blow through them, he would emit the most enticing trills and pipings, exactly imitating various birds. Those who rouse our interest are generally the last people we speak to, for interest seems to set up a kind of special shyness; so it was long before I made his acquaintance. But one day by the Serpentine, I saw him coming along alone, looking sad, but still with that queer brightness about him. He sat down on my bench with his little dried hands on his thin little knees, and began talking to himself in a sort of whisper. Presently I caught the words: “God cannot be like us.” And for fear that he might go on uttering such precious remarks that were obviously not intended to be heard, I had either to go away or else address him. So, on an impulse, I said: “Why?” He turned without surprise. “I’ve lost my landlady’s little girl,” he said. “Dead! And only seven years old.” “That little thing! I used to watch you.” “Did you? Did you? I’m glad you saw her.” “I used to see you looking at flowers, and trees, and those ducks.” His face brightened wistfully. “Yes; she was a great companion to an old man like me.” And he relapsed into his contemplation of the water. He had a curious, precise way of speaking, that matched his pipchinesque little old face. At last he again turned to me those blue youthful eyes that seemed to shine out of a perfect little nest of crow’s-feet. “We were great friends! But I couldn’t expect it. Things don’t last, do they?” I was glad to notice that his voice was getting cheerful. “When I was in the orchestra at the Harmony Theatre, it never used to occur to me that some day I shouldn’t play there any more. One felt like a bird. That’s the beauty of music, sir. You lose yourself; like that blackbird there.” He imitated the note of a blackbird so perfectly that I could have sworn the bird started. “Birds and flowers! Wonderful things; wonderful! Why, even a buttercup----!” He pointed at one of those little golden flowers with his toe. “Did you ever see such a marvellous thing?” And he turned his face up at me. “And yet, somebody told me once that they don’t agree with cows. Now can that be? I’m not a countryman--though I was born at Kingston.” “The cows do well enough on them,” I said, “in my part of the world. In fact, the farmers say they like to see buttercups.” “I’m glad to hear you say that. I was always sorry to think they disagreed.” When I got up to go, he rose, too. “I take it as very kind of you,” he said, “to have spoken to me.” “The pleasure was mine. I am generally to be found hereabouts in the afternoons any time you like a talk.” “Delighted,” he said; “delighted. I make friends of the creatures and flowers as much as possible, but they can’t always make us understand.” And after we had taken off our respective hats, he reseated himself, with his hands on his knees. Next time I came across him standing by the rails of an enclosure, and, in his arms, an old and really wretched-looking cat.