"What taste! Why he's a poet! What wonderful beauty! He's an artist with earth for his canvas, and growing things for colours." She lay there staring at the walls, the beautiful wood-work and furniture, the dressing table with its array of toilet articles, a low chair before it, and the thick rug for her feet.

Over and over she looked at everything, and then closed her eyes and lay quietly, too weary and overwhelmed to think.

By and by came tapping at the door, and she sprang up and crossing to the dressing table straightened her hair and composed her face.
"Ajax demands to see you," cried a gay voice.
The Girl stepped outside.
"Don't be frightened if he screams at you," warned the Harvester as she passed him.

"He detests a stranger, and he always cries and sulks." It was a question what was in the head of the bird as he saw the strange looking creature invading his domain, and he did scream, a wild, high, strident wail that delighted the Harvester inexpressibly, because it sent the Girl headlong into his arms.
"Oh, good gracious!" she cried.

"Has such a beautiful bird got a noise in it like that?
Why I've fed them in parks and I never heard one explode before." Then how the Harvester laughed.
"But you see you are in the woods now, and this is not a park bird.