Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain, that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de- Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have. I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies, like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.--It would have afforded her no pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who, when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to "take advantage of the situation;" _that_ would be the bird which she would like to have, I was certain. I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was "Dicky Chips:"-- the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on. I resolved that Dicky Chips should be Min's property from henceforth. Whenever she watched him going through his varied pantomimic role, and heard his well-turned, whistling notes--he had a rare ear for music--she would think of _him_ who gave him to her, although he might then be far away. I decided the point at once before going to bed. Dicky Chips should, like Caliban, have a new master, or rather mistress; and be a new man, or rather bird, to adopt Mr Toots' peculiar ellipto- synthetical style of speaking. Where do you think I got hold of him? Do you know a travelling naturalist who goes about London during the summer months--and all over the country, too, for that matter, as I've met him north of Tweed, and down also at the Land's End, in Cornwall? He has birds for sale, and he sells them only at that period. Where he hides himself when winter, dark and drear, approaches, I'm sure I cannot tell; but I've never seen him _then_ perambulating the streets. He may possibly, at that season, join company with Jamrack--that curiosity of the animal world; or, he may hibernate in the Seven Dials, as most feather-fanciers do; or, he may retire to his private mansion in Belgrave Square; or, again, he may, peradventure, go abroad "to increase his store," in the fashion of Norval's father, the "frugal swain" who fattened his flocks on the Grampian Hills--though, I prefer South Down mutton, myself! The bird-seller may do either and all of these things in the winter months; but, I only know his summer habitude:--then he is always to be observed going about the streets with birds for sale.