So Tourtourelle perched herself on a high-backed chair and stretched her eyes wide open.  For hours and hours she sat there, growing more sleepy every minute.  Towards morning she began to nod; she could hardly keep her eyes open, though she tried to prop the lids with her finger tips.  Finally, whether she would or no, she fell fast asleep, poor little Tourtourelle, worn out with her long vigil.

When the first morning sunbeam peeped into the chamber Zaica opened her eyes, refreshed and smiling.  She sat up in bed remembering the dream, and then jumped lightly to the floor.  As she did so she glanced at her feet, which felt queer.  Wonderful!  They were little bird claws!  She looked down at herself.  She was covered with soft feathers.  She tried to move her arms, and when she did so she rose lightly from the floor and skimmed out of the window into the garden.  Zaica had become a pretty little bird, just as she had dreamed.  Oh, how happy she was!  She heard a Lark singing far up in the sky.  Opening her mouth, she warbled and trilled as well as he, until he dropped down quickly to the earth, thinking it must be his mate who sang so sweetly.  She spied a Chicken strayed too far from the mother Hen; and chuckling to herself mischievously she imitated the warning cry of a Hawk, till the Chick ran squawking back to the shelter of his mother’s wing.  She heard a hound baying afar off, and with little trouble echoed the sound so perfectly that a groom came running out of the stable, whistling for the dog which he feared was straying from the kennel.  Zaica found that as in her dream she could imitate all the sounds which she heard; and she was so pleased that she sang and sang and sang, hopping from tree to tree, teasing the other birds with her mockery, and puzzling them, too.

As for poor Tourtourelle, when she waked it was very late.  She yawned and rubbed her eyes languidly, for she was still sleepy.  Then looking across to Zaica’s bed she saw that it was empty.  Her heart gave a great thump, for she longed and longed to be a bird, but now she feared that she was too late.  In her white gown she ran out into the garden looking for Zaica.  But first she saw an old man leading his cow to the pasture.  And to the cow he said, “Coo-roo, coo-roo!” coaxing her to hasten.

“Coo-roo, coo-roo!” cried Tourtourelle, imitating him, she knew not why.  And as she said it she wondered at the strange feeling which came over her.  For her body felt very light and it seemed as if she could fly.  She looked down and saw that she was no longer covered with a little white gown but with soft feathers of ashy gray, while wings sprouted from her shoulders.

“Oh, I have become a bird!” she tried to say, but all she uttered was—­“Coo-roo, coo-roo!” For Tourtourelle was become a beautiful Turtle-Dove, and that is all a Turtle-Dove can say.

“Coo-roo, coo-roo!” mocked a voice from the tree.  And cocking her little reddish eye Tourtourelle saw a brilliant Jay hopping in the branches, imitating a Dove.  Then it was the song of a Wren that she heard, then a Lark, then a Thrush, then a Sparrow-Hawk,—­all these sounds coming from the one little throat of the happy bird on that bough.  Tourtourelle tried to do likewise, but all she could sing was “Coo-roo! coo-roo!” And she said mournfully to herself:—­