the garret to-day. And so it goes on; but how long the squirrels
will rent the cottage in this fashion, I'm sure I dare not undertake
to say.



HUM, THE SON OF BUZ



At Rye Beach, during our summer's vacation, there came, as there
always will to seaside visitors, two or three cold, chilly, rainy
days,--days when the skies that long had not rained a drop seemed
suddenly to bethink themselves of their remissness, and to pour down
water, not by drops, but by pailfuls. The chilly wind blew and
whistled, the water dashed along the ground and careered in foamy
rills along the roadside, and the bushes bent beneath the constant
flood. It was plain that there was to be no sea-bathing on such a
day, no walks, no rides; and so, shivering and drawing our blanket-
shawls close about us, we sat down at the window to watch the storm
outside.

The rose-bushes under the window hung dripping under their load of
moisture, each spray shedding a constant shower on the spray below
it. On one of these lower sprays, under the perpetual drip, what
should we see but a poor little humming-bird, drawn up into the
tiniest shivering ball, and clinging with a desperate grasp to his
uncomfortable perch. A humming-bird we knew him to be at once,
though his feathers were so matted and glued down by the rain that he
looked not much bigger than a honey-bee, and as different as possible