he would follow me like a dog up and down stairs and all over the house,
walk behind me as I strolled about the grounds, and when tired, he would
cry and "peep, weep" for me to sit down. Then he would beg to be taken
on my lap, thence he would proceed to my arm, then my neck, where he
would peck and scream and flutter, determined to nestle there for a nap.
My solicitude increased as he lived on, and I hoped to "raise" him. He
literally demanded every moment of my time, my entire attention during
the day, and, alas! at night also, until I seemed to be living a tragic
farce!

If put down on carpet or matting, he at once began to pick up everything
he could spy on the floor, and never before did I realize how much could
be found there. I had a dressmaker in the house, and Kizzie was always
going for a deadly danger--here a pin, there a needle, just a step away
a tack or a bit of thread or a bead of jet.

Outdoors it was even worse. With two bird dogs ready for anything but
birds, the pug that had already devoured all that had come to me of my
expensive importations, a neighbor's cat often stealing over to hunt for
her dinner, a crisis seemed imminent every minute. Even his own father
would destroy him if they met, as the peacock allows no possible rival.
And Kizzie kept so close to my heels that I hardly dared step. If my
days were distracting, the nights were inexpressibly awful. I supposed
he would be glad to go to sleep in a natural way after a busy day. No,
indeed! He would not stay in box or basket, or anywhere but cradled
close in my neck. There he wished to remain, twittering happily, giving
now and then a sweet, little, tremulous trill, indicative of content,
warmth, and drowsiness; if I dared to move ever so little, showing by a
sharp scratch from his claws that he preferred absolute quiet. One
night, when all worn out, I rose and put him in a hat box and covered it