"There's a young dove in it," I persisted--"a young cooer."

"I don't wish any young cooers," she said, with a grimace.

Seeing that she was not of my mind, I added, pleadingly; "It's a note
from me, Georgiana! This is going to be our little private
post-office!" Georgiana sank back into her chair. She reappeared with
the flush of apple-blossoms and her lashes wet with tears of laughter.
But I do not think that she looked at me unkindly. "Our little private
post-office," I persisted, confidingly.

"How many more little private things are we going to have?" she
inquired, plaintively.

"I can't wait here forever," I said. "This is growing weather; I might
sprout."

"A dry stick will not," said Georgiana, simply, and went back to her
sewing.

I took the hint, and propped the pole against the house under the
window. Later, when I took it down, my note was gone.

I have set the pole under Georgiana's window several times within the
last two or three days, It looks like a little dip-net, high and dry in
the air; but so far as I can see with my unaided eye, it has caught
nothing so large as a gnat. It has attracted no end of attention from
the birds of the neighborhood, however, who never saw a goldfinch's
nest swung to the end of a leafless pole and placed where it could be
so exactly reached by the human hand. In particular it has fallen