redbird of late? He's changed to a new tune, an' this time I'm

completely stalled. I can't for the life of me make out what
he's saying. S'pose you step down to-morrow an' see if you can

catch it for me. I'd give a pretty to know!"
Maria felt flattered. She always had believed that she had a

musical ear. Here was an opportunity to test it and please Abram
at the same time. She hastened her work the following morning,

and very early slipped along the line fence. Hiding behind the
oak, with straining ear and throbbing heart, she eagerly

listened. "Clip, clip," came the sound of the planter, as
Abram's dear old figure trudged up the hill. "Chip! Chip!" came

the warning of the Cardinal, as he flew to his mate.
He gave her some food, stroked her wing, and flying to the

dogwood, sang of the love that encompassed him. As he trilled
forth his tender caressing strain, the heart of the listening

woman translated as did that of the brooding bird.
With shining eyes and flushed cheeks, she sped down the fence.

Panting and palpitating with excitement, she met Abram half-way
on his return trip. Forgetful of her habitual reserve, she threw

her arms around his neck, and drawing his face to hers, she
cried: "Oh, Abram! I got it! I got it! I know what he's

saying! Oh, Abram, my love! My own! To me so dear! So dear!"
"So dear! So dear!" echoed the Cardinal.

The bewilderment in Abram's face melted into comprehension. He
swept Maria from her feet as he lifted his head.

"On my soul! You have got it, honey! That's what he's saying,
plain as gospel! I can tell it plainer'n anything he's sung yet,

now I sense it."
He gathered Maria in his arms, pressed her head against his

breast with a trembling old hand, while the face he turned to the
morning was beautiful.

"I wish to God," he said quaveringly, "'at every creature on
earth was as well fixed as me an' the redbird!" Clasping each

other, they listened with rapt faces, as, mellowing across the
corn field, came the notes of the Cardinal: "So dear! So dear!"

After that Abram's devotion to his bird family became a mild
mania. He carried food to the top rail of the line fence every

day, rain or shine, with the same regularity that he curried and
fed Nancy in the barn. From caring for and so loving the

Cardinal, there grew in his tender old heart a welling flood of
sympathy for every bird that homed on his farm.

He drove a stake to mark the spot where the killdeer hen brooded
in the corn field, so that he would not drive Nancy over the

nest. When he closed the bars at the end of the lane, he always
was careful to leave the third one down, for there was a chippy

brooding in the opening where it fitted when closed. Alders and
sweetbriers grew in his fence corners undisturbed that spring if

he discovered that they sheltered an anxious-eyed little mother.
He left a square yard of clover unmowed, because it seemed to him

that the lark, singing nearer the Throne than any other bird, was
picking up stray notes dropped by the Invisible Choir, and with

unequalled purity and tenderness, sending them ringing down to
his brooding mate, whose home and happiness would be despoiled by

the reaping of that spot of green. He delayed burning the
brush-heap from the spring pruning, back of the orchard, until

fall, when he found it housed a pair of fine thrushes; for the
song of the thrushdelighted him almost as much as that of the

lark. He left a hollow limb on the old red pearmain apple-tree,
because when he came to cut it there was a pair of bluebirds

twittering around, frantic with anxiety.
His pockets were bulgy with wheat and crumbs, and his heart was

big with happiness. It was the golden springtime of his later
life. The sky never had seemed so blue, or the earth so

beautiful. The Cardinal had opened the fountains of his soul;
life took on a new colour and joy; while every work of God

manifested a fresh and heretofore unappreciated loveliness. His
very muscles seemed to relax, and new strength arose to meet the

demands of his uplifted spirit. He had not finished his day's
work with such ease and pleasure in years; and he could see the

influence of his rejuvenation in Maria. She was flitting around
her house with broken snatches of song, even sweeter to Abram's

ears than the notes of the birds; and in recent days he had
noticed that she dressed particularly for her afternoon's sewing,

putting on her Sunday lace collar and a white apron. He
immediately went to town and bought her a finer collar than she

ever had owned in her life.
Then he hunted a sign painter, and came home bearing a number of

pine boards on which gleamed in big, shiny black letters:
------------------------

| NO HUNTING ALLOWED |
| ON THIS FARM |

------------------------
He seemed slightly embarrassed when he showed them to Maria. "I

feel a little mite onfriendly, putting up signs like that 'fore
my neighbours," he admitted, "but the fact is, it ain't the

neighbours so much as it's boys that need raising, an' them town
creatures who call themselves sportsmen, an' kill a hummin'-bird

to see if they can hit it. Time was when trees an' underbrush
were full o' birds an' squirrels, any amount o' rabbits, an' the

fish fairly crowdin' in the river. I used to kill all the quail
an' wild turkeys about here a body needed to make an appetizing

change, It was always my plan to take a little an' leave a
little. But jest look at it now. Surprise o' my life if I get a

two-pound bass. Wild turkey gobblin' would scare me most out of
my senses, an', as for the birds, there are jest about a fourth

what there used to be, an' the crops eaten to pay for it. I'd do
all I'm tryin' to for any bird, because of its song an' colour,

an' pretty teeterin' ways, but I ain't so slow but I see I'm paid
in what they do for me. Up go these signs, an' it won't be a

happy day for anybody I catch trespassin' on my birds."
Maria studied the signs meditatively. "You shouldn't be forced

to put 'em up," she said conclusively. "If it's been decided 'at
it's good for 'em to be here, an' laws made to protect 'em,

people ought to act with some sense, an' leave them alone. I
never was so int'rested in the birds in all my life; an' I'll

jest do a little lookin' out myself. If you hear a spang o' the
dinner bell when you're out in the field, you'll know it means

there's some one sneakin' 'round with a gun."
Abram caught Maria, and planted a resounding smack on her cheek,

where the roses of girlhood yet bloomed for him. Then he filled
his pockets with crumbs and grain, and strolled to the river to

set the Cardinal's table. He could hear the sharp incisive
"Chip!" and the tender mellow love-notes as he left the barn; and

all the way to the sumac they rang in his ears.
The Cardinal met him at the corner of the field, and hopped over

bushes and the fence only a few yards from him. When Abram had
scattered his store on the rail, the bird came tipping and

tilting, daintily caught up a crumb, and carried it to the sumac.
His mate was pleased to take it; and he carried her one morsel

after another until she refused to open her beak for more. He
made a light supper himself; and then swinging on the grape-vine,

he closed the day with an hour of music. He repeatedly turned a
bright questioning eye toward Abram, but he never for a moment

lost sight of the nest and the plump gray figure of his little