She once tried to pet me by stroking my
feathers, but I did not like it. Although I knew she did not mean to
hurt me, the motion of her hand made me nervous. Instead of
persisting, she only said reproachfully, as she put me back on my perch:
"Dear Dickey Downy, why are you afraid of me? Your own little Polly
wouldn't hurt you for the world. I wanted to softly stroke your pretty
plumage just out of pure love and, you dear little coward, you won't
let me."
In her affection for me, Polly did not forget the wild birds outside,
which flew about in the big evergreen trees near the garden gate. She
showed her thoughtfulness for the little creatures by strewing bread
crumbs for them on the window sills on snowy days. She often gathered
up the tablecloth after the housemaid had removed the breakfast dishes
and, running out under the trees, would shake it vigorously that her
wild pets might get all the little pieces of food that fell. Not a
bird came down as long as she remained in the yard, but as soon as she
had tripped back to the house and the door closed upon her brown curls,
I could see a drove of hungry snowbirds swoop from the trees, and in a
minute every crumb would be picked up. I am sure they must have loved
dear little Polly, for many a choice bit did they get through her
kindness.
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