“It must have been April when I went to my new home, and one morning I saw what a snow-storm was for the first time in my life. My cage was hung in such a pretty little nook off from a bay window where a great many flowers were kept, and there were windows on three sides, so that I could look out into the yard, and see the big snowflakes sifting down through the trees, until the ground was completely covered with a soft carpet of white, and the little birds which had been flitting about for several days, hid themselves in the evergreens, and I heard my mistress say she must throw them some crumbs if the weather continued so cold. And that made me think of Mr. Robin, and what he had told me of his mistress feeding the birds. Where was he, I wondered, and where was his home, and I wished so much that I might see him again, if only to ask if there was any news from the South, where I left all that made life pleasant to me. I was always thinking of the old home among the jasmines, and it was especially kept in my mind by a stuffed bird which hung on a shelf in one corner of the nook where my cage was hung. My mistress brought it and put it there one morning, and said to me very friendly-like: ‘There, little Reddy, that will remind you of home, and who knows but poor Greenie came from the same place with yourself?’ It was a Paroquet, with such lovely green and golden feathers.” “With a brownish tinge on the breast?” Mr. Paroquet asked, somewhat anxiously, and Mrs. Red replied: “Yes, I noticed that particularly—the mottled appearance of the breast, where there was a spot of bright yellow.” “My first wife, I’ll wager my head!” exclaimed Mr. Paroquet, very much awake now, and excited, it seemed to me, for he flew from the magnolia, where he had been sitting in a sleepy kind of way, to the orange-tree, where he alighted close to Mrs. Red, and continued: “My wife, from your description; the one they carried away and stuffed, so Robin said. Do you think she _was_ stuffed—think she was really dead, or will she be coming back some day when I don’t expect her?” “Dead? Of course she was dead,” returned Mrs. Red, rather scornfully. “She never spoke nor moved, all the time I was there, but just stared at me with those dreadful glass eyes, which made me feel so uncomfortable. You need have no fears of her coming back.” “Oh, well,” returned Mr. Paroquet, brightening up a little. “Not that I shouldn’t be very glad to see her; very glad, of course, but then, you see, there’s the present Mrs. Paroquet, who might not be so glad, and that would make it rather awkward. Nobody can be dead a year, and come back, without being a very little in the way, for they are sure to find their places filled, or at least bridged over.” To me, who, you will remember, was sitting on a bench listening to the conversation of these birds, the Paroquet’s assertion was startling, and for a few moments I forgot what the birds were saying, while I asked myself: