RHODA. 13

“I wonder if his feelings really are hurt?” said Rhoda.
“Ah, there is a dear ‘Bob White’ whistling down by the
hedge. I should love a Bob White to play with, but I never
could catch one in the world.”

She rested her chin in her hands, and watched the white
clouds sailing over the sky. The crickets were chirping in
the grass, and every little while a grasshopper would suddenly
rise up and, with a whir, fly past her.

“Dear me!” said Rhoda, “I have been playing with grass-
hoppers all summer long, and cats. Cats do very well indeed.
I have nothing in the world to say against the dear pussy
cats, but one does get tired of them, they are so very lively
sometimes.”

Just then a little brown wren came and alighted on an ear
of corn close to where Rhoda was sitting; he turned his little
sleek head first this way and then that, suddenly bursting into
one of the sweetest little songs imaginable. He looked at Rhoda,
gave a peck or two at the corn, and then flew away.

“What a dear little fellow he is!” thought Rhoda. “I
wish he would tell me where to get a doll to play with.”

In a moment the bird came flying back, and alighted on
the same spot.

“Why, here he is back again!” said Rhoda. “ Little bird,
what shall I get to play with?”

The little bird hopped back and forth on the corn, then
pecked at the ear once or twice, giving a look at Rhoda as he