I heard myself called by the sweet voice of a Thrush, who made signs for me to join her companions. Here at last, I thought, are some birds of my feather, and nothing loath, took my place among them as lightly as a _billet-doux_ disappearing in a lady’s muff. Alas! I discovered that the dames had feasted freely on the juice of the grape, so I left them, to flee I knew not where, as the night was pitchy dark. Onward I sped till arrested by a burst of heavenly music. It was the song of the Nightingale, and dame Nature, attired in her sombre hues, stood listening in silence to the glorious lullaby that had soothed her children to sleep. The song recalled the first notes that doomed me to become an outcast. There was a touch of melancholy about the music, a mournful refrain that seemed to breathe forth a longing for something brighter, purer, holier than all life’s experiences. My resolution to live my life out seemed to melt away in the liquid strain, and at the risk of becoming the prey of some nocturnal Owl, I plunged into the darkness determined to return to my home or die in the effort. At daybreak I descried the towers of Notre Dame, and soon perched upon the sacred building, to rest for a moment before alighting in the old garden. Alas! absence had wrought a sad change. Nothing remained to mark the site save a bundle of fagots. Where was my mother? In vain I piped and sang, and called on her to return. She had left the old familiar scene. There stood the woodman’s axe that {253} had laid low the trees and severed the ties of kindred. The shrubs of the green lane were rooted up to make way for the cold grey stones of the abodes of men. VI. I searched for my parents in all the gardens around, but in vain; they had doubtless sought refuge in some distant spot, and were lost to me for ever. Overwhelmed with sorrow, I lingered about the spout from which my father’s wrath had exiled me. Sleep deserted me, and I lay down to die of hunger and grief. One day my sad reflections were interrupted by the jarring discord of two voices. Two slattern dames, standing slipshod, dirty, and bedraggled in the road beneath, were disputing over some point of household discipline, when one clinched the argument by exclaiming, “Egad! when you manage, you slut, to do these things, just let me know on’t, and my faith, I’ll bring you a white Blackbird.”