freedom, but of all things accompanying the enjoyment of them. There was nothing then of insanity in his preference of a windowless bedroom;--it was that airs and odours, birds and sunlight--the sound of flapping wing, of breaking wave, and quivering throat, might be free to enter. Cool clean air he must breathe, or die; with that, the partial confinement to which he was subjected was not unendurable; besides, the welcome rain would then visit him sometimes, alighting from the slant wing of the flying blast; while the sun would pour in his rays full and mighty and generous, unsifted by the presumptuous glass--green and gray and crowded with distorting lines; and the sharp flap of pigeon’s wing would be mimic thunder to the flash which leapt from its whiteness as it shot by. He not only loved but understood all the creatures, divining by an operation in which neither the sympathy nor the watchfulness was the less perfect that both were but half-conscious, the emotions and desires informing their inarticulate language. Many of them seemed to know him in return--either recognizing his person, and from experience deducing safety, or reading his countenance sufficiently to perceive that his interest prognosticated no injury. The maternal bird would keep her seat in her nursery, and give back his gaze; the rabbit peeping from his burrow would not even draw in his head at his approach; the rooks about Scaurnose never took to their wings until he was within a yard or two of them: the laird, in his half-acted utterance, indicated that they took him for a scarecrow and _therefore_ were not afraid of him. Even Mrs Catanach’s cur had never offered him a bite in return for a caress. He could make a bird’s nest, of any sort common in the neighbourhood, so as deceive the most cunning of the nest-harrying youths of the parish.[7] [7] See article _Martin Féreol_, in _St. Paul’s Magazine_ vol. iv. generally. Hardly was he an hour in his new abode ere the sparrows and robins began to visit him. Even strange birds of passage flying in at his hospitable window, would espy him unscared, and sometimes partake of the food he had always at hand to offer them. He relied, indeed, for the pleasures of social intercourse with the animal world, on stray visits alone; he had no pets--dog nor cat nor bird; for his wandering and danger-haunted life did not allow such companionship. He insisted on occupying his new quarters at once. In vain Phemy and her uncle showed reason against it. He did not want a bed; he much preferred a heap of _spales_, that is, wood shavings. Indeed, he would not have a bed; and whatever he did want he would get for himself. Having by word and gesture made this much plain, he suddenly darted up the ladder, threw down the trap-door, and, lo! like a hermit-crab, he had taken possession. Wisely they left him alone.