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