallowed fifteen flies, uttering all the time a satisfied little note, quite distinct from his musical slumber song!

How he enjoyed lying on one side, stretched out at full length, to bask in the sun, a miniature copy of his magnificent father!  Very careful was he of his personal appearance, pruning and preening his pretty feathers many times each day, paying special attention to his tail—­not more than an inch long—­but what a prophecy of the future!  As mothers care most for the most troublesome child, so I grew daily more fond of cute little Kizzie, more anxious that he should live.

I could talk all day of his funny ways, of his fondness for me, of his daily increasing intelligence, of his hair-breadth escapes, etc.

The old story—­the dear gazelle experience came all too soon.

Completely worn out with my constant vigils, I intrusted him for one night to a friend who assured me that she was a most quiet sleeper, and that he could rest safely on her fingers.  I was too tired to say no.

She came to me at daybreak, with poor Kizzie dead in her hands.  He died like Desdemona, smothered with pillows.  All I can do in his honor has been done by this inadequate recital of his charms and his capacity.  After a few days of sincere grief I reflected philosophically that if he had not passed away I must have gone soon, and naturally felt it preferable that I should be the survivor.

A skillful taxidermist has preserved as much of Kizzie as possible for me, and he now adorns the parlor mantel, a weak, mute reminder of three weeks of anxiety.

And his parents—­