“As for the poor Turtle-dove, he was perfectly harmless in his insanity, betaking himself constantly to the top of a mountain, where he dreamed away his days. That for which he had sought in vain in the solid realities of earth, perchance he found in dreamland, where at times even the wise ones of the world would like to abide. But, alas! they too must awake and be recalled to the rude realities of life. “After his death, beneath a heap of leaves was found a manuscript entitled ‘Memoirs of a Madman,’ ‘Happiness is made of Dreams.’ It was really a poem in prose, written straight from the heart, free from the fetters of rhyme.” Some feathered wits may be disposed to smile at the poor Turtle-dove, his misfortunes and writings. All we need say to such gaily-disposed critics is, that they have none of the gentle attributes of our loving but weak Ringdove. {326} _P.S._—Out of consideration for those who dislike anything obscure in a story, we may add that the Ringdove, having reared her brood, when she heard of the fate of her first love, died of a broken heart. Practical-minded Sparrows, and other common members of the feathered tribe, may think that the story would have been better as a whole had the lovers wedded and lived happily together. All we can say to this, as faithful narrators, is, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” [Illustration] {327} LETTERS FROM A SWALLOW TO A CANARY REARED IN A CONVENT. THE SWALLOW’S FIRST LETTER. [Illustration] At last, dear friend, I am free and flying with my own wings. Far behind me I can still descry the horrible barrier of Mount Parnassus, and the equally dreary plateau of social conformity, which I had already crossed. In the air which I breathe, and in my freedom of flight, there is truly an intoxicating charm. On starting I cast a scornful glance on my companions, the Swallows who prefer the solitude and obscurity of their deplorable existence to all the world and all its joys. You may think me puffed up with vanity, one of the meanest of vices, when I tell you that nature never intended me to do the work of a builder, for which all the wretched females of our race seem to have an aptitude. Let them spend their youth in building, in polishing with beak and wing the inside and outside of their dwellings. Let them, I say, continue to construct their homes with as great toil as if the frail tenements in which they rear families were to last for ever. My efforts to enlighten them have been fruitless, and I leave all those to their fate who fail to profit by the experience contained in the following account of my travels. I perhaps ought to congratulate myself on having no travelling companion, and never being tempted wholly to give up my heart and independence to another. You have often told me in a tone of friendly severity that, constituted as I am, I could never submit to {328} the guidance of another, however much, by reason of youth and inexperience, I was incapable of guiding myself.