kinder warms the cockles o' my heart all up, an' every skip you

take sets me a-wantin' to be jumpin', too.
"What on earth are you lookin' for? Man! I b'lieve it's grub!

Somebody's been feedin' you! An' you want me to keep it up?
Well, you struck it all right, Mr. Redbird. Feed you? You bet I

will! You needn't even 'rastle for grubs if you don't want to.
Like as not you're feelin' hungry right now, pickin' bein' so

slim these airly days. Land's sake! I hope you don't feel
you've come too soon. I'll fetch you everything on the place

it's likely a redbird ever teched, airly in the mornin' if you'll
say you'll stay an' wave your torch 'long my river bank this

summer. I haven't a scrap about me now. Yes, I have, too!
Here's a handful o' corn I was takin' to the banty rooster; but

shucks! he's fat as a young shoat now. Corn's a leetle big an'
hard for you. Mebby I can split it up a mite."

Abram took out his jack-knife, and dotting a row of grains along
the top rail, he split and shaved them down as fine as possible;

and as he reached one end of the rail, the Cardinal, with a
spasmodic "Chip!" dashed down and snatched a particle from the

other, and flashed back to the bush, tested, approved, and
chipped his thanks.

"Pshaw now!" said Abram, staring wide-eyed. "Doesn't that beat
you? So you really are a pet? Best kind of a pet in the whole

world, too! Makin' everybody, at sees you happy, an' havin' some
chance to be happy yourself. An' I look like your friend? Well!

Well! I'm monstrous willin' to adopt you if you'll take me; an',
as for feedin', from to-morrow on I'll find time to set your

little table 'long this same rail every day. I s'pose Maria 'ull
say 'at I'm gone plumb crazy; but, for that matter, if I ever get

her down to see you jest once, the trick's done with her, too,
for you're the prettiest thing God ever made in the shape of a

bird, 'at I ever saw. Look at that topknot a wavin' in the wind!
Maybe praise to the face is open disgrace; but I'll take your

share an' mine, too, an' tell you right here an' now 'at you're
the blamedest prettiest thing 'at I ever saw.

"But Lord! You ortn't be so careless! Don't you know you ain't
nothin' but jest a target? Why don't you keep out o' sight a

little? You come a-shinneyin' up to nine out o' ten men 'long
the river like this, an' your purty, coaxin', palaverin' way

won't save a feather on you. You'll get the little red heart
shot plumb outen your little red body, an' that's what you'll

get. It's a dratted shame! An' there's law to protect you, too.
They's a good big fine for killin' such as you, but nobody seems

to push it. Every fool wants to test his aim, an' you're the
brightest thing on the river bank for a mark.

"Well, if you'll stay right where you are, it 'ull be a sorry day
for any cuss 'at teches you; 'at I'll promise you, Mr. Redbird.

This land's mine, an' if you locate on it, you're mine till time
to go back to that other old fellow 'at looks like me. Wonder if

he's any willinger to feed you an' stand up for you 'an I am?"
"Here! Here! Here!" whistled the Cardinal.

"Well, I'm mighty glad if you're sayin' you'll stay! Guess it
will be all right if you don't meet some o' them Limberlost hens

an' tole off to the swamp. Lord! the Limberlost ain't to be
compared with the river, Mr. Redbird. You're foolish if you go!

Talkin' 'bout goin', I must be goin' myself, or Maria will be
comin' down the line fence with the lantern; an', come to think

of it, I'm a little moist, not to say downright damp. But then
you WARNED me, didn't you, old fellow? Well, I told Maria seein'

you 'ud be like meetin' folks, an' it has been. Good deal more'n
I counted on, an' I've talked more'n I have in a whole year.

Hardly think now 'at I've the reputation o' being a mighty quiet
fellow, would you?"

Abram straightened and touched his hat brim in a trim half
military salute. "Well, good-bye, Mr. Redbird. Never had more

pleasure meetin' anybody in my life 'cept first time I met Maria.
You think about the plowin', an', if you say `stay,' it's a go!

Good-bye; an' do be a little more careful o' yourself. See you
in the mornin', right after breakfast, no count taken o' the

weather."
"Wet year! Wet year!" called the Cardinal after his retreating

figure.
Abram turned and gravelysaluted the second time. The Cardinal

went to the top rail and feasted on the sweet grains of corn
until his craw was full, and then nestled in the sumac and went

to sleep. Early next morning he was abroad and in fine toilet,
and with a full voice from the top of the sumac greeted the

day--"Wet year! Wet year!"
Far down the river echoed his voice until it so closely resembled

some member of his family replying that he followed, searching
the banks mile after mile on either side, until finally he heard

voices of his kind. He located them, but it was only several
staid old couples, a long time mated, and busy with their

nest-building. The Cardinal returned to the sumac, feeling a
degree lonelier than ever.

He decided to prospect in the opposite direction, and taking
wing, he started up the river. Following the channel, he winged

his flight for miles over the cool sparkling water, between the
tangle of foliage bordering the banks. When he came to the long

cumbrous structures of wood with which men had bridged the river,
where the shuffling feet of tired farm horses raised clouds of

dust and set the echoes rolling with their thunderous hoof beats,
he was afraid; and rising high, he sailed over them in short

broken curves of flight. But where giant maple and ash, leaning,
locked branches across the channel in one of old Mother Nature's

bridges for the squirrels, he knew no fear, and dipped so low
beneath them that his image trailed a wavering shadow on the

silver path he followed.
He rounded curve after curve, and frequently stopping on a

conspicuous perch, flung a ringing challenge in the face of the
morning. With every mile the way he followed grew more

beautiful. The river bed was limestone, and the swiftly flowing
water, clear and limpid. The banks were precipitate in some

places, gently sloping in others, and always crowded with a
tangle of foliage.

At an abrupt curve in the river he mounted to the summit of a big
ash and made boastful prophecy, "Wet year! Wet year!" and on all

sides there sprang up the voices of his kind. Startled, the
Cardinal took wing. He followed the river in a circling flight

until he remembered that here might be the opportunity to win the
coveted river mate, and going slower to select the highest branch

on which to display his charms, he discovered that he was only a
few yards from the ash from which he had made his prediction.

The Cardinal flew over the narrow neck and sent another call,
then without awaiting a reply, again he flashed up the river and

circled Horseshoe Bend. When he came to the same ash for the
third time, he understood.

The river circled in one great curve. The Cardinal mounted to
the tip-top limb of the ash and looked around him. There was

never a fairer sight for the eye of man or bird. The mist and
shimmer of early spring were in the air. The Wabash rounded

Horseshoe Bend in a silver circle, rimmed by a tangle of foliage
bordering both its banks; and inside lay a low open space covered

with waving marsh grass and the blue bloom of sweet calamus.
Scattered around were mighty trees, but conspicuous above any, in