a most melancholy attitude. Every few seconds he would utter a note
of song, sometimes low and sorrowful, then in a louder key, and more
plaintive, as if he were calling for some responsive voice from far
away over the prairie.

"Dear bird, you have lost your mate, and are crying for her," the
girl said, stretching out her little brown hand compassionately
toward the crouching songster. "Your companions have gone to the
South, and you wait here, trusting that your mate will come back, and
not journey to summer lands without you. Is not that so, my poor
bird? Ah, would that I could go with you where there are always
flowers, and ever can be heard the ripple of little brooks. Here the
leaves will soon fall, ah, me! and the daisies wither; and, instead
of the delight of summer, we shall have only the cry of hungry
wolves, and the bellowing of bitter winds above the lonesome plains.
But could I go to the South, there is no one who would sing over my
absence one lamenting note, as you sing, my bird, for the mate with
whom you had so many hours of sweet love-making in these prairie
thickets. Nobody loves me, woos me, cares for me, or sings about me.
I am not even as the wild rose here, though it seems to be alone, and
is forbidden to take its walk; for it holds up its bright face and
can see its lover; and he breathes back upon the kind, willing,
breeze-puffs, through all the summer, sweet-scented love messages,
tidings of a matrimony as delicious as that of the angels."

She stood up, and raised her arms above her head yearningly. The
autumn wind was cooing in her hair, and softly swaying its silken
meshes.

"Farewell, my desolate one; may your poor little heart be gladder