One day a great happiness entered the life of my little friend. He was uttering his call with the sweet tremulous notes of a love-sick life. Borne from the upper orchard there came an answering call from another lover in search of a bride. Bob's head went up higher and higher; he hurried along on an old rail fence, sending his challenge for combat across to his rival, for lurking near was a little brown form watching Bob's sturdy mien with piqued interest. He sped quickly to her side, she retreating farther and farther away across the orchard to the place where the other lover was watching and waiting for the rival who had gained favor in her eyes. Bob and his rival met face to face in the dusty wagon road near the spot where my pet's early life was spent. Then there was a duel for love, with the little modest brown lady-bird as umpire and prize. The rivals chased each other up and down the dusty lane. At last Bob was victorious, and his rival quickly took wing, followed by the angry victor. Presently Bob returned alone, and approached his bride. She had laid a scheme to test his love, and was now ready to abide by the result of the conflict. My little pet led his mate away through the wavy grasses, a victor and a king over the heart of his loved one. Several weeks later, after a nest had been built and a downy brood hatched, I came upon my old pet. It was a sunny day, and while strolling down an orchard path, Bob flew down in front of me, where he stood, trembling and terrified. Thinking to help my old friend in his distress, I put forth my hand to take him up. I should have known him better. In an instant he was changed. He eyed me with that old keen, distrustful glance, rose quickly from my feet, and flew rapidly away. Hardly had he gone fifty yards when a pigeon hawk that had been waiting and watching, darted forth, and swooped down upon poor Bob while in mid-air. A loud snap as the hawk struck, a sharp cry from the bonny victim, and a few feathers floating slowly down told too pathetically of Bob's awful fate. I gathered up the scattered plumage, a memorial of the little wayward quail I had fed and reared to maturity. Bob seemed quite a patriot to me, as I reflected upon his decision when he eluded my hand that final time. "Liberty or death," he seemed to say, as he flew rapidly away. He exhibited that trait, in his bird-like way, by which great men have won fame and renown, so he, too, is worthy of having his story related and his life immortalized. Charles Thompson. THE OSWEGO TEA.