Hum was gone. Now certainly we gave him up for lost. I sat down to
painting, and in a few minutes in flew Hum, and settled on the edge
of my tumbler in a social, confidential way, which seemed to say,
"Oh, you've got back then." After taking his usual drink of sugar
and water, he began to fly about the ceiling as usual, and we gladly
shut him in.

When our five weeks at the seaside were up, and it was time to go
home, we had great questionings what was to be done with Hum. To get
him home with us was our desire; but who ever heard of a humming-bird
travelling by railroad? Great were the consultings. A little basket
of Indian work was filled up with cambric handkerchiefs, and a bottle
of sugar and water provided, and we started with him for a day's
journey. When we arrived at night the first care was to see what had
become of Hum, who had not been looked at since we fed him with sugar
and water in Boston. We found him alive and well, but so dead asleep
that we could not wake him to roost; so we put him to bed on a toilet
cushion, and arranged his tumbler for morning. The next day found
him alive and humming, exploring the room and pictures, perching now
here and now there; but as the weather was chilly, he sat for the
most part of the time in a humped-up state on the tip of a pair of
stag's horns. We moved him to a more sunny apartment; but, alas! the
equinoctial storm came on, and there was no sun to be had for days.
Hum was blue; the pleasant seaside days were over; his room was
lonely, the pleasant three that had enlivened the apartment at Rye no
longer came in and out; evidently he was lonesome, and gave way to
depression. One chilly morning he managed again to fall into his
tumbler, and wet himself through; and notwithstanding warm bathings
and tender nursings, the poor little fellow seemed to get diphtheria,
or something quite as bad for humming-birds.