"Pretty, yes," observed Annie, her sister; "but I think that its prettiness is rather an evil to it than a good. If you were a hummingbird, Jessie, you would very likely be caught, killed, and stuffed for the sake of your beauty." "And what says our little Minnie?" inquired Clara of a plump, fair, flaxen-haired child who sat on a footstool next to Jessie, with her arm round her young companion. "I'd be a beauty swan, swimming about amongst the lilies, under the shady trees," said the child, who had admired the swan and his mate, with their little cygnets, floating on the lake, as she had seen them that morning. "Give us your reason," said Clara. "I like paddling about in the water, it's so nice," was the simple reply. "Ay, you would like it in summer," cried Phil, "when the lilies are in flower, and the trees in leaf. But I know a little lady who in winter does not care to stir off the hearth-rug, and is ready to cry if sent out into the cold. She would not then care to be a swan, and paddle about on the ice." "I'd rather be a swallow," cried Felix, "and escape altogether from winter with its frosts and its snows. A life of active pleasure, not of lazy enjoyment, for me! I like to travel and see distant lands and what fun it would be just to spread one's wings and be off for France, Italy, or Algiers, without any trouble of packing a trunk, with nothing heavier to carry than feathers, and no railway tickets to pay for, or bills at hotels on the way!" "Were you a swallow, you'd have a bill wherever you flew," laughed Phil. "Oh! A precious light one," said Felix gaily. "As for me, I'd prefer the life of a lark," cried Phil. "I'd sooner mount high than fly far; and I'd like to whistle my song from the clouds. To my mind, the little sky-lark is the merriest bird under the sun." "If you were to be changed into a bird, Sophy, what bird would you be?" asked Clara of a rather affected little girl, who sat twirling the bead bracelet which she wore on her arm. Sophy drooped her head a little on one side, as if it rather troubled her to give an opinion,—and she thought herself too much of a fine lady to join in so childish a game. She glanced up, however, at the splendid rose which Clara held in her hand, and thinking that it would look very pretty in her own hair, prepared to answer the question. "What bird would you be?" repeated the boys, who were growing a little impatient. "The nightingale," said Sophy in an affected tone, again looking down, and twirling her beads. "You must give your reason for your choice," observed Clara. "Every one admires the nightingale's sweet notes," said Sophy, glancing up at the rose. "Oh, ho! There's a fine reason!" laughed Phil. "I'd sing like the lark in the joy of my heart, with the sunshine about me; but Sophy would sing for other folk to admire her trills and her shakes, and cry out, 'I never heard anything so fine!'"