improving. Perhaps she was interested. There was some
encouragement in the fact that she was still there. The Cardinal
felt that his time had come.

"Come here! Come here!" He was on his mettle now. Surely no
cardinal could sing fuller, clearer, sweeter notes! He began at
the very first, and rollicked through a story of adventure,
colouring it with every wild, dashing, catchy note he could
improvise. He followed that with a rippling song of the joy and
fulness of spring, in notes as light and airy as the wind-blown
soul of melody, and with swaying body kept time to his rhythmic
measures. Then he glided into a song of love, and tenderly,
pleadingly, passionately, told the story as only a courting bird
can tell it. Then he sang a song of ravishment; a song quavering
with fear and the pain tugging at his heart. He almost had run
the gamut, and she really appeared as if she intended to flee
rather than to come to him. He was afraid to take even one timid
little hop toward her.

In a fit of desperation the Cardinal burst into the passion song.

He arose to his full height, leaned toward her with outspread
quivering wings, and crest flared to the utmost, and rocking from
side to side in the intensity of his fervour, he poured out a
perfect torrent of palpitant song. His cardinal body swayed to
the rolling flood of his ecstatic tones, until he appeared like a
flaming pulsing note of materialized music, as he entreated,
coaxed, commanded, and pled. From sheer exhaustion, he threw up
his head to round off the last note he could utter, and
breathlessly glancing down to see if she were coming, caught