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"What d' you think of that?" he added, after a moment, triumphantly pointing a yellow crayon at the green-headed red-bird. "Some parrot!" enthused Julien. "'T ain't a parrot. It's a nightingale," retorted the artist indignantly. "You black-and-white fellows never do understand color." "It's a corker, anyway," said Julien. "Dad here's a an art patron who wants to contribute to the cause."
"Follers her like a pet lamb," said the old man to his wife when Tom and Lou also had strolled off. "I mean Jim do. But to tell you the truth she'll never marry him; don't know that he wants her, you understand, but if he do he's in a bad fix. She's good and as putty as a red-bird, but I don't reckon that she'd like to be the wife of a mountain preacher.
The blue-bird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the robin jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of fire, the jolly bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating the notes of all, the red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy little wren, are all making the trees in our front yard ring with their glad song.
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