seemed a new thing come to life. Every piece of butter became this strange, vital emblem.

She showed it to her mother and father.

“That is beautiful,” said her mother, a little light coming on to her face.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted. “Why, what sort of a bird does he call it?”

And this was the question put by the customers during the next weeks.

“What sort of a bird do you call that, as you've got on th' butter?”

When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy to show him.

“Do you like it?” he asked, in his loud, vibrating