"At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my addresses--yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,' namely,--once, at least, a year." Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow. "I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods." And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street. He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face. Verty gazed up into the sky and mused--the full sunlight of the bright October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements. By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds, ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;--and passing perforce of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer. Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often, while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt brighter as he looked. His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly fitted an arrow upon the leather string. What should he shoot at? There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry, which was veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed to Verty an excellent mark. As he was about to take aim, however, his quick eye caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky; and he lowered his bow again. Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed his penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined against the azure. Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast presented an excellent mark. The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air--struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch it. It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.