The car went on and on, ever so far away from Boston, and by and by was
half-way across a bridge. The pigeon had lain nestled under Uncle Tom's
coat; and the warmth seemed to make it feel better. First it put one
round bright eye out, then the other, and took a peep at the people
sitting near it.

Then, I think, its back must have ceased aching; for it grew lively, and
stirred around. Uncle Tom felt it moving, and was afraid that it would
presently try to get away: so he held it as close as he could without
hurting it.

But just as he thought how safe he had it, and how tame it would be when
it had lived with its little mistress a while, it popped its head out
again.

It popped so far out this time, that there was nothing to take hold of
but its tail-feathers. Uncle Tom clutched those firmly; but, to his
great astonishment, the pigeon gave another spring, and pulled itself
away, leaving all its beautiful tail-feathers behind it.

Away it flew, down the car, over the heads of the people, out of the
door, past the head of the conductor (who did not know that he had such
a strange passenger), and out over the water, back to Boston.

Uncle Tom was left with only a handful of dark-gray feathers to take
home with him; and little Emily had no pet pigeon, after all.

AUNT EMMIE.